#rhythm: spasmodic

[tsunagite]

Thinking about Phigros

[fear-is-truth]

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍 ˚. ᵎᵎ your first time with THE BATBOYS .ᐟ 𓂃 ꒰ headcanons ꒱

contains ﾉ dirty talk · cunnilingus · fingering · loss of virginity · protected & unprotected sex MDNI 18+ pairings ﾉ bruce wayne・jason todd・dick grayson・ tim drake・aged up! damian wayne x fem!reader

note ꒱ english is not my first language, ignore the mistakes lol… but i put my whole p*ssy into this. enjoy xo

‣ bruce wayne

his tie hangs limp behind his shoulder, shirt open halfway down his chest, sleeves cuffed at the forearms. the fabric clings, translucent with sweat as bruce wayne kneels between your thighs. you lie bare on the pillows; nipples raised from the chill and nerves, unsure where to look. he hasn’t touched you yet, and you’re already undone.

a few seconds of rustling leather and metal—his armani belt clicks undone. his cock presses against the inside of his boxers, engorged and leaking at the tip. when his gaze roves over you, it flickers to the microexpressions you haven’t yet mastered to conceal. his hand settles between your thighs, sliding one outward.

“keep them open,” bruce commands softly, palm gliding down your ribs, across your abdomen, until it rests above your mound. “tell me if you want me to stop.” a somewhat performative question under this timing—his cockhead is already nudging between your folds.

the first stretch sharpens beyond expectation: dense pressure blooming into fire along your nerves. you clutch his arms, biting your lower lip. he stills, allowing you a few seconds to adjust before moving forward another inch. your cunt throbs around the intrusion, wet but still tight, not used to being filled this way. his breathing is deep and measured, as if he’s trying to stay in control.

“breathe,” bruce murmurs, thumb catching your lip and gently forcing your teeth to release it. distracted, you comply. with one measured push, he sinks fully inside. your walls clench, barely accommodating. muscular forearms cage your head. stillness holds between you.

then he begins to move.

deep, gliding thrusts, pelvis rocking against yours, muffled slaps marking the rhythm. behind closed lids, white sparks bloom like fireworks. his hand slips beneath your thigh, hooks it high over his hip. a hard thrust knocks an unbidden moan from your lips, and bruce dips his head down, lips grazing against your temple before kissing your collarbone, a juxtaposition to the relentless pace of his hips.

“mhm, good girl. you’re doing so well.”

the praise makes you clench again. he groans, the sound deep and strangled, and fucks you in earnest, on a quest to his own release. a powerful tremor ripples through you, fingers clawing at his shirt as your senses narrow to the slick friction and his heavy breathing above. stomach clenching, walls squeezing around him, you fall apart with a sharp cry, wholly and completely undone. a few more thrusts, and bruce follows you to climax, burying himself deep to the hilt. his weight sinks into the mattress gradually—though his arms remain firm so not as to crush you. the room stills. he stays inside you, until your muscles stop trembling. you can feel the flutter of his heart beating against your chest.

‣ jason todd

you’re on your back, legs parted awkwardly, body still twitching spasmodically from the delicious, thick stretch of his fingers. sweat pools in the hollow of your clavicle. your skin’s tacky. overstimulated. jason todd kneels between your thighs, one palm splayed flat on your abdomen.

his mouth glistens, wet from you. so are his fingers.

“you good?” his breath is still ragged from the way he had you mere minutes ago—tongue buried deep, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders, the sound of your moans echoing off the walls.

you nod. or at least, you think you do. because right now, your eyes keep flicking to his cock—thick and girthy, flushed a ruddy pink at the tip, kissing his sculpted abdomen. intimidating doesn’t begin to cover it. you try not to stare. fail spectacularly. jason catches your gaze and dips his face down, level to yours.

“we stop whenever,” he presses a tender kiss on the corner of your mouth. “just say the word.”

you glance down again—at the size of him, the stretch you haven’t felt yet—and it dawns on you that you have no fucking idea how that’s going to fit. but you want to find out.

your fingers curl tight around his wrist.

“i want to, jay.”

he leans forward, and you feel the blunt head of him presses between your folds. you inhale sharply. he pushes, slowly, and the burn is immediate. the first inch makes your whole body jolt, there’s simply too much of him—your body stretches around his girth with painful resistance—it’s too much.

he’s barely inside.

“you gotta relax, baby. it’s okay.”

you nod, forcing your muscles to loosen. your body fights it anyway, not ready for how much of him there is. jason draws out a fraction, then eases in again, incremental. the ache sharpens. your voice cracks when you say,

“too much?”

“mghm—no. k-keep going.”

“brave girl,”

smirking, jason kisses your cheek, then fucks in the rest of the way. the glorious stretch has your vision going white at the edges. he’s everywhere. you can feel every ridge and vein, splitting you in half. his palm slides under your thigh, lifts it higher for leverage. he stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breathing heavy. your whole body pulses around him.

“i’ll go slow,” he promises. and he does. he slips in deeper, excruciatingly slow. sweat’s already beading at his temple. every time he pushes in, you feel yourself open wider, body forced to accommodate. you bite into his shoulder to stifle the noise that tears out of you when he finally bottoms out. he stays like this for a few seconds, relishing in your warmth, and you swear you can feel the tip of him in your stomach (albeit the logical part of you know that’s impossible.)

“you okay?”

you nod again. he grits his teeth and rears back his hips, then sinks forward again—testing how much you can take. the second thrust feels worse but simultaneously better. your cunt swallows him like it’s been waiting for him. the stretch is total, merciless, but it’s starting to slide easier now. you let him guide your legs higher. let him press his forehead to your collarbone and fuck into you with slow, controlled force.

one hand moves between your legs and rubs your clit in tight, repetitive circles. you whimper, hips starting to jerk up to meet his.

