#this is all my brain has been screaming at me

[acourtofchaos]

I SWEAR THE DAY I DON'T HAVE HEART PALPITATIONS AND WITNESS MY SOUL ASCENDING OVER YOUR WORK IS THE DAY I HAVE PASSED FROM THIS WORLD.

HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR MY MANY SILLY RAMBLINGS UNDER THE CUT

FIRSTLY THIS,

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

IS GORGEOUS. I LOVE THE EXPECTING OF SOMETHING DARK AND IT BEING SO LIGHT INSTEAD. AND LIKE IT BEING A PERFECT MIRROR OF MATTHEO AND HOW THE EXPECTATION OF THIS NIGHT BETWEEN THEM COULD BE. JUST HONESTLY BEAUTIFUL.

SECONDLY, YOU KNOW I ALWAYS ADORE YOUR CHARACTERISATION OF MATTHEO AND THIS IS NO DIFFERENT.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

AND

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

I LOVE THAT HE'S NERVOUS, THAT DESPITE HIM BEING ESSENTIALLY IN CONTROL OF THIS SITUATION GIVEN THAT HE HAS THE EXPERIENCE, HE'S NOT ACTING CONFIDENT OR SMUG. HE'S UNSURE AND I LOVE THE SENSE OF VULNERABILITY.

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

I JUST WANT TO HOLD HIS PRETTY FACE. I LOVE PATIENT MATTHEO.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck."You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

I AM OBSESSED OVER THE WAR WITHIN MATTHEO, THE WAY HIS BODY AND HIS ACTIONS DISREGARD HIS WORDS AND HIS FEAR. I LOVE HER CONFIDENCE IN HER DECISION AND HOW MUCH IT EFFECTS HIM TO HEAR IT.. AAAAAAA SLDKFJDJS GOD I WANT TO MARRY YOU'RE WRITING (and you)

—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

THE FUCKING SWITCH HERE OMG

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked.

His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

FERAL MATTHEO. FERAL MATTHEO. FERAL MATTHEO. I'M SCREAMING. HOWLING. CLAWING AT THE WALLS. I'D LET THIS MAN TEAR ME TO PIECES WITHOUT HESITATION.

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

I FEEL CALLED OUT.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

DAMN FUCKING RIGHT I HAVE YOU SEXY BITCH. GODDDD I KNOW I'VE ALREADY SAID IT BUT YOU JUST WRITE MATTHEO SO PERFECTLY. TO HAVE HIM BE SO FUCKING COCKY DURING SUCH AN OVERWHELMING MOMENT. HE'S A LITTLE SHIT AND I LOVE HIM FOR IT.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

THIS!!!!!!! THE IMAGERY!!!!! JUST ALL OF HIS DEFENCES BLOWN AWAY, I LOVE IT SO MUCH

His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning.

I'M SOBBING, THE INTENSITY BETWEEN THEM. I CANT BREATHE.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

JUST PUNCH ME IN THE HEART WHY DONT YOU.

His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't.

EM WHAT THE HELL, I DIDNT EXPECT TO BE AN EMOTIONAL WRECK OVER A VIRGINITY LOSS FIC AT 11AM. GOD THE SOFTNESS IS MAKING ME ACHE.

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

OKAY I'M GOING TO STOP THERE OTHERWISE I'M JUST GOING TO BE PUTTING THE WHOLE FIC IN THIS REBLOG WITH MY SILLY LITTLE ANNOTATIONS. I'M OBSESSED WITH THIS, I LOVE THAT DURING IT HAPPENING THERE'S BARELY A SENTENCE WITHOUT THEM NEEDING TO GASP FOR BREATH, THE INTENSITY OF IT IS JUST PORTRAYED SO WELL. YOU REALLY ARE A MASTER OF YOUR CRAFT AND I'LL BE WORSHIPPING THIS FIC IN MY HEAD FOR WEEKS.

LOVE IT AND LOVE YOU 🖤

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th. mattheo - virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART TWO | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

summary: pls read part one first for a lil buildup. also. im laughing at myself bc there was a perfectly good bed…right there…

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, virginity loss, PIV, so much dirty talk, so much patience from mattheo, (more of a realistic virginity loss bc it’s not always easy), praise!!!!, slight degradation, fingering, multiorgasm, handjob, best friends lil sister trope.

Mattheo Riddle was so accustomed to this. The pulse of adrenaline in the dead of night, the quiet hum of anticipation stretching every second longer than it needed to be. You weren't naive to that, not to him, nor the danger he carried so effortlessly in his stride. He wore it like a second skin.

But you—you were not accustomed to it. Not to any of this.

So when you pushed open the door to the room of requirement a little over ten-minutes later, you hadn't been sure what you were expecting to find. Something darker, maybe. More foreboding. But when the room revealed itself before you—silent, draped in soft moonlight that pooled over the bed with a window wide and open, spilling that pale silver fog across the floor—you almost laughed.

Too perfect. Too on the nose, like the castle itself had been watching you both for months and had decided this was the moment it would indulge you.

"You're late." Mattheo's voice cut through the quiet.

His back was to you, suit jacket discarded on an old oak desk against the wall, dark curls falling just above his collar as he stood by the window, eyes fixed on the lake. The moonlight made the ripples dance, just like the tension in the room.

You took a step toward him, silent.

He turned, finally. His eyes met yours and you saw it—the hesitation, the way his gaze moved over you, slow, cautious. He took in the way the light draped itself over your shoulders, moving lower—and it was as if for the first time, he allowed himself to see you fully, all the details he had so tried to ignore, now right in front of him. He drank them in.

You gave him a small, nervous smile, hoping it would ease the weight of his stare. "I didn't realize you were the type to keep track of time."

He moved closer, but not close enough. Not yet. His breath was tight, chest rising and falling too fast. The space between you felt like a chasm, though it was barely there at all.

"You've a lot to learn, little girl," he teased, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it did nothing to mask the conflict in his eyes. It was meant to disarm you, but it only made the air heavier. His jaw tightened. "You're sure about this?"

"Quite sure," you breathed, stepping closer, close enough to admire the sharp line of his jaw, the soft stubble. "You're the one who's hesitating."

"I'm not hesitating," he muttered, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this with you. His best friend's little sister. He wanted to give you every chance to stop this, to walk away. "Just trying not to rush this—rush you."

You let out a small huff, your hand moving up to find his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Mattheo Riddle was nervous.

"You've been making me wait for months," you whispered. "I don't think a little rushing would hurt."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on your hand as it trailed over his chest, lower, teasing. Every touch was a flame against his skin, every breath between you a match struck in the dark. He wanted you, more than anything, but the weight of it—the wrongness, the danger—clawed at his conscience.

His hand caught your wrist, intending to stop you, but his fingers lingered against your skin. Frozen.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, the words thick in his throat. "Your first time should be—"

"My choice," you interrupted, pressing closer, your body flush against his, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand slid lower, teasing the edge of his belt. "My virginity is mine to give, Mattheo. And I want to give it to you."

He shuddered, your words settling, sinking into the dark space that held you both captive. His hand found your hip, the other threading through your hair, gently tugging your head back to expose the soft skin of your neck.

"You’re not thinking straight," he rasped. "You'll regret this..."

But even as he said it, his hands tightened, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I'll regret nothing." Your fingers slipped lower, grazing his crotch, moving with nothing but instinct and need. Biting your lip, you felt the outline of him, hard and aching under your palm, and squeezed—he grunted, snapping his hips, and you throbbed. "Shit, Mattheo..."

"You are—fuck..." Mattheo's voice was a ragged breath, the words drawn out like he'd been holding them back for months. "...such a little tease."

You let go as quickly as you'd squeezed, and he growled against your skin, fingers tightening in your hair. Your hands found his face, pulling him in, crushing your lips to his. You moved with intent, pushing him back until his thighs hit the edge of the desk, and he groaned again—this low, guttural sound that sent a thrill through you.

You smirked into the kiss, tasting his frustration, savouring the way his defences cracked open. When you pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen, eyes dark with want.

"I learned from the best," you whispered, teasing as your fingers slid down, finding the buckle of his belt. He watched you, every breath uneven, as you worked at the latch, pulling the leather free. "You've had months of fun tormenting me," you continued, moving to the button, the zipper. "Kissing me, only to say it was a mistake. Grabbing my ass every chance you could. Talking sweet when my brother wasn't looking..." your smirk deepened, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "...it's my turn now."

His pants sagged around his hips as you undid them and he cursed under his breath—his brain was struggling to catch up, like he couldn't believe the sudden shift, couldn't quite fathom the boldness with which you undid him.

Until—his hands were on you, spinning you around, your back hitting the desk with a thud.

"You think you're in control here?" His fingers slid up your hips, dragging your dress along with them, baring your skin to the cool air. "You think you have any goddamn idea what you're doing?"

You shuddered—you'd never seen him like this before—there was something feral in the way he moved, now, something sharp in the way his hands worked. His thumbs hooked around your panties and in one swift motion, they were gone—torn down your thighs before he urged you back onto the desk, parting your legs with his torso.

You were breathless, chest heaving, pulse thrumming wildly. His presence consumed the room, and for a moment, it was all you could focus on—the intensity of him, the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes.

You stared up at him, mind empty, until—

Smack.

His palm came down on your inner thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of sensation straight to your cunt. Your skin stung from the contact, but that wasn't the part that made you gasp. It was the heat, the way it surged through your veins, flooding your abdomen in a slow, aching pulse. You liked that.

"I asked you a question." His lips brushed against your ear, breath warm as he leaned in. "Two, actually."

You couldn't think, mind swimming—the press of his body, the rough timber of his voice, the weight of his hands as his fingers teased, climbing higher, brushing closer to the ache between your thighs. You sucked in a breath, trying to recall what he'd asked, trying to focus anything but the fire he was lighting in you—

But then, his fingers slipped further, closer, just barely brushing your slit, and your hips jerked involuntarily, chasing that touch.