“there she is,” jason breathes. “attagirl.”

you come hard—walls pulsing around him, toes curling, fingers scrabbling at his back. a string of curses fall past his lips, and he’s pulling out. wrapping his fist around the base before spilling hot ropes of come across your stomach. his cock twitches in residual spams as he trembles through it. a few seconds pass. then his forehead drops to yours, and you feel his smile against your cheek.

‣ dick grayson

“we can stop, you know,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing the edges of your jaw. “i still want you. that doesn’t change anything.”

your lips part, but no words come. it is a big deal. not because the “you’re-probably-about-to-lose-your-virginity” part—but because it’s with him. dick. his hair is rumpled from your hands, the rosy flush dusting across his cheekbones still fresh. he’s looking at you without the faintest trace of disappointment. he’s looking at you like he’d wait forever. you know he would.

he cradles your chin in his hand and kisses you—languid, almost chastely. fingers drift down to your throat, brushing along the curve beneath your breasts. your skin sparks under his touch, every nerve recalling how his mouth had latched around your nipple, how that tongue had worked you into a trembling mess mere minutes earlier.

“tell me what you want,” he mumbles, voice thick against your lips.

“i… i want you inside,” you say, breathless.

“then we’ll go slow,” he promises, nudging your nose with his. “you’ll tell me what feels good. and we’ll stop the second you say so. okay?”

you nod. his hand hooks beneath your the crook of your knee, lifting you effortlessly, positioning you astride him. your bare chest against the warm press of his, your slick core on the firm muscle of his thigh. emboldened, you rock against him, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you sure?”

“m’ sure.”

in one smooth motion, he rolls you beneath him, setting you gently against the mattress. his body settles between your thighs, cock flushed and heavy against your skin. he braces one forearm beside your head, presses a kiss to your temple. his hair’s mussed from your fingers, a flush running high on his cheekbones.

he looks so unfairly pretty. you think, as he grabs the base of his cock and rubs it through your slick folds. then he lines himself up and pushes in, inch by excruciating inch. slow enough to feel every maddening stretch of him. the blunt pressure stings—dense, burning in the most exquisite way. you tense beneath him, nails digging pink crescents into his biceps.

“you’re doing so good, but remember to breathe for me, baby,” he coos. “almost there.”

your eyes flutter. the burn intensifies. oh god he’s not even all the way in.

“mghmm.” your nails sink into his biceps. he grunts, forehead tipping against your shoulder.

“fuck—sorry. too much?”

“no. keep going.”

he hums in response, then starts peppering kisses to your collarbone, then underside of your throat. the stretch still burns, but he makes it pale in comparison to pleasure. he rocks into you again, testing. the wet, squelching sounds between your bodies grow increasingly lewd as your walls slowly adjust, contracting around him. you let out a breathy moan. he pauses—one hand cradling your jaw, the other bracing beside your head.

“is this okay?”

“yes—god, yes.”

he nods back, pressing a kiss to your breast before reaching down. his agile fingers find your clit and begin to circle. slow, patient, maddening. the dull ache sharpens into pleasure.

“that’s it,” his voice comes out muffled, sending vibrations through you. “you’re taking me so well.” lips close around your nipple, sucking hard.

you’re so, so close. he knows it too.

“dick—”

“i know. i’ve got you.”

your climax comes in an earth-shattering rush: coiling and snapping in your gut. you arch under him with a cry, muscles spasming around him. he groans into your shoulder, thrusts turning increasingly sloppy.

he doesn’t last much longer.

his entire body seizes—cock twitching deep inside you as he spills, breath held in a shudder. he presses his forehead to yours. both of you are sticky with sweat, chests heaving.

“still okay?” his hand strokes the side of your cheek as he stares at you in starry-eyed adoration.

“yeah,” you whisper. “more than.”

he grins, looking pleased with himself.

‣ tim drake

you lie beneath him, bare but tucked under the edge of the duvet, your legs spread and under the cotton. tim is still half-dressed—shirt rucked up his ribs, boxers pushed low, the weight of his cock resting hot against your hip. he hovers above you, arms braced on either side of your head, the crease between his brows betraying focus. not nerves. calibration.

you’d asked him to fuck you. he’d paused, repeated the question, asked if you were sure—then kissed you until your lips ached and your body melted, his fingers moving with unnerving precision between your legs. he’d made you come once already, two fingers sunken knuckles deep, thumb circling your clit in calculated spirals until your thighs shook and your spine arched from the mattress. he worked your body as if he’s read the manual, and has annotated it.

tim drake is always five layers ahead of you.

he studies your face now, your breathing patterns, the residual tremble in your thighs. “do you want me to go slow,” he asks, quietly, “or do you want me to distract you?”

your brows pull together. “what’s the difference?”

“think about the first one as pain management,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching, “the other’s about cognitive misdirection.”

heat floods your cheeks. you chew the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

“distract me.”

he nods and retrieves the condom from the drawer without looking. tears it open. rolls it on carefully. then he moves closer, knees nudging yours wider. you feel him line up, the blunt heat of his cockhead parting your folds.

“deep breath,” he says. “it’s going to sting a bit.”

you inhale. on the exhale, he starts to push in.

the stretch is immediate. your body clenches down, instinctive resistance. pain flares—burning pressure around the unfamiliar girth. you dig your heels into the mattress, fingers tightening in the bedsheets.

“fuck,” tim hisses through clenched teeth. “you’re—you’re tight.” his hands slide to your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the crease between pelvis and thigh. he doesn’t push any further.

“doing okay?” he asks, the edge of strain buried beneath concern. you nod, barely. he bends forward, presses his mouth to your temple, then kisses your throat. one hand curves under your knee, lifting your leg higher to angle you better.

“let me take care of the rest,” he says. and he sinks the rest of the way in with a deep exhale, jaw rigid as he bottoms out. his hips still flush against yours, the length of him buried to the hilt. your cunt clenches involuntarily, adjusting around the dense, aching fullness.

he doesn’t move.