"No—I don’t—“ the shame in the answer barely mattered. His fingers were so close, so close. "Gods—I just know I want you—"

"That's all you think about, isn't it?" He smirked, lips falling to your neck, tongue tracing the places he knew would wreck you, each soft, wet press making you whimper despite yourself. "You don't care about anything else..." his fingers slipped lower, dipping between your folds—and you cried out, shameless, the sensation unlike any other you'd ever felt. "…not the consequences, not the risk...you just want me…”

Your nails dug into his back and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, wetting his fingers in your arousal before gliding back up to your clit and tracing over it.

"Oh—Gods—" you whinged, moaning into his shoulder.

Mattheo’s hands were experienced—that much was certain. Those fingers knew exactly how to move, precisely how to trace light, delicate circles over your clit that made you twitch, squirm— nerves stripped as you took in the new sensation. It wracked every inch of you, and you could feel him savouring your helplessness, drawing out every ounce of tension that had been building between you for months.

“You’re soaked.” You could hear the disbelief in his voice. “...filthy little thing for me, aren't you?"

"Gods, Mattheo, yes—" your eyes rolled, thighs twitching against his hand. "I am���ohh—"

"Yeah?" His tongue traced a slow, wet path up the side of your neck, teeth dragging over your pulse. "You like this?"

His words were enough to make you want to scream, but no sound formed—just a low, broken moan that spilled from your throat, raw and shameless.

"Answer me," he murmured. "You ever orgasm from this before? Hm?"

"No—" your voice choked, trembling as you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to look at him, something like shame pooling in your stomach. "Oh, fuck—"

"No, what?" His fingers pressed harder, circles growing faster, more insistent, and his voice—Christ, his voice— "I asked you two questions, little slut. Keep up. You wanted this."

"Yes—mmf—I like it—" you whined, the words a desperate spill from your lips, too flustered to form anything coherent. "And no—Gods—you're the first to...to touch me like this..."

He figured as much but the admission tore through him nonetheless, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a groan—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, a bruise, a reminder. His hand dipped lower, a finger pushing inside you without warning, pressing deep into your slick heat, and you cried out, your body tightening, pulsing around him, vision swimming.

"And this?" His voice was a smirk against your skin. "You let anyone else inside you like this?"

You knew he already knew the answer. You both did. He was reveling in it—the way he had you, trembling, helpless. You'd never heard him like this, never heard him so crass, so unfiltered, and the way he spoke made your whole body flush with heat.

"No." The word was a strangled moan, barely a breath. "Gods—Mattheo—you already knew that—"

He crooked his finger inside you, and your back arched, the stretch unfamiliar yet mindnumbing, his thumb working your clit. You felt teeth nipping at your earlobe, a hum into your eardrum—his body thrumming with the satisfaction of finally, finally letting himself have you where he wanted.

"Perhaps I did." He added another finger, curling them inside you, his teeth scraping along your neck in a smile. The groan that slipped from your lips was desperate, pained in its pleasure, your body reacting to every new inch of him. "Fucking hell—you can barely take two..."

Your head shook, words failing you. "Gods—Mattheo—I...fuck..."

A low grunt rumbled from his chest, his fingers moving quicker, slick with the evidence of your desire. "Feels good?"

"Yes—" you moaned, breath hitching, vision blurring as he pumped his fingers in and out, building something inside you that you couldn't name, something new, something overwhelming. "I feel—oh, gods—something...happening—"

"You feel something?" His voice was mocking, drenched in that innocent, teasing tone that had you falling apart. "Yeah? What's happening, princess?"

You couldn't find breath, couldn't form the words to answer him. The pressure inside you was mounting, intensity unbearable, your body tense and straining toward an edge. You clung to him, breathless, desperate for more, desperate for something, anything—

"I don't—" your voice broke as his fingers curled deeper, wetness flooding between your thighs, his thumb relentless. "Pressure—fuck—so much—"

He nodded. "Yeah? Pressure in that pretty stomach? Feels fucking good, doesn't it?"

"Fuck—yes, yes," your lids fluttered. "S’good—"

"You're so close." He watched you, drunk on your downfall, and smirked as you neared the edge. "You're going to cum for me."

Sanity shattered in your throat—words trapped, swallowed by the tension, leaving only the soft, unbridled whimpers you once might've once found embarrassing. But there was no shame now, not when you were this close, the pressure coiling tighter in your core, ready to burst.

"Ohh—" you managed, lungs sputtering, head tipping back. The sound of your voice, the way you moaned, was foreign, unfamiliar to your own ears. "Gods—oh fuck-"

"I know," he cooed, sweet like sugar. "I know."

You were a mess. Too close, too overwhelmed—everything was him. His scent, the heat of his skin, the feel of his fingers working that magic that had your body convulsing before you could even cry out, before you could process the way your vision blurred with the force of it. The climax hit like a wave crashing over you, and your moans were swallowed by his kiss, his lips on yours the second your body tightened, shaking against his hand.

He was relentless, rough and insistent, kissing you like he wanted to devour you whole—drowning out the world as your body pulsed around his fingers. You’d never felt such an intense sensation, lava coursing, replacing the blood in your veins. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a low groan vibrating through him, the sound making your spine tingle.

"F-fuck," he muttered, pulling his fingers from you, glistening and wet. "Messy little thing."

The words sent a shiver through you, not just from their meaning but from the way he said them, like something perverse, intimate. Your chest tightened with the warmth of them.

"You—" you panted, trying to find your voice. Blinking through the haze of lingering bliss. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" He chuckled your name against your neck, lips brushing a path to your ear. "Because you might fall in love with me?" His teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your lobe, along your jawline. "Oh wait...you already have."

"Shut up," you whispered, stomach flipping at the way he said your name, the way it dripped from his mouth like honey. "Have not."

"I've known for a while, you know," he mused, his voice so low, so quiet. "Don't think I haven't seen it—the way you look at me." He kissed your skin again, working his way up, each press of his lips something sacred, moving closer to your mouth. "The way you can't get enough of me."

You could kill him for it, for the way his words sunk into your bones, making all the feelings you've buried rise to the surface, pulling you under. He just had to go there—had to milk every inch of your composure out of you, because it's not enough for him to have you disarmed physically—sexually—he needed to have you disarmed emotionally, too.

Perhaps the worst part of it all is how right he was. Arrogant bastard.

"Stop talking," your hand drifted down, grazing the bulge in his pants, your fingers slipping under the waistband, rubbing him through the thin fabric of his boxers. It was reckless. You've never done this before, but God, you wanted to. "Stop talking and teach me."

The room tilted—the world off its axis. His breath caught, choked in his lungs as he grabbed your face and pulled your lips to his—his kiss wild, his tongue insistent, running along your gums and wrestling with yours for control.

"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth as you tugged his boxers down, freeing him, your hand wrapping around him. Hot. Hard. "Wrap your fingers around it, princess. Gentle strokes. Just like that."

Your heart stumbled at the sound of his voice, thick, raw and open. You tightened your grip, stroking him slowly, experimentally, and he hissed through his teeth, a groan vibrating through his chest.

"You're so big," you murmured, forehead against his, the words spilling out without thought. "So thick..."

"Fucking minx," he moaned. "Stroking me and telling me how big I am—fuck—you're not as innocent as everyone thinks."

"Only you know this," you whispered, your hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, pulse soaring as he groaned. "Does it feel good, Matty?"

"Fuck—Christ—" his breath was jagged, words ripped from his throat like they barely wanted to come out, hips jerking mindlessly. "Tighter, mm—little tighter—"

Your cunt throbbed—each whispered invocation of a god not his own, of something he didn't believe in, forced a shudder through you. That's how you knew. Knew how lost he was. He’d no mind left at all if he was muttering muggle gods.

"Like that?" Your fingers squeezed around him, your gaze burning into his as you looked up through fluttering lashes.

His face was a storm—flushed, eyes half-shut—but at your voice they opened and flicked down to yours, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockery in that stare. Just raw, primal need, burning so fiercely it made you ache. His hips rocked, desperate for more. Painfully. A hole in his chest torn wide open for you to see, and he didn't care. Couldn't care.

"Yeah—shit—just like that," he gritted out, grip on your hips bruising, but you welcomed it. Needed it. "Fast learner, aren't you?"

"You're a good teacher," you whimpered, a sound that was barely yours as his fingers slipped between your thighs, finding your slit, teasing you open again. "Oh—"

"You've always been a little teacher's pet," he groaned, thrusting into your hand as he slipped a finger inside you. The stretch made you wince, pleasure and pain blurring into something that sent sparks behind your eyes. He watched you, gaze molten. "Fuck—it’s gonna hurt, you know that, right?"

The ache spread through you, but you didn't flinch. "I know," you whispered as his thumb found your clit, making you gasp. "I trust you."

"I know you do." His voice dropped, eyes dark and soft at once as he pushed another finger inside. "You know you’ve always had me wrapped around your fucking finger. You know I care about you—“

His words were too much, pressing on something fragile inside you, and you pulled him into a kiss to shut him up—deep, desperate, drowning. Your hand tightened on his length, the heat between you flaring, and you moaned against his mouth, shaking with the need for more.

"I want you," you breathed, each syllable shivering on your lips as you clenched around his fingers. "I've wanted you for months—"

Months? No, it had been years. Years of wanting, needing, watching from afar, heart in your throat. Years of avoiding anyone else because no one was him. You knew he’d felt the same and it killed him. It wasn't logical, wasn't supposed to be like this—not with you, not now, not his best friend's little sister, not him whispering sweet, dangerous things while knuckle-deep inside your virgin cunt.

It was as if you both shook those thoughts from your minds at once. You’ll think about the implications later.

"You've got me," he rasped, hips grinding involuntarily against your hand. "Just—fuck—don't hate me after this."