“do you want me to start?”

you nod, feverish with anticipation. he leans forward, presses a kiss to your cheekbone, and begins to thrust. the rhythm is measured at first—calculated, even. he’s a analysing your reactions: cataloging how your thighs tighten when he presses deeper, the minute twitches of your mouth when he hits a sensitive spot. finding out the most efficient way to keep your discomfort at a minimum and pleasure at maximum. he adjusts the angle of your hips by half an inch and earns a startled moan in response.

his focus never breaks.

hands cradle your waist, steadying you as he moves—slow, relentless strokes that grind against your cervix with enough force to border on unbearable. the heat in your gut coils tighter. your fingers curl into his biceps, leaving half-moon indents into the skin. he hums, low in his throat, more of an pleasure than a sound of pain.

“you’re taking me so well,” tim murmurs, voice hoarse now. you don’t mean to come then—it ambushes you, heat snapping low in your belly, muscles clenching down in helpless spasms. the cry that tears out of you is sharp, guttural.

his thrusts stutter. he curses under his breath, grips your hip tighter, drives in with less gentleness and more purpose, chasing his own. when he comes, it’s with a soft groan into your throat, his cock pulsing deep inside you, body trembling with restraint even as he spills into the condom. he stays like that—doesn’t collapse, doesn’t roll off immediately. he steadies his breath, forehead pressed to yours.

‣ damian al ghul (aged up)

he undresses without spectacle.

there’s a certain… economy to his movements; efficiency without theatrics. the shirt goes first, unfastened at the cuffs, the collar peeled from his shoulders in a fluid shrug. he folds it in thirds, sets it at the foot of the bed. the belt follows, unthreaded without haste, coiled neatly atop the pressed cotton. his trousers for last.

you stare openly. his body is as disciplined as his manner—lean muscle honed into functional definition. deep, abdominal lines stark beneath skin, a hard taper from chest to the sharp vee of his hip line. a sparse trail of dark hair vanishes into the waistband of his boxers.

“stop gawking,” he says without inflection.

caught, your eyes flick away as heat crawls up your cheeks. but then you glimpse the outline straining against his briefs—thick, unmistakable. he’s not as detached as he pretends.

when he finally climbs onto the bed, he does so with the quiet grace and deliberation akin to a jaguar. knees parting yours. gaze flicking downward. anatomic appraisal.

your legs fall open without instruction. his hand slide between them, deft and unerring. the pads of his fingers part you, learn the shape of your cunt with an eerie composure. already you’re wet. embarrassingly so.

he makes no comment.

his middle finger glides inside, sinking to the knuckle. a second joins, curls. your breath catches, and only then does he glance up—green eyes sharp, studying every reaction.

“this will hurt,” he says eventually. a plain truth, spoken without cruelty. his thumb circles your clit once, then stills. “only the first time,” he adds. “after that, you’ll crave it.”

your eyebrow arches. “confident.”

“i don’t speak in hypotheticals.” he withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. after a pause, a quieter note:

“tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“i do.”

and that’s the truth.

he strips off his briefs with one hand. his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, arcing toward his navel. it’s too much and somehow exactly what you wanted. he strokes himself—a couple of quick pumps to adjust. then he’s lining up. the blunt head drags slick between your folds, painting you with precome. the contact makes you gasp. he watches your face carefully.

“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,”

and then he pushes in.

one smooth, sustained thrust.

your cunt stretches tight around him, the intrusion sudden—a burning sensation flaring up your spine. it feels impossible, every inch of him prying you open. patiently, damian waits for you to adjust before pushing in deeper. the new angle makes your vision white at the edges.

“breathe,” he says, thumb stroking the hollow of your throat.

“you’re fine. you can take it.” his own breath is steady, controlled through his nose. he doesn’t move yet—waits. watches. only when your eyes flutter open again does he rear back his hips.

the first thrust draws a gasp from your chest. each thrust is slow but invasive, his pelvis slapping yours with muffled force. your hands scramble over his back, nails dragging down the lean line of his spine. he groans into the crook of your shoulder, surprised by it—one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh to hold you in place.

“damian—think m’ clo—”

you break off with a moan, pitch slurring upward. you’re already so close to the precipice, pressure building rapidly from the friction and fullness.

“i know, albi.”

he breathes, the nickname raw on his tongue. his hand slips between your bodies, long fingers finding your clit without fail. circles twice, then presses down. you come hard, breath catching sharp in your throat as your cunt tightens around him. he groans low in response, hips stuttering once against the clamp of your body. your hands lock around his shoulders, gasping into his mouth as pleasure finally overtakes you, blinding and hot.

in arabic, “albi” (قلبي) translates to “my heart.”

 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[dollerinna]

SHUT UP AND LOOK PRETTY :: B. BUTCHER

─ 𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝚑𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝚑𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜𝑏 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝚑𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛’ 𝑐𝚑𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑦

𝓑illy butcher ੭୧ fem! brat reader ┇ oral m! receiving

BILLY BUTCHER was a bastard, and he wore it like a badge of honor. But you? You didn't cower under that withering glare. If anything, you met it head-on—sharp-tongued and reckless enough to dance on the edge of his patience until he snapped you back into place.

"Mm... I swear, assholes like you always have the biggest di-" The words slurred off your lips between each languid stroke, slow as honey sliding off a spoon, spiked with just enough venom to make them sting ever so sweetly.

Before the last syllable could fully form, Butcher's hand twisted into your hair with ruthless precision, the sharp tug startling a gasp as your head was wrenched backward.

"Oi- shut it," He barked, voice fraying at the edges with that gravel-pitched snarl that somehow managed to make everything sound filthier. His grip stayed merciless, anchoring you in place. "Ain't payin' you for yer backchat, love."

The faintest curve pulling at the corners of your mouth only spurred him on, his fist cinching down with a bruising authority as he dragged you closer. The swollen, darkened tip of his cock grazed against the contour of your bottom lip—hot, heavy, and unapologetically solid.