Hate him? The very idea was laughable, absurd. You could never hate him. Not even in those moments you tried, not even when he deserved it.

"I could never hate you," you murmured, drawing him closer, lips trembling against his. "Just—please—"

Something shifted in his eyes, and he knew. Knew what you needed. What you both needed. You were vulnerable, trembling, but you trusted him—completely. You’d been in his life for so long. You knew he’d never hurt you. He could see it your eyes, the trust, the in the way your body bent to his touch.

"Alright," he said softly, a hand running up your body to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Alright."

His fingers slid out of you, leaving you bare and breathless, and you swallowed. This was really about to happen.

"Lay back," his voice cut through your haze. "Legs to your chest."

The command wrapped around you like a vice, tightening the anticipation, and you fell back on your elbows, staring up at him as you raised your legs. Vulnerability crept in, making your thighs tense, but Mattheo was there, spreading you open with firm hands, pressing himself against your slick. His eyes were locked onto yours, all that self-assurance gone, melted into something more human—something raw, unguarded.

You could feel it; the vulnerability of this moment stretched between you both—the distance you'd maintained for so long, the careful walls you'd built, were nothing now. He was in too deep, and so were you.

"Stop me at any time," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp, eyes meeting yours. "Just breathe.”

He leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, and you kissed him like the world might collapse if you didn't. He guided himself against you, the press of him at your entrance an unbearable ache. He was hot, hard, huge—and despite the wetness slicking down your thighs, your body resisted, too tight, too unsure of this.

You whimpered, instinctively trying to pull away, but he stayed, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, whispering something that sounded like comfort but burned like fire. It hurt more than you expected, more than any of the fantasies you had dared to entertain.

Doubt curled through your chest, what if you couldn't take him? What if—

"M-Mattheo..." his name broke in your throat as you clutched his arm, nails digging into his skin. He tried to push in again, but your body resisted. "It—you—you can't fit..."

"Shh," his lips ghosted over yours, his hand slipping through your hair, trying again, moving slow, controlled. "You're just—so goddamn tight—"

The way he said it sent a spark through your veins. It was filthy, shameless, and it lit you up from the inside, despite the pain. No one had ever spoken to you like this. You swallowed the lump in your throat, tears pricking as he tried to work you open.

And then—he was in.

"I-it hurts," you hissed—pain lighting up your spine as he worked his cockhead inside you, pushing against the resistance of your walls. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inch a battle. The pressure was unbearable, the sting so sharp it was paralyzing. "Oh, fuck, Mattheo—"

He groaned, a sound from deep within his chest, his head bowing, sweat creeping over his brow.

"Shhh, I know—I know..." he murmured through shredded cords, fighting to maintain control as his hips paused, barely halfway in, just enough to make you feel like you might break. "S'okay...you're doing so good..."

It was overwhelming—the fullness, the ache that felt like it might split you in two. And yet, beneath the pain, something else stirred. His words, soft and rough all at once, made the sensation bearable, turned the hurt into something else. You focused on his voice, on the way he stroked your hair, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"Why—mmff—gods..." you could barely speak, the words tangled in your throat. "Why do you have to be so big—"

A strangled laugh escaped him, though his eyes stayed shut tight, his jaw clenched—cock twitching inside you.

"I don't—fuck—know." His fingers brushed your lips, covering your mouth gently. "Don't go talking like that—not right now—"

You might have laughed, too, if your body wasn't so taut, strung tight with tension and pain and something far more profound. He was barely inside you, his words making your insides clench, drawing another groan from his lips at the squeeze.

His hand held your jaw, palm pressing lightly over your mouth, enough to breathe, to speak—

"Why—" you knew what he meant, knew the warning in his eyes, but you couldn't stop yourself. "—not?"

His breath hitched. "Because—" he swallowed hard, words coming through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around your jaw, a warning in his grip. "Because—fuck—your mouth will get you in trouble."

Oh. That was what he meant.

"But—oh fuck—you're so...big..." the words slipped out before you could catch them, a disgruntled moan falling from your lips as he sank all the way in, filling you so completely it was dizzying. The pressure, the heat, the sensation of being pried open—it was all too much, and you cried out, unable to stop the sound from spilling out. "Ohhh—so big—"

"I said, fuck," he cursed, hand clamping firm over your mouth now as his body shuddered, as he ground his hips gently into yours. "—don't say that."

It was too late. You didn't need to say anything further. He could feel it—he could feel everything in the way you clenched around him, barely letting him move—so goddamn tight it was almost painful—he could feel it in the look in your eyes, in the trembling of your body beneath his.

"I can feel you thinking it," he grunted as you squirmed beneath him, every movement making him twitch inside you, drawing another choked groan from his throat. "Merlin sakes—"

You knew he wasn't used to this. To slowing down, to drawing out the tension like this, to the maddening slowness of every motion. He wanted to lose himself, to break you open hard and fast, to take and give and take again until both of you shattered into something unrecognizable. But he couldn't—not with the way your eyes glistened, not with the way you gasped and whimpered as he filled you.

"No talking," he sucked in a breath against your neck, his hips rolling into yours in slow, unbearable waves. "Only if you need me to stop."

He was breaking. So were you. Every thrust was an exquisite kind of torture—an ache that twisted and stretched, dulled only by the flick of his fingers against your clit. His lips pressed along your neck, kissed along the line of your jaw, groaning with each deep, patient push, carving his way into you as you clung to him, your mind floating through the fog of pain into something different—something overwhelming.

Your head fell back. “Oh—Oh gods—“

Each gasp felt like it might be your last as that something built deep inside you, tight and unfamiliar, an ache that didn't hurt but begged to be released. And he felt it too—Mattheo felt it, the way your body pulsed beneath his, the way you tightened around him like you couldn't bear to let him go.

"Bloody fuck—are you—are you going to—" his words were ragged, broken. He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't hold himself together. "Are you—"

“Mattheo—” your voice trembled, a breathless moan as your back arched, pressing into him, your body seeking more. The pain was null now, replaced by an overwhelming pressure, something tight and aching and good—you felt every inch of him inside you, every pulse of his cock as he moved, slow but relentless. “Mattheo—oh gods—”

"Fuck—" he bit down, teeth sinking into your neck as his fingers swirled your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. "You're gonna make me—"

You choked because there was no space for words, no breath for anything but the raw sound of your bodies—moans, gasps, ragged inhales tangled together as you both hurtled towards something inevitable. The light of the moon radiated the man above you and that was all you could register other than the rising crescendo of your climax—something so intense it scared you, almost broke you apart—your body seizing, trembling, as his fingers pressed harder against your clit, as he thrust deeper.

And then, there was only one more blink until you shattered beneath him, the orgasm tearing through you in oceanic motion, muscles clenching around him so tightly he could barely move—and then he was there, too, his body jerking as he groaned into your skin, his release ripped from him in jagged gasps as you milked him without mercy. He slumped on top of you, fingers digging into your skin, the two of you pulsing together in the aftermath, the room spinning, your bodies still trembling from the force of it.

The world was slow to return, the roar of sensations fading into something quieter, softer. The weight of him on top of you was grounding—his forehead pressed against the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Neither of you moved for a long while, just basked in the silence, kind that settled in after something irrevocable had passed between two people.

And then, Mattheo pushed up, enough to meet your eyes. Your chest ached at the softness inside his own.

“Are you—” he swallowed as he drank you in, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the flushed cheeks. His words hung in the air as if he didn’t know how to finish the question.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, voice hoarse. “I’m good.”

Mattheo nodded too but didn’t move, still buried inside you, just taking you in. Then, gently, he shifted, pulling back with a slow, careful movement that made you wince slightly. The second he’d pulled out, you felt different—more aware of the vulnerability you’d just laid bare, more aware of the line you two had just obliterated into absolute shambles.

“You sure?” he asked, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—

You nodded again, the smallest smile pulling at your lips, though your heart was still racing, the enormity of it all sinking in.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

His jaw tightened, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” His voice was barely audible, like he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

Of course he was thinking it too—how could he not? This was no longer something you could pretend didn’t exist, no longer something you could hide behind banter and stolen glances and secret kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathed, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the heat still radiating from his skin. “It does.”

[fluffylino]

serpent hybrid hyunjin 2 🌱🐍

his venom doesn't have the effects to kill you, instead you find your body craving for him...and his eggs

@seo--changbin gave me brainrot

reblogging > liking

part 1

-contains mature themes (idk wtf possessed me while thinking of breeding and monster cocks aaaa)

its been a while since changbin's come over to your apartment. the rabbit hybrid had grown buffer. stronger, with his muscles quite literally bulging from his armsleeves.

hyunjin and him being the best of friends. an unusual friendship between a serpent and his prey.

lithe and tall versus buff and small.

you couldn't help but ogle at bin's wide upper body, sipping on some tea while you listened to their conversation.

it only lasts for a few minutes, and you stare at hyunjin. taking in the sight of your boyfriend. his scales shining under the light. the newly grown scales on his collarbones giving him a sleeker appearance.

you gulped, watching his long slender tail swish around mindlessly on the floor. eyes wandering to the way he sat on the couch.

legs parted and maybe...just maybe you could see the outline of his length. well his 'lengths'. mentally slapping yourself as you tried to look away.

"hyun...need your help" you say, already going to the kitchen. smiling at changbin. hearing hyunjin saunter into the other room without even questioning why you were calling him there.

"you look too handsome. kiss me."

grabbing his collar, pulling him down to kiss you. a surprised noise leaving him but he laughs. giving you a firm kiss.

"should we buy some pizza for dinn-"

you cut him off, with another kiss. looping your arms around his neck to jump on him. he holds you up, groaning at the sudden eagerness.

firmly squeezing your thighs. pulling away to press a palm over your mouth.

"whats up with you?" he cocks an eyebrow. truly confused with your behaviour.

you bring your hands up to touch his lips. poking his canines. they had grown longer, much sharper.

"not now. later." he lets out. and you feel your mind shut off with how sternly he warns you. whining into his neck.

its only when bin leaves that you realise why you're feeling so desperate.

were you ovulating?

was it just him being hot?

a part of you wondered if it was because he playfully bit you in the morning?

"come here." hyunjin calls out after an hour. finding you sprawled out on the bed with no thoughts in your brain.

standing at the edge of the bed, with his hands on his hips.

"i think you made me horny..." you mumble, staring at the ceiling. lower abdomen burning with want.

he hisses softly.

"this is not normal horny...this is horny on another level..."

glancing at him and you close your thighs. panties soaked. every part of your body screaming for him.

"is it cause i bit you?" hyunjin asks.

his tail wrapping around your ankle casually. and he pulls you closer to him. the display of strength leaving you breathless.

"you're a black mamba. shouldn't i die if you inject me with venom?" you whisper, unconciously spreading your legs apart.

watching as his eyes go down to your panties. the shirt you had on was his.

"so you're saying my venom is actually a 'fuck me please' aphrosidiac ?" hyunjin lets out, letting his finger prod over your panties. feeling how wet you were getting.

"hyun....give it to me"

"give what to you, baby?"

"give me it all"

"what all do you mean, sweetheart?"

"your babies...your e-eggs"

and hyunjin chokes on his spit. the grip his tail has on your leg tightens. watching you with a sharp gaze. tongue peeking out every few seconds . tasting the air.

"god, whats wrong with you" and he pulls you closer.

using the tip of his tail to push your panties to the side. hissing at how you're practically dripping. a mess between your thighs.

"h-hyunjinnn"

"mh?" tail slipping and sliding against your slit. bumping into your clit. chuckling at the way your legs close around it. but he continues poking at your cunt.

"hyunjin!" you whine, awkwardly trying to grind onto his appendage. gasping when he forces your legs apart.

the same musky smell filling the room. his tongue growing longer, fangs peeking through.

"fuck. my heat's creeping up on me" he groans, dropping his head down to exhale heavily. his scales appearing more bolder.

"your smell...you smell fucking delicious" and you whimper. watching as he tastes the air, eyes closing.

"are you gonna eat me mister snake?" you tease nervously. squeaking at the expression he makes.

obviously turned on with you acting so hopeless.

a predator and his prey.

.

.

.

writhing at the mere slide of his girth against your insides. bumps on his length hooking onto your walls.

forcing him to thrust into you with short movements. gripping your thighs with clawed fingers. leaving his marks on your body.

"yeah? i don't usually fuck my prey before eating them whole" the serpent grunts.

a long hiss slipping past his lips. throwing his head back at the feeling of your cunt pulling him in. squeezing his dicks and coating them with arousal.

"h-hyun" you cry, body overheating with how much you wanted. this wasn't enough. you needed to feel him in your cervix.

this wasn't how you'd act. was it really his venom?

"shhh~" as he sits on his haunches. fucking into you harder. his pupils turning into pretty slits. taking in the sight of your body reacting so well to him.

shivering when he places a claw on your breastbone. gently sliding it down to where your uterus would be. and he draws slow circles over the skin.

"want me here, don't you~" and you nod aggressively, not expecting him to slide his finger lower.

placing the pad of his calloused finger over your clit gently. his thrusts having you slide up on the bed and back down.

"you'll take my eggs like a good mate would, won't you, my precious.."

gathering your slick and pinching at your swollen bundle of nerves.

grinning lazily when you let out a little scream. squirming at his tortorous teasing. cooeing as you beg for him.

hands flying down to weakly hold onto his wrist. but he's strong and only flicks your clit meanly.

.

.

.

to say its a weird sensation is an understatement. his hand intertwined with yours, calming you down as one of his dick throbs.

stuffed so deep inside you that when you feel the first egg, its another sensation of fullness.

filling you with more cum while he pumps another into you. maybe soft shelled eggs weren't that bad.

the third egg, however makes you whine at the stretch. a tinge of discomfort.

gasping at how his tail seems to have a mind of its own. wrapping around your ankle and quite literally spreading your legs apart. hooking your left leg over his shoulder.

"m'here. f-fuck taking me so well" hyunjin praises. pressing down on your lower abdomen. revellling in the way you keep it in.

"no venom for you next time" he chuckles, and you breath heavily. overwhelmed with everything. body buzzing with pure pleasure and satisfaction.

"m-more" you tease. laughing at how his eyes widen. going back to normal.

"MORE?!"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

plz i love snakie hyunnie so much. its an obsession at this point. soft serpent hyunnie drabble coming soon hopefullyyyy

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Hit List pt. 2

Masterlist

Pairing: Jason Todd/Red Hood X (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, toxic romance,dark romance, dark Jason, psychotic Jason, mean Jason, brain-washing, violence, Jason's death, threatening, stalking, intimidation, blackmail, unethical behavior, mafia au, exes, assassination, semi-public sex, fingering, kissing, love confessions, mourning, ruined orgasms.

The door opening snapped you out of your concentration. Your head shot up, eyes wide with surprise as the imposing figure in the red helmet stepped into your lab. Then your heartbeat froze as you recognized the terrifying figure you've been seeing on the news for the past month. The red hood - the crime lord of Gotham - was in your lab.

"Uh... can I help you?" you asked, your voice wary.

The red hood sweeped the room. You shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ve got some questions,” his low baritone was distorted through the modulator.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ Six Years Prior◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason lay on the warehouse floor, his Robin suit was torn around different parts, the exposed skin under it seeping blood onto the cold floor. Speaking of cold, Jason was pretty sure he was going to die here.

Yeah... asking Batman to let him patrol alone was just another notch down the line of Jason's cocky mistakes. But after doing it for so long, being Robin has become a second nature. He could beat up henchmen with his eyes closed and his arms tied. So, of course, he thought he could handle Joker alone to save his mother. Hell, he might have even stood a chance, but the moment he'd entered the Joker’s hideout, some familiar scent hit him, and Jason became numb in an instant.

Joker had been at it for so long that the boy should no longer register the pain from the crowbar. Only... he did. He felt every cut, hit, punch, every bruising hit.

Joker needn't have bothered with the gag, Jason lost his voice from screaming a while ago.

The newly carved "J" scar on his cheek hurt like a bitch.

"Well? Looks like bats are going to be late to save ya, kiddo." Joker laughed. "Bad traffic, I guess."

Jason didn't bother talking. Too exhausted. Everything after that was blacked out. Then he stopped breathing.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason was in excruciating pain. He was losing his mind. All of the hurt from his torture, from the explosion that followed, attacked his senses all at once.

He was in Ra’s al Ghul’s hidden stronghold, recovering from his resurrection. The room was dimly lit, incense filling in the air as Jason lay on a cold stone slab, his body wracked with phantom pain from his death. Ra’s entered and stood beside him, offering him water and speaking with a calculated gentleness. "You’ve been through a lot, Jason. The cruelty of this world knows no bounds."

Jason spoke with a hoarse "Bruce… Did he…?"

Ra’s tone stayed calm. "Save you? He didn’t even try."

Jason struggled to sit up, his face contorted in confusion. "No. I dont believe you. He would have… he he’s my fath-"

Ra’s directed Jason’s attention to a screen showing pictures of batman running side by side with... Robin, "While you were rotting in a shallow grave, your so-called father was playing hero with the one who replaced you."

Jasons tone was angry yet desperate as tears filled his vision. "No. He wouldn’t - he didn’t forget me."

But seeing the images of the boy in the Robin suit, he shut his mouth.

Jason recalled moments of Bruce’s kindness - of patching him up after a rough mission, smiling at him when Jason mastered a new skill or got an award at school. "He saved me before. He would’ve done if he could-"

"But he didn’t, young one." Ras said. "I did. Who truly values you, Jason? The one who abandoned you to die or the one who gave you your life back?"

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason's breathing quickened as his fists pounded the hanging punching bag in Al Ghul’s dojo.

He had overheard an exchange between Ra's and his daughter. The topic of which was Batman, a word which recently became a trigger to him.

Jason continued olbiterating the punching bag, which had tore open where his fists landed, mixing with his bloody knuckles.

I wasn’t worth the risk? I was his son! How could he-how could he just let me die?!

Ra’s placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder making him stop his movements. "Its difficult to cope. You were nothing more than a soldier to him. A pawn in his war. But to me, you are a warrior. A leader."

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

"We found this in your bloodstream the night you were killed." Thalia Al Ghul held up a vial of clear liquid. Jason nodded, hunched over a table with his shirt pulled over. A medic was stiching up a nasty gash he got from a recent mission.

"It's relatively new," she continued. "Not FDA approved. Not even patented. But my men tracked it to a lab in Gotham University. It matches the research on several Academic papers published by a PHD student."

Jason frowned at the colorless liquid, hissing against the anchoring pain of the stitching. "What is it?"

"It's basic form blocks pain receptors. Joker played around with it and manipulated the chemical to immobilize people by overstimulating their nervous systems. It can cause a hallucinatory haze, so they're unable to defend themselves. Sound familiar?" She asked.

Jason ground his teeth and nodded, recalling how disoriented and agonized he felt during his torture.

Then, another memory surfaced his mind. One rainy day at school, when talking to you about your lab research.

"Im calling it 'Chill Mist,'" you said, proudly holding up a vial. "It'll be a breakthrough in healthcare, Jay. It blocks pain receptors and induces a calming state. For when people undergo trauma or surgery." You explained excitedly, spraying a bit of it in the air for him to smell.

"What's the name of the student working on it?" Jason's tone was grave when he asked Talia.

He anticipated the name before Thalia spoke it, but it didn't prepare him from the painful stab of betrayal in his chest.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Raw anger fueled him as Jason stared at the limp body of his duel oponent lying lifeless at his feet.

Ra’s clapped proudly once. "See what you’re capable of? This is just the beginning, Jason. You will become unstoppable."