"Think you can sass me with a mouth full of cock, eh?" Butcher's eyes darkened, a harsher, more bestial gleam flickered to life within his stare, eclipsing that familiar glint. "Proper bird knows how to use her mouth without gettin' cheeky, so get back to it."

You didn't hesitate. The weight of him, already swelling between your teeth, carried a palpable heat that bled from his skin akin to smoldering coals, thickening the air to the point of where it felt ready to suffocate. As you took him in deeper, your lips stretched around the rigid girth, inch by delicious inch, until your throat tightened with the strain.

The raw, uneven rhythm of his exhale shattered the silence, strong digits threading deeper into your scalp. "Fuckin' hell...” Butcher's groan teetered on a gritted growl, his free hand bracing against the nearby wall. "That's it. Take it all, yeah?"

The hum vibrating within your vocal cords earned another guttural sound from him, the tip of your tongue tracing the buzz of a prominent vein along his shaft. His hips jerked forward in shallow thrusts, pressing further down until the head of his dick nudged the very back of your soft palate, stretching you to the brink.

He wasn't gentle. But then, you hadn't expected him to be.

"Big cock's a bloody curse," he muttered, each word fracturing under the weight of his breathing as you swallowed around him, the spasmodic clench of your muscles forcing a tremor through his stance. "But it don't mean I’m gonna start slowin’ down like some limp-dicked twat, whisperin’ sweet fuck-all in yer ear.”

His pace quickened, each thrust driving deeper as precum spread over your tongue like a rising tide of molten wax that refused to ebb—fiery and stifling, branding you from the inside out with every throb that followed. Even then, his fingers in your hair remained taut, locking you in place as if afraid to lose the burn.

"Least you've got some talent," a grunt rumbled from the well in his chest, thumb tracing a mocking semblance of tenderness along the delicate skin of your temple. "Might keep you around if you behave."

Butcher wasn't bluffing—he would keep you around. But only if you learned fast not to bite the hand that fed you. Or in this case, the cock that kept you on your knees.

[pyxxiestyxx]

H*ndh*lding

I found her hiding deep in the belly of the Radiant Wing, pressed up against a bulkhead and trying not to move a single muscle. She was a slight little thing, as the cycles of malnutrition and overwork has reduced her down to skin and bone. My antennae chirped in distress at the bags under her eyes, at the way her body shook with stress, at the quivering of her lip.

I knelt down low, until I was a mere foot or two higher than her eye level. "Hello, Abigail. Are you hurt?"

She didn't answer me with vocalizations, which was worrying. Was some part of her still attempting to hide? The furry lines above her eyes scrunched together, and she kept her gaze pointedly fixed on the floor a few feet in front of me.

"Abbi- may I call you Abbi?" Her eyes flickered slightly, and she gave the smallest and most hesitant of head movements up and down. I continued, "Abbi, my name is Cherry Berry, Third Bloom, pronouns of She and Her."

The girl's diaphragm twitched spasmodically as she exhaled, a strange and involuntary reaction to my name I've found many Terrans do. It is admittedly very adorable how they are unable to control themselves, similar to how they cannot control their heartbeat.

I kept my body perfectly still as I continued, "Now as you may be aware, my presence here means that this ship has been boarded. As of this moment, all but eight of your fellow crewmates have been sedated, and are being escorted off of this ship, and onto the Illastria. You are to join them. Do you understand?"

The girl shook her head wildly, her ocular organs wide as her heartbeat sharply increased. Many creatures had a fear response, of course; evolution's clumsy attempts at protecting them. I would be much more thorough, once my implant rested within her.

I carefully extended one of the four groupings of vines I had shaped into arms, holding the 'hand' palm-up towards her. Culturally, she would recognize it as an offering.

"Come here, petal. Take my hand."

She need not know the topical xenodrugs I excreted through my vines until later, of course.

The girl pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and nibbled on it as she thought things through. I waited, calmly. She was smart, I knew. Smart enough to have recieved an education at the collegiate level for nearly free, before it was shut down and she was shunted into this accursed coffin of a ship.

Finally...slowly...and ever so shakily, the girl's limb extended out towards mine. I resisted my instinct to close the gap in less than a single of her eye blinks, to slip my injectors under her dermis and make her mine.

That would come later.

Instead, I began to slowly sway my body back and forth. Not enough to be noticeable on its own, but enough that the natural rhythm of my flora to more prominently draw her attention. Like many species, it was difficult for her kind to focus on multiple tasks at once. All I had to do was utilize this trait to my advantage.

Her fingertips touched first, like soft wingbeats of an Al'yssrian upon the surface. They hovered over my own facsimile of her phalanges, and finally came to a rest in the center of my palm, with my own fingertips nestled on her radius and ulna. I allowed myself a full 0.3 seconds to enjoy the feeling of her body. All those complicated systems, each working so inefficiently to maintain that spark called life. The soft tiny hairs on her arm had raised, hundreds of little bumps coating her arm. Another automatic system, most likely. She reacted to me.

...But even so, she was far from ready for me to move, just yet. The sternocleidomastoid muscle was tensed to near-taut, and her ocular organs refused to stay fixed for long. Now that I was touching her directly, I was able to get a much more accurate pulse reading. It was far above resting, and the speed only hastened the effects of the adrenaline coursing through her systems.

I pulled a single vine from the 'back' of my hand, curling it slowly around the side until it hovered over her own. She watched it nervously, and I felt her limb tense in case she needed to pull it back.

"Have you ever seen one of my kind before, Abi?"

The girl paused, then another up-and-down bob of her head.

"...I mean like this. Not on a digital broadcast."

A left-to-right this time. Negative.

"I'm sure you have heard quite a bit about my kind, though. I will say that in turn, I have learned much about you." I was rather disappointed in the meager intelligence gathered for her, a mere twelve Petabytes of shopping habits, familial history, hobbies, disinterests, relationships, and every message sent from a device she has ever so much as looked at. Still, it was enough for me to develop an interest in the Sophont.

The corners of the girl's lips sank down, and the hair strips above her ocular organs scrunched up again. It would be adorable, if it wasn't meant to signal negative emotions.

"The point I am attempting to make is this: that information is useful, but ultimately direct knowledge is the highest priority. As an example..."

The vine dipped down and began to stroke along her metacarpals, a careful pleasing rhythm modeled after my own. The effects, though minor, were immediate: her heart rate shifted down and her eyes locked into the movement, and the scent of her perspiration indicated a reduction in chemicals released from stress. I continued to gently pet her, noting with mild amusement how she used the muscles in her throat she could control to contain any vocalizations. That would have to change, of course. The easiest way would be to remove her ability to notice them via hypnosis, but I enjoyed the way the hue of her face dyed red as she grew more embarassed.

I adopted a softer and quieter tone, causing the girl to lean forward slightly to hear me better. "You see? Nothing to be afraid of, is there? All I offer is comfort and pleasure, petal."

She continued to think while I directed more vines to join the first, carefully running them down and up the length of my grip on her. The topical xenodrugs began to take hold by then, causing her pupils to dilate by thirty...thirty-two percent. I checked my tablet from its place next to my core, and noted that I was one of only three affini left. Still, this could not be rushed.

"Abbi, I am very pleased with you. You are responding wonderfully to me, and I wish to reward you. May I do so?" Needing to ask was ridiculous, of course, but I wasn't quite ready to take...yet. The trap was laid. Now, all that was left was to see if she took the bait. The curiosity. Her kind had to know things. Especially if it is a mysterious 'reward'.

Abbi thought for a full five seconds, then her head bobbed up-and-down.

"Thank you, dear." The vines of my hand wrapped around hers fully while I began to tug, pulling her into the air as I prepared my other arms to cradle her now-prone body. The girl couldn't help but vocalize a squeal, but otherwise she did not struggle. Oh yes, she was absolutely mine in all but name.

I began to drag the clawed tips of my upper right arm across her radius, while the hand holding hers began to massage and squeeze in earnest. Hundreds of different points of contact, varying in intensity, texture, movement.

The girl's nervous system could scarely keep up with the combined input, and I couldn't help but shift the hue of my eyes to a higher frequency as a result. The dazed and unfocused ocular organs...the desperate panting as her chest rose and fell...the way her vocalizations continued to build....

Exquisite.

"Why don't we continue this somewhere more...palatable, little one? I would love to show you my garden."

No response. The drugs had likely reduced her to a mewling mess, and her auditory processing was a consequence. No matter.

I began to walk back towards the Capture vine I came from, continuing to caress and play with her soft skin. "You know, I think you would be much happier with a different name. Specifically, your familial one..."

[amourrs]

18+ only, implied brat ellie? absolutely no plot just smut with a vague theme and yapping…

pondering the thought of birthday sex with ellie, specifically in the morning when she’s just itching with anticipation. the sun’s ascendant, though at present shrouded, making the whole episode feel more hush-hush. you could even consider it a smidge covert, the way the moment’s kept for your eyes (and other senses) only as her silklike lips trail brazenly up the expanse of your flesh, pearlescent in the maiden light of dawn that spills liquidly through the open curtains. she’d forgotten to close them last night, but now the mishap works in her favour, illuminating your skin as she indents her teeth into it, watches it spring back whilst leaving the ridges of her molars behind. marking you up, running her thumb over the crescents like a prayer.

she continues to traverse a path, tongue abrading the spots she hits as a sorry attempt at soothing the irritation until a particularly harsh nip tugs at a cord in your brain, pulling you from that sweet dreamscape you’d been so happily enjoying just to realise that a better alternative is being offered up to you on a silver platter. you moan, an asseveration of your returned desires as your fingers wind into her hair, a tangled mane-like lattice that silks into soft order as you run your digits through it. her name passes your lips as she grins into your clavicle, mouth wandering down further as her hand reaches into her hair and she interlinks her fingers with yours. like this, she’s all sweetness, no salt, if you’ll pardon the shoddy wordplay— an event that’s not so frequent, so you savour it the more it occurs. her tongue drags over your navel, dipping into your belly button as you shriek, nails scratching at her face as if to ward her off as the auburnette snickers at you. “m’sorry, babe. couldn’t help it— fuck, happy birthday. ‘s been so hard waiting, had to wake you up. you get it, right?”

you go to make a quick riposte on the topic but it withers in your throat like a flower shredded at the stem when her teeth snag your underwear, ivory mismatched against black lace as she drags them down off your legs in irriation. a hindrance, only serving to camouflage her real object. all thoughts of anything but ellie ellie ellie are whisked from your brain with the long stripe she licks up your cunt and you display as such when you chant her name out, a mantra so soft on her ears that she chuckles into you. the vibrations only serve to make you wetter, the freckled girl’s fingers splaying your folds to reveal your slick to her; you’d presume it was ichor and not arousal with the way she looks on in starved bliss. her tongue travels from your perineum to your entrance, fingers trailing with it, eager to explore as she slides one into you. the smothered squeak from you provides only to enkindle her depravities, second finger joining the first as she hooks them, searching for gold as her mouth lays sloppy kisses over your sensitive bud. she lays it on you like it’s religion, like you’re the priest and she’s the acolyte at the altar, treating this sordid affair like something holy as she rests her head devout and innocent on your thigh as if she’s not desecrating you, devouring you with rapture.