Jason stared at the blood on his hands, the sword shaking in his grip.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ Six Years Later ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Dmitry, a lower level henchman in the Russian mafia, sat across the table from the red hood, swallowing thickly. He felt for his gun in his holster and was relieved it was still there.

He's heard stories about the Red Hood from rival gangs, and he damn near shit his pants sitting across from him now. Worse, so when the man finally spoke, addressing him in his native language. "Привет Дима," (hello, Dima)

Dima looked around himself nervously, wondering why he was here instead of his boss. "Г-где Сергей?" (Where's Sergey?)

"Сергея больше нет. C сегодняшнего дня, я твой новый бос. Продолжим на английском. "(Sergey no longer exists. Starting today, im your new boss.We're gonna continue this conversation in English.)

Dmitry paled, his eyes cast down to the duffle bag resting beside the Red Hood's boots, suspecting the worst. "Бляд..." He swore under his breath. "W-we didn’t know it was your turf!"

The hood let out a sound that might have been a chuckle, but it was distorted behind the mask.

He leaned against the desk, spinning his knife lazily in his hand. "The whole fuckin' city's my turf."

Danny tried to protest, but Jason interrupted. "Here’s how it works now. You want to work in Gotham, you pay me a cut. I keep the cops off your back, keep you alive, and make sure you don’t sell this filth to kids. You mess up, you disappear. Simple enough?"

When Danny hesitated, Jason flipped the knife into his hand and buried it in the table beside him. "That wasn’t a question."

Danny nodded frantically.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

The by-now famous Red Hood walked into Arkham asylum to blaring sirens as inmates shook the bars of their prison cells, shouting his name. Under the fluorescent lights, he could make out some familiar faces. But he was only here for one.

Joker looked up as red hood approached, a grin spreading across his face. "What's this?" He asked. "A fan coming to visit -"

The gunshot rang out before he could finish talking. The smoke raising from the red hood's gun. He climbed out into a nearby window and jumped out, the jokers cold body on the floor behind him.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Jason's eyes narrowed as he watched you through the window of you lab. You looked different now, older than the girl he once knew, but no less intoxicating. He clenched his fists, feeling the phantom pain of his death crawling all over his body.

You didn’t know. He reminded himself. You didn’t know what the Joker planned that night...

But you made it. That damn toxin that burned through his veins, twisting his screams into something unrecognizable even to himself.

Jason ground his teeth behind his mask. How was it fair that you got to walk away? That you got to live while he had to claw his way out of a fucking grave?

His gloved hand flexed over the hilt of his knife. He wouldn’t kill you, no. But he would make you pay. One way or another, he would make you pay.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Your hand reached for your phone charging on the table, but he noticed. He grasped you by your lab coat, easily pushing you against the wall. His grip was firm as he pinned your hands above your head. The sharp edge of his helmet pressed against your side. "What? Don't you trust me? After all this time..." the words released in a low chuckle.

Confused, you struggled against him. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t-"

He stepped closer, pressing you against the wall and locking your movement. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed in the quiet of the empty room.

You heard a click of metal and risked a glance to see him lift the helmet before dropping it to the ground.

Your breath left in a rush as your world tilted. Impossible...

"Jason...?" you whispered, barely audible.

He smiled down at you. Not the boyish grin you remembered. But a sharp, humorless. "Surprise."

You stared, taking in the stark differences. The Jason you remembered was cocky and boyish. The man standing above you now had sharper features, his body bulkier, and his eyes were hollowed pools of blue - once bright and mischievous - now held pain and anger aimed at you.

You stammered. “You - how - youre dead!”

"Aparently not." He drawled. “And congrats on being the first person to know who’s under the Red Hood.”

The Red Hood. That’s who he’s become. The vigilante-turned-crime lord everyone in Gotham feared or admired. And he was standing in front of you, the same boy with whom you did your homework, the one who pulled your hair at school, who took your first kiss, and more.

Jason’s gaze roamed over you, his expression unreadable. "What's wrong, baby? You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said, his tone filled with amusement.

You voice shool as tears filled your eyes. "What happened to you?"

He told you. Step by step. Recounting the literal horror he'd experienced. By the time he finished his story, it was clear to you that Jason blamed you for hia death.

Jason felt a twisted satisfaction in seeing your head shake, guilt evident in your teary eyes.

His hand slid to your body, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Does it bother you? Knowing that every time I look at you, I see the reason I died?” he emphasized by wrapping around your throat.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Jason’s lips crushed against yours before you could form a single word. It wasn’t tender; it was raw, punishing, a collision of teeth and desperation that left you breathless.

He lifted you with ease and put you on the table you were working on. Worrying about chemical hazards was the last thing on your mind when you were being kissed by a dark reincarnation of your high school sweetheart.

"Jason-" you drew back on a gasp.

His lips brushed your ear before biting your neck, “Do you know how many nights I dreamed of making you feel an ounce of what I felt?” His words terrified you.

"What will you do to me?" Your voice trembled.

"I don't know..." He sounded distracted as his finger glided over your lab coat, unbuttoning it and pulling it down off you, leaving you in your t-shirt and jeans. You were suddenly cold, feeling bumps along your arms. Jason's haze was heated, and you followed it to your chest, where your nipples pebbled under your bralette. You held your breath as he raised his hand to circle one of your nipples, not saying anything.

"If you were me," Jason drawled, attention back on you, though his fingers continued circling your nipple. You suppressed a whimper desperate to be let out. "What would you do to you?"

"I..." Your voice hitched when his finger brushed the spot you wanted him so desperately.

"What would you do if you've defeated all of your enemies, but one." He asked, tone heavy.

Your heart ached at his words, and you shook you head. "I'm not your enemy, Jay-" you wispered.

Something you said made him freeze, a moment passed before he gave your nipple a brief but harsh pinch. “You don’t get to say my name like that,” he hissed, his other hand tightening on your hair.

Removing his gloves and dropping them to the floor with a soft thud. You watched at his scarred, large hand lowered to the buttons of your jeans, undoing them one by one. The sensation made your body jerk, and you bit your lip to keep from making any sounds.

Jason noticed and brought his lips up to yours, biting down on your bottom lip before saying. "Dont hold back now, baby. You never did before -"

"I've missed you." The confession left your lips in a quick breath.

That made him freeze again. Just like when he did when you called him by his nickname. Carefully, you reached to cup his cheek, your thumb tracing the "J" scar under his eye.

"Stop," he said under his breath.

"Jason," you wimpered, your voice strained. "I missed you so much-"

"Stop." He growled.

With tears in your eyes, you begged. "Please! Jason, I still love-"

He kissed you again, desperate to silence you. He was pretty sure the next words out of your mouth were going to break his conditioning completely. He couldn't pet that happen - not after how far he's come.

His fingers reached your sex, coating themselves in your slick and sliding up to rub your clit. "If you don't shut up for your own good, I'll have to find something else to keep your mouth busy."

The ministration on your sex, the words, and the fact that the love of your life was speaking them to you all sent your mind spiraling. But the sensations he caused in your body overtook any intentions in your mind, and you arched against him, desperately pushing yourself closer to him.

"That's right," he chuckled, his mind back where he deeded it to be. "Give up control, baby."

You were so close.

"Give me my revenge." He laughed, grinning against your ear.

You moaned just as you were nearing your climax.

He withdrew his fingers, ruining your orgasm.

"No!" You protested.

Pleading, your eyes sought his out in the darkness. He wore a wolfish smirk as he reached up and licked his fingers. His eyes were hooded as he glared at you. He didn't say much. Just hummed as he slowly approached you. Frightened, you tried backing away as far as you could. "Dont! Jason, I'll call the cops. I'll tell them -"

"Tell them what?" He pulled you by your hair. It was not a playful tug like he used to do in school, but a harsh grasp that had you gasping. "That the Red Hood fingered you? That he didn't let you finish?" He said in a mocking tone.

You swallowed harshly, not saying anything. This version of Jason was so cruel that you couldn't comprehend it.

"You're not gonna go to the police." He informed you. "You're gonna come to work wearing a skirt tomorrow." He finished before giving you one last kiss.

Before you could come up with anything more to say, he had put on his gloves and helmet, saluted you, and walked out the door.

[flwrkid14]

Letters in Green Ink: Phantom's Footsteps on Gotham's Rooftops

Tim Drake was no stranger to paranoia. It was practically a job requirement in Gotham. But this? This was getting weird.

It started small: the feeling of being watched on rooftops, a shadow a little too close. Harmless, at first. But then the sticky notes began.

Random, anonymous sticky notes. Clues he’d missed. Addresses for gang hideouts. Details on corrupt businessmen.

He found one on his motorcycle seat. Another on the Batcomputer. A bright green note scrawled with:

“Check the docks. Midnight.”

Tim had learned to trust his gut, and his gut was screaming: This is not normal.

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

Meanwhile, in another corner of Gotham:

Danny Fenton was hovering invisibly above a warehouse, nervously biting his lip. He was shaking. Not because he was scared of Gotham’s criminals. Nope. The real danger? Red Robin’s eyes.

Danny: internal screaming 'Why did I think this was a good idea?'

Also Danny: hovering invisibly above Tim, whispering to himself: “Okay, Danny. You’re helping. You’re useful. He doesn’t need to know you’re a stalker. A cool stalker. Like a… guardian angel! Yes. Totally fine. Not creepy at all.”

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

Tim, mid-stakeout, could feel the eyes. Again. He spun around, batarang ready. Nothing. Just empty shadows. The wind.

He scowled. “Alright, whoever you are. You’re getting annoying.”

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

Danny floated a few rooftops away, clutching his chest. “Oh my god, he spoke. And he’s mad. Why is that hot?”

He watched as Red Robin took down three thugs single-handedly. His fighting was brutal, efficient. Danny, invisible and swooning, whispered: “He’s so cool.”

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

The next night: a bust gone sideways. Tim found himself cornered by more goons than expected, already calculating the least-bad injury. Then, out of nowhere, a ghostly chill swept through the alley.

Blowtorch thug? Frozen solid.

Gunman? Knocked out cold.

And there, floating in the moonlight, glowing white hair and intense green eyes: Phantom.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You. You’re the one who’s been—”

Phantom blinked, stammered, “Uh, gotta go!” and vanished like a startled deer.

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

Back in his lair (aka an abandoned Gotham clocktower because aesthetic™️), Danny spiraled. “He saw me. He saw me! Oh god, why did I freeze that guy? Cool guys don’t freeze goons.”

Jazz’s voice in his head: “Danny, you have to stop.”

Danny: “I CAN’T, JAZZ. HE’S TOO PRETTY.”

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

Tim was in full detective mode. Batman-level scowling. “Phantom. Ghost powers. Clearly interested in my cases. Why?”

He scanned the city. Ran searches. No results.

But the sticky notes kept coming.

“Check the East End warehouse. 10pm.”

“Watch out for the armored guy. He has backup.”

Tim didn’t know what was more frustrating: the lack of information, or the fact that Phantom was always right.

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

Finally, one night, Tim cornered him. Literally. Phantom turned a corner and smacked into Red Robin. Hard.

Tim crossed his arms. “Alright. Talk.”

Danny, blushing so hard his glow flickered. “Uh… hi.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Why are you following me?”

Danny, brain short-circuiting: “I LIKE YOUR… uh, CAPE.”

Tim blinked. “My cape.”

Danny nodded furiously. “It’s… cool. Flowy.”

Tim stared. Silence stretched. Then: “You’re helping me.”

Danny swallowed. “Um. Yeah?”

Tim’s voice softened. “Why?”

Danny, panicking, blurted: “Because I like you!”

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

Silence.

Tim’s brain: Error 404.

Danny: contemplating phasing into the floor.

Finally, Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You… are the most chaotic stalker I’ve ever had.”

Danny, grinning nervously: “So, um. Friends?”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “We’ll start with coworkers.”

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

Danny, flying away, fist-pumping in the air: “He didn’t say no!”

Tim, watching him go, muttering: “I need coffee. And maybe an exorcist.”

#PhantomStalker #TimDrakeProblems #DannyFentonChaos #BatfamBrainrot #GothamGhostBoyfriend

[mysterythief]

Anakin’s brain was trying to break through his eyes. He could feel the pressure pounding against his skin with each step he took away from his barracks.

His latest campaign at Akiva had been brutal. He and Rex had been awake for 82 hours, trying to stay on top of the constant flood of droids coming from the factory while they waited for Ahsoka and her team to shut it down.

Anakin hated to admit it, but he had taken some nasty blows throughout the campaign. A droideka had gotten a lucky shot in when Anakin was surrounded and blasted him in the back of his left leg (which consequently lead to him falling on his face and breaking his nose), a tactical droid managed to get the company into a trap where droids dropped boulders onto them (Anakin did manage to stop most of them, so the company came out alright, but he missed the one that hit him and Rex on the head. He did sleep for about 10 minutes after that, so that was a plus), and a stupid commando droid managed to shoot through his right arm, killing some of the wires connected to his nerves. He could feel jolts of electricity run up his arm whenever the dead ends accidentally hit each other, and he was unable to fully open or close his hand. And forget about his ring and pinky finger, they were absolutely fried. The surgery would take a day to repair the damage. Time Anakin didn’t have.

Kix was arguing with him even now as he and Anakin walked out of the barracks after they had carried Ahsoka and Rex into the bunks to rest and recover. Poor Snips had taken a nasty cut on her arm from Ventress and had inhaled far too much smoke from being caught in the factory after setting it on fire. It should have been him. He was her master after all. He should be able to protector her. And Rex was barely conscious after being awake for so long and taking that boulder to the head…and breaking his arm after tackling the droideka that had shot Anakin. They both deserved a couples days rest and some time in the bacta tank.

Anakin began removed the bandages from his head, right arm, and leg as Kix continued to scold him.

“Sir, this is insane! You’re clearly injured! Now is when you go to the med bay, NOT A COUNCIL MEETING!!”

“Relax Kix. I’m standing up and moving around. Which, in my book, is a win.” Anakin tried to give Kix his most convincing swagger smile. The one that typically managed to hide of all his pain.

Unfortunately, Kix knew him too well. And he had been there when the boulder had dropped on Anakin.

“Sir… with all due respect, you are a KRIFFIN IDIOT! You have a concussion, your right arm is in shambles and can’t hold a thing, you’ve lost a lot of blood from your left leg, which you are STILL limping on. And I’m fairly certain you have multiple broken ribs as well, but you woln’t sit still long enough to allow me to examine you!” Kix listed off with big dramatic gestures as he screamed whispered to Anakin.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. And probably true, but I don’t have time to figure that out right now Kix. If I’m late for one more council meeting, Mace is going to have my head. And if I walk fast enough, I’ll be there right on time! More or less…” Anakin whispered argued back.

“Sir, I’m sure you being in the med bay is a very valid reason to not be at the council meeting.” Kix had stopped and was looking at Anakin with concern.

Normally Kix, as the company medic, could overrule Anakin’s command. However, Anakin wasn’t in command at this moment. He was just a soldier reporting in, so Kix technically couldn’t stop him.

“Somebody has to inform the council of what happened on Akiva, and Ahsoka and Rex are both down. That leaves me.” Anakin hesitated a moment, looking at Kix’s concerned face, and knowing that Rex would yell at him the moment he woke up and found out Anakin hadn’t gone right to the med bay. He did have good men who cared about him. “But I promise that I’ll go to med bay immediately after the council meeting.” Anakin conceded.

Kix nodded his head, agreeing to the terms. “If you’re not there by 0300, I’m sending a squad to find you sir.”

“Fair enough.” Anakin held his left hand out in fairwell as he walked (limped) towards the council chambers.

***

Skywalker was late. Again.

True, his company had just arrived back from Akiva the hour before, but where other Jedi would immediately report in after a mission, Skywalker had a tendency to dillydally with his men afterwards.

Mace had hopped that after his last talk with Anakin that he would take these council meetings more seriously. Clearly that hope was in vain.

Mace turned to his friend and head of the Jedi Council, “We should begin the meeting Master Yoda. There are many important things to discuss with or without Skywalker’s report.”

“Indeed. Start, we should. Much to discuss, there is. Master Kenobi, faith, in Skywalker, you have?”

“I promise you, Anakin will be here Master,” Obi Wan said reassuringly, though he looked ready to sigh at his old apprentices antics.

“Very well. Begin, you will Master Mundi. Anxious, to hear about the Wookiees, I am.”

Anakin Skywalker quite literally stumbled into the council chambers partway through Master Mundi’s report. His shirt was rumpled, and his right arm was stained by some liquid.

“Apopoligies Masters,” he stated as he attempted an awkward bow with his left hand, his right hanging limply, and hobbled to side of the chambers.

Great, Mace thought, not only was Skywalker late, but he was drunk and had wine on his sleeves. It would have been better for him to not report at all, than to come in this state. Mace would have to have another talk with him later.

***

Obi Wan raised a quizzical eyebrow at Anakin and directed his gaze to his right arm, which was clearly leaking fluid. ‘Are you alright? Shouldn’t you be in med bay?’ His gaze asked.

‘I’m fine.’ Anakin’s glance replied, as he attempted to hide his right hand. Though he jolted slightly upon moving it.

‘If you’re fine, then why are you late? And why is your arm clearly broken? And you’ve done something to your leg that you’re limping. Kix really let you go like this?’ Obi Wan’s worry frown settled on his brow as his glaze slide over his old Padawan, checking if anything else was wrong or broken. He really should have had something stronger to drink before dealing with this.

‘I’m here aren’t I?’ Anakin’s shrug was his only response as he began purposefully ignoring his Master’s concerned gaze.

Definitely should have had something stronger to drink, Obi Wan thought.

***

Stay awake Anakin. You can do this, just STAY AWAKE!

His head was pounding through his skull with full force. He had managed to deflect Kix and Obi Wan, but Anakin was seriously ready to topple over. It was taking every ounce of his willpower just to stay upright. He hadn’t even noticed that his arm was leaking fluid again until Obi Wan had pointed it out. Hopefully he had moved his arm soon enough that no one else had notice the stain. Or that his whole body was jittering every now and again as random wires connected and sent jolts through his nervous system.

He just had to stay awake through this meeting, then he would make good on his promise to Kix and go to med bay.

Just stay awake.

***

“Skywalker, we’re ready for your report now” Mace stated. It was now 0400. The council had gone through 5 other reports that had taken 2 hours (though there was a little commotion outside the halls at 0300 that the temple guards had handled) and were ready to hear about the campaign on Akiva.

“Skywalker?” he questioned again when there was no response from the young knight.

“Anakin,” Obi Wan’s anxiety caught in his normally calm tone.

“Yes Masder. Sorri Masder,” the young man jolted at the sound of Obi Wan’s voice, though his whole body shook. “I was…loss in thougd.”

“Anakin… maybe you should,” Obi Wan began as he started to stand.

“Give my repord. Yes, yes I sould,” Anakin interjected. Glaring at Obi Wan as he wobbled to the center of the floor, even though it was clear as day to Mace that Anakin was drunk and Obi Wan was just trying to save some face.

Anakin shuttered as he began speaking, trying to hide his right arm behind him:

“The campin on Akia dook a few durnds, bud in the ened, we manade do brind don de droid faccori. Dis will allo…” Anakin’s left leg suddenly gave out from under him as his whole body shuttered again, flinging him forward.

“Anakin!” Obi Wan yelled, as he flung himself from his chair, barely managing to catch Anakin before his face hit into the marbled floor.

“Medic! I need a Medic NOW!!” Obi Wan uncharacteristically shouted out the doors of the council chamber.