it takes you a minute to notice it at first in your pleasure, but there’s an odd rhythm to the motions of her tongue on your clit. almost as if mapping out a preordained plan— and that’s when it hits you. she’s spelling. squinted eyes and bursts of much spasmodic focus assist you in making out the vague idea of many of the letters; you string them together in your mind and easily piece together the gaps, pushing at her head as you choke down a laugh. “are you— are you seriously spelling happy birthday right now? thought it was more traditional to like, sing that in a song alongside the cake.” your teases get to her, face strawberrying softly at your chuckles as her freckles stand out in soft definition. “okay, well. i did actually make you a cake— don’t worry, dina helped,” an interjection much needed after the look of abject horror plastered across your face, “so. i’ll sing later. right now, kinda in the middle of something. in case you hadn’t noticed.” it’s pointed, the way her mouth nestles back in between your thighs, the aforementioned muscles squeezing tightly around her skull in a way that has her groaning as her tongue flicks out across your clit again. you’re pretty sure you can discern the shape of the A and Y at the end of ‘birthday’ as her digits curl into your walls at the perfect spot, grinding until you see stars and the coil inside your stomach snaps, legs shaking as you ride out your high against your girlfriend’s face. fuckin’ goofball.

happy birthday to one of my all time favourite mutuals, the lovely @astralnymphh — couldn’t hand deliver ellie to your door as a gift, so considered this to be a consolation 🎂♡

[staratinia]

The 2nd Debate: Can men tell?

Synopsis: You and the task force debate another topic: Can men tell if a woman is faking an orgasm?

Warning: suggestive topic

wc: 1.5k

_________________________________________

It starts the way most tragedies start: Misa’s legs across your lap, a spoon of parfait hanging mid-air, and too many men in one room.

"So anyway," Misa chirps between bites, "I faked it. Obviously."

The room suspends in time. Matt slowly lowers his goggles. Mello freezes mid-chocolate-chomp. Matsuda makes a sound like a car hitting a mailbox. Light—Light simply sets his pen down and exhales like someone just broke a vase in his soul.

"I’m sorry," Mello says slowly, turning to her like she’s a crime scene. "What the hell did you just say?"

"I faked it," Misa repeats, all sunshine and murder. "He was all, 'yeah, baby, take it,' and I was mentally checking my Amazon wishlist."

You burst out laughing.

Light cuts in, adjusting his collar like he’s trying not to strangle himself with it. "This is already spiraling. But…it is a good question."

You raise an eyebrow. "You interested in the academic pursuit of fake orgasms, Yagami?"

"I’m open to discussion," he says calmly, but his voice has that dangerous let’s-solve-this-with-math edge. "We’re clearly in uncharted territory here. So let’s clarify: can men reliably tell when a woman fakes it?"

"Absolutely not," you say.

"I can," Mello declares confidently, which is how you know he absolutely can’t.

"No," Misa says. "There’s a difference between being attentive and narrating your own p*rn script while we do all the acting."

"They can’t tell," you say, tone firm. "And if they say they can, they’re lying, delusional, or both."

"That’s bullshit," Mello snaps. "I always know."

"You always think you know," Misa corrects. "Very different."

"You think moaning means it's real?" you snort. "Sweetheart, sometimes I moan to match rhythm. Like a metronome."

"Okay, then explain what you’re doing. Lying there, giving Oscar-worthy fake moans?"

"Sometimes, yeah," you say sweetly. "Sometimes we even toss in a twitch or a leg shake to sell the performance."

Mello looks genuinely betrayed. "*You guys have moves?"

"We have full choreography."

"But why?!" Matsuda says, devastated. "Why would you fake it?"

"To get it over with," you and Misa say together, flatly.

"Sometimes," Misa adds, "it's either that or crush your ego like a wet paper cup."

Matt wheezes, slouching deeper into his chair. "So I’ve been out here doing my best and getting simulated applause?"

"You’ve been getting politely excused from the stage," You smirk.

"I hate this," Mello growls. "So what do we do? Just ask?"

"Yes," you and Misa say in unison.

"What vibe, Mello?" you say, deadpan. "The vibe where she’s faking it to your rhythm and wondering if she left the stove on?"

"Ask? In the moment? That’s insane. That ruins the vibe."

Matt holds up a hand. "Can we get a definition of a real orgasm vs a fake one, for… scientific clarity?"

"Real orgasm?" you say. "You forget your last name, your credit score drops 20 points, and you speak in tongues."

"Fake orgasm?" Misa chimes in. "You make the same sound you do when you’re stretching. ‘Oooh yes.’”

Light sighs. "Okay, so if we remove the performative aspect—sighing, moaning, tremors—what are the involuntary markers?"

And that’s when L looks up. No warning. No sound. Just death incarnate, perched on his rolling chair, eyes dark and glittering like an abyss with a Wi-Fi signal.

"There are seven."

The room screeches to a halt.

"Seven what?" Matt says slowly.

"Seven orgasmic indicators that cannot be faked consistently unless the performer is a trained actress with an unusually detailed grasp of pelvic floor biology," L says, sipping tea like he’s saying "pass the salt."

Mello blinks. "Okay. Fuck. What are they?"

L holds up his hand and counts off with his fingers:

"Spasmodic contractions in the pelvic floor—typically rhythmic and between 0.8–1.2 second intervals."

"Clitoral retraction, followed by increased sensitivity, often to the point of pain."

"Gluteal tension release. This one’s subtle- most overlook it."

"Pulse spike exceeding 140 BPM."

"Pupillary dilation. Irregular breathing."

"Immediate shift in verbal capacity—loss of coherent speech or substitution of language with unintelligible vocalizations."

"Post-orgasmic awareness lag. A woman who came will take 7–23 seconds longer to respond to nonsexual stimuli."

Everyone stares.

"You just know that?" Misa breathes.

"I wrote my thesis on it," L replies. "It was titled 'The Climax Conundrum: Detecting Deception in Post-Coital Behavior.'"

Light looks over slowly. "I want to read that."

"You can’t," L says. "I submitted it anonymously to avoid social consequences."

"Too late," you say. "The social consequences are here."

"Jesus," Matt breathes. "You’ve been researching."

"He’s been collecting data," you say, squinting. "L, do you have a spreadsheet for this?"

"I do," L replies. "It’s color-coded and anonymous. Except Mello's entry. His was emotional."

"I never filled that out," Mello snaps.

"You screamed it aloud in the kitchen," Near says. "That counts as consent."

"I’m surrounded by freaks," Mello mutters. "I just want to be able to tell when a girl’s not into it. That’s it. Why is that so hard?"

"Because you think ‘being into it’ looks like a bad adult video" Misa says. "Meanwhile, real orgasms are messy. Unsexy. She probably says your name like it hurt."

Matt leans over to Light. "Yo, are you okay with all this?"

"Actually," Light says calmly, scribbling something down, "I find it enlightening. Women deserve to finish. If I have to alter my own technique, so be it."

Misa fans herself. "Oh my god. Say that again, but slowly."

"Women. Deserve. To finish."

"He's becoming too powerful," Matt whispers. "He’s hot and informed."

"I feel spiritually attacked," Mello mutters. "I hate that I’m the one yelling and he’s the one getting laid for it."

"Mello," Light cuts in, adjusting his tie with that exact face he makes before he says something awful but infuriatingly correct, "you’re projecting a lot of emotional distress for someone who claims to be getting women off consistently."

"EXCUSE ME?"

"If you were confident, you wouldn’t be yelling."

"I’M YELLING BECAUSE EVERYONE IS LYING."

Near finally speaks without looking up: "Statistically, women fake orgasms more often with men who lack emotional attunement or self-awareness."

"WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?"

"It means you're loud, sweaty, and ignoring their clit," Matt translates.

Mello grabs a throw pillow and screams into it.

L, quietly, sets his teacup down "In empirical studies, roughly 48% of women admitted to faking an orgasm at least once. Of those, over 85% stated their partner did not notice. When asked how they performed it, most cited vocal performance, timing cues, and mimicking muscular contractions."

Matt raises a brow. "So… fake moaning, squirming, some heavy breathing?"

"Yes," L replies. "Though many also described using repetition of phrases such as ‘right there,’ or ‘don’t stop,’ to hasten the process."

Light’s mouth twitches. "So encouraging sounds can mean you’re doing it right or doing it very wrong."

"Yes," L says calmly. "The average male is not trained in reading involuntary physiological responses under arousal. This, combined with ego, creates the illusion of skill."

Mello looks like he's about to combust. "You think I’m an illusion?!"

"You are statistically at high risk of misidentifying performative pleasure," L says. "Your confidence is excessive. That correlates negatively with accuracy."

"I’m going to start waterboarding people for the truth," Mello mutters. "I swear to god."

Near chimes in, softly placing another domino: "Just ask if she came, make honesty feel safe. Revolutionary idea, I know."

Light hums. "Actually, I agree. Consent culture includes post-sex check-ins."

"I want a refund on every sexual encounter I’ve ever had," Matsuda says quietly.

"Honestly?" you grin. "Probably fair."

L sips his tea again. "In summary: no, men cannot reliably detect a faked orgasm unless their partner is spectacularly bad at lying or has a seizure mid-coitus."

L begins typing furiously. "I am now creating a shared spreadsheet titled 'Task Force Climax Self-Awareness Survey.' There will be anonymous entries, follow-up questions, and an optional open mic feedback box."

"NO ONE WANTS TO DO THAT," Mello snaps.

"Already received two entries," L says, eyes flicking up. "Thank you, Matt."

"You’re welcome," Matt grins. "Typed 'pretty sure she finished once.'"

"I wrote a poem," Near says. "It’s called 'Echo in the Thrust Chamber.'"

You stand up dramatically. "In conclusion: you don’t know shit. But the good news is, you can learn. A woman body is not a Rubik’s cube. It’s not about solving it fast. It’s about turning it with intention."

There is a beat of stunned, reverent silence.

Then Light mutters: "...‘Turning it with intention’... That’s going in the spreadsheet."

And L nods solemnly. "Quoted. Highlighted. Immortalized."

Consequences:

Three of the task force members never looked each other in the eye again.

Mello threw his back out trying to prove something later that week.

Matt got a thank-you text from an ex.

Near’s poem was published online and banned in seven countries.

L laminated the spreadsheet Light from that day onward started asking, listening and ruining lives.

[chvoswxtch]

revenge

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader x frank castle

summary: matt may have won the battle, but frank wins the war.

warnings: all of them. every single one of them. swearing, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

a/n: there's not enough brat taming frank, especially in terms of frank brat taming matt, and I took that personally. this is the last installment in this accidental little mini series, and it's pure filth. enjoy, xoxo.

word count: 1.7k

[part one: jealousy] [part two: forgiveness]

The second that Matt pulled Frank in by the back of his neck, Frank’s plump lips wrapped around your clit and he began to suck fervently. The sudden sensation had you nearly jumping off Matt’s lap, and if it weren’t for his strong hands holding you forcefully in place with his blunt nails digging into your hips, you wouldn’t have even been able to sit up right any longer.

The feeling of Frank’s wide, warm tongue flicking over your clit back and forth repeatedly like a metronome while Matt stretched out your pussy with his thick cock at a legato tempo was almost too much to handle. Frank aided in keeping your legs spread wide open with his broad shoulders nestled between your thighs, preventing them from closing even an inch. Matt groaned lowly into your ear every time Frank’s greedy tongue swiped over his sensitive cock while he devoured your pussy. His large nose rubbed against your clit deliciously as his tongue teased Matt’s sensitive balls, paying repentance to you both simultaneously on his knees for his previous teasing actions. 

You had been blissfully, but painfully edged by them both, and you weren’t going to last another minute. From Frank’s skilled fingers to Matt’s sinful mouth, and now the combination of Frank’s ravenous tongue and Matt’s unrelenting cock…you weren’t seconds from combusting. Matt had been ready to come in his office earlier just from hearing the way Frank had touched you over the phone, and you knew he was just as close as you were. Matt was moaning a string of curses and prayers into your ear, leaving marks on your waist with his iron grip, and the sloppy rhythm of his hips pistoning upwards into your own chaotically indicated his own fuse was about to detonate.