“YOU SEE!!! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T LISTEN TO THE DAMN MEDIC!!!” A clone medic wearing the colors of the 501 burst into the council chamber a stretcher, bandages, and some bacta patches at the ready, the temple guards standing in shock behind him.

“General Fisto, please hold General Skywalkers left leg steady. General Kenobi, please wrap this bandaged around his leg before it starts bleeding through again. I need to wrap these wires around his hand so he stops shocking his whole system until we can get him into surgery,” Kix said jumping into action.

“Kix?! Kix?! What happened? Why did he come here instead of med bay? How badly injured is he?” Obi Wan rapidly questioned as he wrapped Anakin’s leg. He could see that he had reopened a blaster wound and it was starting to bleed again.

“General Skywalker insisted that he had to be to the council meeting to report on the mission since Commander Tano and Captain Rex are both badly injured as well General Kenobi. You know how the General gets when he sets his mind to something.

I told him he had to be at med bay by 0300 or I’d send a squad after him. Well, he wasn’t in med bay at 0300 so the boys and I came looking for him, but these guards would let us in.” Kix talked fast as he wrapped Anakin’s right hand which had wires sticking out from every angle and fluid leaking from the gaping hole in his arm.

Mace finally noticed the 3 other clone troopers in 501 armor helping get supplies and the stretcher in place and immediately felt overwhelming guilty.

He had assumed the worst of Skywalker, believing him to be drunk, when in reality he was seriously injured. Enough so that it was amazing he had stay standing as long as he had.

“Rest, you should Skywalker. Your health, more important than the report, it is.” Master Yoda said as he walked over to the commotion, where a barely awake Skywalker lay.

“Yes, Masder.”

“Give the report, one of your men can, I’m sure.” Yoda continued. “Heal, you will.”

Obi Wan and Kit Fisto helped Kix and one of the clones lift Anakin carefully onto the stretcher.

“Appo and Fives, can you deliver the report to the council in Anakin’s place?” Obi Wan requested.

“Yes, sir!” The two clones saluted. Then both gently touched to stretcher where Anakin was laying. “Take care of yourself sir.”

“Master, I’d like to request permission to accompany Anakin to med bay.” Obi Wan asked Master Yoda.

“Go, you may. Run away from the medic, ensure he doesn’t,” Yoda gently laughed.

Mace grabbed Anakin’s left hand before Kix and Kenobi pulled him away on the stretcher. “Next time young Skywalker, go to med bay,” he counseled.

Anakin attempted to laugh as he was carted away. “If you insisd.”

Maybe it was alright for Skywalker to miss council meeting sometimes after all.

How many times do you think Anakin arrived a meeting, a call, or honestly anything important for his job swinging and stumbling and speaking weirdly, so everyone would just glare at him like "Showing up drunk is worse than not showing up at all", only for it to be that he's actually with a severe concussion; or dizzy from blood loss, or oxygen isn't reaching his brain or literally anything but drunk; in fact , Obi-Wan wishes he was drunk.

[qqueenofhades]

I bought your 'Empire' the other day (which I am excited about; I haven't started it yet), but somehow completely missed that you had written historical fiction, and about the Plantagenets, my favourite historical dynasty, so I'll be jumping on that.

I was wondering if you had recommendations for historical fiction set during the Plantagenet reign? I've tried Sharon Kay Penman and unfortunately didn't get on with her writing, which is a shame as I've heard good things about her series. I know Philippa Gregory has several novels set during that time period, but her books seem to be verging on bodice rippers, which isn't what I'm looking for. Was just curious if you had any suggestions for well-researched fiction set during the Plantagenet reign.

This ask has been sitting in my inbox for several days (my apologies) largely because I was trying to think of a more helpful answer for you. Medieval historical fiction is VERY hit and miss for me, not least because it is often written by people who, uh, are not historians and thus have Certain Ideas (TM) about what the medieval period is like. Or they want to use various aesthetics, or they want to make some (usually questionable) point about how women were treated in the past, or they just go whole-hog on total nonsense. As an example of all of these things at once, let us all stare in horror at this recently-released book description together:

(The book is called the Stone Witch of Florence, by the way. I took one look at this and ran screaming. WHY.)

A stone witch?? So she channels the power of gemstones like a modern-day Instagram healing crystals influencer??? BUT ZOMGZ WITCHCRAFT. In the middle of the Black Death. "Unorthodox cures" you say. But they also need holy relics for protection, and I totally trust the author to understand about medieval hagiography/cult of the saints. Totally. We definitely won't get some half-baked comparison between Sekrit Women Magical Gems Which Really Work and Dark Ages Church Superstition Holy Relics Which Are A Fraud, or.... something??? And our nobly mistreated protagonist will super definitely be a real physician if she gets these and never ever accused of witchcraft (which LET US ALL SAY IT TOGETHER IS AN EARLY MODERN THING!!!!) Because medieval medicine was just a bunch of gemstone vibes anyway! Makes total sense!

...my head hurts.

Anyway, while not all examples are this egregious, the point is: I love historical fiction, but I almost always can't read it when it's set in the medieval era. I read Sharon Kay Penman a while ago and enjoyed her stuff at the time, though I have assorted gripes with it on a stylistic/historical level. While Philippa Gregory does have real academic credentials, she likewise has gone totally down the bodice-ripper alternate-history crackpot theory Secret Women Magic version of things, which is... fine if that's your jam, but just like you, it is not mine. I thus have to read fiction which is set in other periods or which I know less about or where at least I am more capable of turning off my brain and accepting things for the sake of the story. So as you see, I unfortunately don't have many useful suggestions for you in this field, since the kind of medieval historical fiction that I like to recommend is, say, The Name of the Rose. Which is terrific and written for someone of a professional medievalist's level of knowledge, but is not exactly everyone's cup of tea when they just want something fun and easy to understand.

I am, of course, happy to give other book recommendations if you'd like to broaden your request, and I'll do my best to think -- but yes! As I said, I wish I could be more helpful here. I shall persist.

(Also, of course: thanks for buying EMPIRE! I do hope you enjoy.)

[pixeltwix]

-Unrelated McGucket Ramblings

Because my mental illness is metal illnessing my brain has been having a wonderful time combining interests. Specifically gravity falls and the Odyssey of all things?

The parallels between Fiddleford, Emma May, and Tate -& Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus is driving me bonkers. EVERYTIME I hear songs like ‘There Are Other Ways’, ‘I’m Just A Man’, and ‘Love in Paradise’ I can so vividly see Fiddleford so ardently longing for home, for his wife, for his son, but something or some event keeps pulling him back every single time he has a mind to just go home. I can’t help but let my head make the connections and rewire silly lyrics to fit closer together than I already feel they are.

‘Back at home my wife awaits for me, she’s my everything, my Emma May. And she’s all my power, all my power, but it’s been (x) long years. Oh (x) long years since I have seen my wife, and now the god of (chaos) is out to end my life-“

Additionally while I do not see Emma May as Calypso to any degree, her few lines in ‘Love in Paradise’ stuck out so hard to me if it was outside of the context of Calypso & Odysseus’s no good very bad situation. Just the-

“It will be fine dear, come back inside dear, love of my life come back to paradise. I know your life’s been hard, I’ll stay inside your heart. I love you my dear, I love our time here, life would be so much worse if you had died. Please stay away from harm, stay in my open arms.”

Is SO POST FIRST PORTAL TESTING FIDDLEFORD CODED- when Emma May finally comes up for herself to check on him in Gravity Falls and sees his condition. I refuse to believe for a moment that she didn’t at least try to understand what was going on before fearing for her and her sons life. Finding her husband most likely stumbling around like he doesn’t even know himself or where he is, trying to soothe and bring him back to her. And at first it seems like it’s working, like he’s slowly piecing together what she’s putting down, but then he’s sparking, spiraling again. She tries a final time to coax him from whatever whirl of madness he’s gotten himself into, but it never gets better. In fact it keeps getting worse. But just the vISUAL ALONE of her with that part of the song trying to bring him away from harm all the while he’s still deeply haunted with the ‘all I hear are screams’. AHHH-

Additionally the narrative of Penelope stalling her suitors for YEARS because she’s hoping, praying, that her husband is still alive, still out there somewhere. That maybe just maybe he’ll come home. I am screAMING and pointing at the Emma May core of it all. I’ve been meaning to develop elderly FiddEm dynamic be it platonic for the sake of recovery, but my biggest thing with her design is despite after all these years she sTILL carries aspects of her husband with her. Be it wearing his old specs he left at home or still keeping her floral motif with her brooch. She still loves him deep down- she always will, and she’s always gonna mourn the life that could’ve been if Bill hadn’t been involved, but still. Keeping him as apart of her even if she ‘hated’ him for so long kept her going.

Also idk plus just the-

‘Hell no, I could kill you where you stand. I’m no pet, I’m a married man.’

Is silly to me because I know it would be very ooc for Fiddleford to have THAT much bite even if he is capable of ‘lashing out’. Regardless it’s still amusing brain movie content to envision-

If I didn’t already have so many other ideas on hand I’d draw this all myself, but raaaaa so many other concepts I wanna draw first :(

[fimbry]

Signed up for a swampy art exhibit that I have to submit by the 6th... Have not started or decided what to paint, or ordered something to paint on... I got this. 👌

[queerofthedagger]

i love fingon so much just. he's so good and so reckless and he loves so fiercely it makes him do the most stupid shit, and in turn no one ever quite puts him first. I'm going to eat glass

[overbearingstruggles]

@ alltimelow Sup, fools?

[tearlessrain]

seriously can catastrophes stop happening for five minutes my brain is already fried from the ones we're already experiencing

[drxgony]

so who wants to hear about my au where anders and nathaniel howe end up joining the warden to find the cure to the calling. old awakening gang getting back together.

[outismm]

Hi- I just wanted to thank you for your Huck posts, it's like the only positive thing in his tag and it made me happy 😭 He's so good and deserves more appreciation! Have you seen season 2 yet? I would LOVE to hear your thoughts!

EEEEEEE HELLLOOOOO!!!!! This ask made me so incredibly happy. There will never be a time when I am not ready to Scream from the rooftops about Huck. Okie this is all just going to be rambling. Bouncing off the walls, giggling, kicking my feet, etc. Spoilers for acts 1 + 2, I'll probably rb this with more thoughts after act 3.

Being bisexual is so embarrassing bc while other people are doing in-depth analysis of the beauty that is this show, and I'm over here spinning a goober around that has,,, MAYBE 10 mins of screen-time, or less.

I DON'T EVEN CARE THOUGH MY HUSBAND IS BACK!!! WE'RE SO BACK!!!!!!!

Truly the instant I clocked his glasses I started squealing and pacing my room MNASDMAN there is no hope for me.

As expected, babygirl is not doing well! The moldy food was a good touch. The terrors are terroring.

Also not Huck related - but loved the Moses vibes Victor was bringing out this scene? Lots of Moses imagery w/ him, just a great move on the writers + animators part, considering his backstory.

It's really important to me that he's terrible at this MANSDMAN

Not only bc it's really Woughe (tm), but just,,, I do love that Huck is a coward? He's a coward in a very human way. 99% of what he does is purely out of desperation.

Just a great character trait tbh!

Also the fact that he's so hesitant gives me the vibes that he's probably never/rarely done this? Like :

This is not the stance of a man who mugs people on the regular MANDSMAN he looks so profoundly out of his depth. The second Victor starts walking towards him instead of trying to run, he starts freakin' the fuck out.

Either he's not used to doing this, or he's used to doing this to ppl who don't/won't/can't fight back. Ack.

^^ He also makes a little sob here when he's holding up the knife. Very important to me.

UHHNGHNOUGHH!!!!

They fixed his hairline and took away his stutter and de-aged him - which are all tragic for me specifically, BUT that's forgiven bc YIPPEEEEEEEE he no longer looks like he's on the verge of death MNADMANSDMN.

I'll forgive Hextech Jesus for hitting him with the Twink Beam. for now.

Victor DID however take away his beautiful brown eyes, and that cannot be absolved.

LOVE how the marks on his face line-up w/ where Victor touched him. Magnificent. Amazing. Kissing the artists with tongue.

Also can't believe I never noticed this before, but the chip in his tooth? Wagh <3

I do appreciate them getting a bit of not-quite-closure? Honestly just nice to see Vi and Huck interacting again after the whole Silco fiasco.

Also - have we ever seen Huck stand upright??? I think?? this might genuinely be the first time we see him at full height???

He's really not as short as he seems!! He's just always curled into himself like a pangolin. Love that deeply.

Also appreciate him getting a gun pointed at him again, always a good time. I love seeing him scared and stressed out <3 MNASDMNAD

He still reacts the same, too! Shoulders all tense, a lil leaned back, lips pursed. Idk I just like how the animators keep the Vibes of characters. All those little traits.

Hm.

I don't approve of him being in a cult but I DO approve of him being in a dress. So once again it balances out.

To whatever artist(s) on the team decided that outfit for him, I'm transferring my savings to your bank account.

No comment.

Actually yes comment - seeing him not back down from a threat is such a contrast to how he usually acts. Woughe. Cult Commune Induced Character Development (mixture of yays and boos)

It's interesting to see how while Victor is able to cure ailments, it also pulls away aspects of the individual's personality. Like that's Huck but that isn't Huck, y'know? We see it way more obviously w/ Salo in ep 4, which is real cool

AND AGAIN, NOTHIN' GOOD LASTS FOR LONG.

Can't wait to see the consequences of this on his physical and mental health <3 need to see him going through it tbh. He will find peace eventually.

Not yet though. get up you gangly fuck there's still more terrors to experience AKJDSAKDJ

I feel like he still has quite a lot of Character Arc To Character Arc so I doubt he's just gonna be like. A Corpse And/Or Corpse-Adjacent. Next act. t'would be very disappointing AMSDNAMDN.

OUGHEEEEE. OKAY. once again anyone who read through all this gets a cookie and a little flower as a hat. runs away.

[the-hot-zone]

the imagery and audio of the opening scene of s1e1 of arcane is just insanely well done for the set-up of the show’s themes and central conflicts. this is just a quick analysis (that spiraled) of what i notice as i’m re-watching, but—

a) the POV of “jinx” with the scribbles overlaying the aftermath of destruction and devastation lay the groundwork for not only what represents her POV to us, the audience, but also to where it originates. this is one of the first things we see in e1: the scribbled faces appear on the enforcers and on the dead bodies even as powder herself has her eyes covered. the echoes of violence reach her even as she tries not to look. retrospectively, we are meant to notice how "jinx" was already forming years before she started “jinxing” jobs with vi and the gang—the violence of her circumstances and the impact they have on her as a child played a key role in what the show calls her "instability," in what we understand as her development. her scribbled vision is first associated with violence done to her and those around her before it is associated with her later choices, which arguably can be rooted in her circumstances (more on this later). this is central to what arcane as a show wants to establish wrt their commentary on violence as a cycle and consequences that cannot be undone regardless of one's actions.

b) the most striking imagery to me: blood running down the faces of the statues on the bridge between piltover and the undercity, being made to look as though they are crying. the bridge is a key piece of imagery introduced in this opening sequence that arcane returns to throughout later eps. the expression of these statues is still, solemn, and silent. they are guardians of the bridge between piltover and the rest of the city. the tears of blood, however, have moved the unmovable. this can be interpreted in a couple ways, but here's mine. the blood as tears represents the ongoing mourning for those lost to violence. vander's resistance failed in multiple ways in that it did not end piltover's rule over the undercity, nor did it save those who fought in the resistance. moreover, this bridge is revisited in e2, and we see the bloodstains never left. they cannot be washed away; the memorial to those who were lost—vi’s parents—remain, and we see vander ask vi if she’s willing to lose powder to a war, just like she lost her parents. later on in the ep when vi approaches deckard, a drop of blood runs down her face like a tear. she, too, steps into the role (or tries to), as a stone-faced guardian, but violence moves her. particularly, it moves her out of powder's life, contributing to jinx's development.

c) when vi is about to cry, it looks like she’s holding herself back before she breaks down, and only then does powder also cry. there are a couple subtle moments throughout this first scene that express the extent to which powder revolves around vi, and this is one of them. powder takes her cues from vi: just minutes ago in the scene, powder only looks at the bodies because vi stopped. so we have this interpersonal level of reliance between these two, but the show doesn't want us to forget where the cues for vi come from. powder looked because vi stopped. vi stopped because the devastation around her made her stop.

d) throughout this scene, music is the dominant auditory experience. however, there is one sound that breaks through the music: the weight of vander’s gauntlets dropping to the ground. the break in the music is meant to express the weight of this decision. it's the only sound of an action that reaches the viewer as he throws the gauntlets down in favor of picking up the responsibility of vi and powder. with this action, he attempts to abandon his cause in hopes to protect vi and powder,

e) but vi looks back. we see her glare back across the bridge towards piltover, her eyes narrowed, and we understand that a key part of her character will be resistance. and to cross that bridge, she must put on vander’s gauntlets. we see her try to embrace this legacy throughout the first ep and beyond—“this is the exact job vander would’ve pulled when he was our age” is what vi says to her friends when on that first job to steal from jayce's workshop. and throughout the first few eps we see vander’s legacy called into question, with a focus on his legacy of resistance against piltover. that's the legacy those around him prefer, including vi herself. but it’s also a legacy he’s rejected in favor of another: his work to protect the lanes through non-violent means. silco’s later criticism of “you’re willing to die for a cause but not fight for it” towards vander perfectly encapsulates vander’s decision to put the gauntlets down, and why he still fails to prevent violence, particularly against vi and powder.

overall: the opening sequence is vital for establishing the link between vi's and powder's relationship and the violence enacted against the underground by piltover. the show's theme expresses that the former would not exist without the latter. the tragedy of jinx isn't just an interpersonal tragedy. it's a circumstantial one. it's an environmental one. it's a societal one. remember: mylo first drops the name jinx when he says powder jinxes every job. but there wouldn’t be any jobs to do--the coins coming into the lanes wouldn't be "only from crime"--without the violence piltover has enacted against the undercity.

there’s a lot of pain in asking ourselves the “if only’s” of these first few episodes. but if the alternative for powder killing claggor and mylo was for her to come on the mission to save vander anyways, to fight anyways, then there was never a choice. when powder says, “I’m not a fighter,” and vi responds, “you don’t have to be,” vi fails to understand the consequences violence has already had on her sister. in powder's mind, you don't have to fight translates as you don't belong here. the only way powder knows how to help is to fight--it's what vi (and everyone around her) taught her, even inadvertently. the show tells us that there was never a real choice in any part of this sequence. the real legacy was the violence topside enacted and continues to enact against the underground. what prevents vi from coming back to powder is ultimately marcus, regardless of his motivations.

what the opening sequence, and those first three eps, tell us about the show’s defining conflict is this. in a system built on inequity, its defining characteristic will always be violence, and whether those subjected to that violence try to fight it, live within it, or take advantage of it, the consequences cannot be undone. there is no going back.

[flamboyant-king]

Howdy, I'm still alive. Not many drawings lately, but a lot of ling fun time. I just wanted to share my crafts hehe

My niece had fun playing with the ling plushies, I taught her about the goolings, and she drew Wiwi a couple times. I made her a Wiwi plushie and I'm gonna make a Lewling and a Hoardling too since she really wants her own. Makes me happy. That's what they're made for to make folks happy.

But sewing is so tedious 😵‍💫

[wandercr]

setting boundaries feels a lot like what i imagine swallowing a cactus would feel like, and i'm beginning to understand why i never tried to set them in the past