Frank’s teeth gently grazing over your overstimulated clit started the chain reaction of fireworks that abruptly exploded within you and Matt both. Your fingers tugged roughly at Frank’s unruly ebony waves as you bucked your hips against his face, a cacophony of moans leaving your lips that were directed at the Heavens as your head fell back against Matt’s shoulder. While you rode out your high against Frank’s face, Matt buried his face into your neck and bit down on your flesh sharply while gripping onto your throat, a feral grunt echoing in your ears as he emptied his pent up arousal deep within you with irregular spasmodic thrusts.

The apartment was silent apart from the sound of you and Matt panting heavily, and while the two of you were basking in the afterglow of gratification, Frank had risen to his feet with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Because if there was one thing that fueled Frank Castle more than anything in this world, it was revenge.

The sharp sound of leather snapping pulled you and Matt out of your euphoric trance, and your eyes widened in a mixture of shock and awe seeing that Frank had ripped his own belt apart to free his hands. Frank swiftly reached out to grab you by your waist to remove you from Matt’s lap, and you winced slightly at the sudden motion and loss of contact when he pulled you off Matt’s softened cock.

“Sorry darlin’, ‘scuse me a minute.”

His voice was gruff while he gently set you down on the opposite side of the couch, laced with a dangerously low timbre that indicated there was no room for an argument. He had never used that particular tone with you, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of recognition on Matt’s face, and he instantly tensed up. His half-lidded hazel eyes that had been glossed over with rapture were now wide open and shining clear with apprehension.

“Frank-”

Matt’s desperate plea was quickly caught off by Frank’s large hand darting out to grab Matt by his throat. Frank had Matt at a complete disadvantage, and he knew it. While Matt was still coming down from his high and depleted of the energy he had used in fucking you to prove a point, Frank was running off pure adrenaline and ready to prove one of his own.

“If I had a fuckin’ attitude comin’ home it’s cause you’re an impatient and selfish fucker, Red. You get her to yourself all the goddamn time, and I can’t get twelve hours alone with her without you showin’ your fuckin’ ass.”

While Frank moved his hand up to yank Matt’s head back forcefully by gripping onto his hair, Matt let out a soft grunt that was layered with arousal and a twinge of displeasure. You watched with an almost unhinged jaw as Frank freed his fully erect cock from his jeans and guided himself past Matt’s welcoming lips. The three of you seemed to moan in unison; Frank from finally getting some relief, Matt from the taste of Frank and the thrill of being used, and you from the delectable sight in front of you.

“Maybe everytime I come home, I need to make sure you got a taste of my cock in that fuckin’ bratty mouth of yours so you’ll remember who the fuck you’re s’posed to be sharin’ with, yeah?”

Matt only moaned around Frank’s thick cock in response. Frank didn’t give Matt any time at all to protest or adjust to having Frank’s cock practically shoved down his throat, and quickly began to fuck Matt’s face at a brutal pace. The sounds coming from both of them were downright pornographic, and it made you wet all over again. Frank’s full brows were knit slightly in concentration as he continued to harshly grip onto Matt’s hair, and his plump lips were parted in pleasure while he watched intently as Matt sucked his cock with a sense of urgency.

“Ain’t runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth now, are ya? ‘Bout time you put it to good use.”

Your hand snaked its way between your thighs of its own accord, and you began to slowly tease your clit as you watched Frank dominate Matt. He didn’t do it often, but when he did, God it was a sight to behold. Matt was usually the more dominant of the two, especially when it came to you. There were rare times Frank let himself lose control, but for the most part, he was mostly gentle. Still, it always excited you when you got to witness even a tiny fragment of why they called him the Punisher. Right now he was fucking Matt’s face with a vegeance, and you were steadily approaching your second orgasm of the night as you touched yourself to the incredible show in happening right before your eyes.

When Matt’s hand eagerly fisted around his cock, which was now fully erect again, Frank smacked his wrist away with a grunt, and he gripped at Matt’s throat with his free hand.

“What’d I say earlier, huh? No touchin’. Pull that shit again, and I’ll tie your ass up and make sure you can’t sit down for a fuckin’ week, altar boy.”

The sound of Matt whimpering around Frank’s cock made you moan in response, and Frank’s eyes suddenly snapped in your direction. His features that were hardened with retribution instantly softened into pure lust at the view of you with your legs spread and fingers toying with your soaked pussy. His tongue quickly darted out to wet his plump lips, and he released his grip on Matt’s throat to reach for you. 

“C’mere, baby. Bring that pretty pussy over here and lemme finish what I started ‘fore this asshole interrupted earlier.”

In a flash you were scrambling onto your knees, moaning at the taste of yourself lingering on Frank’s lips when he leaned in to capture your mouth in a heated kiss. While his large hand found its home between your legs and two of his thick fingers slipped easily into your cunt, his thumb rubbed purposeful circles over your clit, and his tongue slipped past your lips like he wanted to ravage you whole. Frank kept his rough grip on Matt’s hair, but he steadied his hips in favor of letting Matt suck him off at his own pace while Frank focused on fingering your needy cunt. 

Your head was spinning from the way Frank kissed you, like he was stealing the very essence of life right from your lungs. It was messy and frantic the way your tongues and teeth collided, and you grabbed onto the back of his neck and gripped onto his broad shoulder for support, moaning into his mouth as his hand worked expertly between your legs. 

Frank had said Matt couldn’t touch himself, but he never said that you couldn’t touch Matt, and he didn’t make a move to stop you as you blindly reached for Matt’s impatient cock. Matt instinctively grabbed onto your wrist and guided your hand towards his hardened cock, and the muffled moan of gratitude he let out from the contact made Frank shudder against you both. The three of you worked in tandem to bring the other to the peak of pleasure, and it didn’t take much longer for you all to collectively erupt into unmitigated elation.

Pulling his spent cock from Matt’s mouth, Frank fell back onto the couch between you two, putting his arms around both of your shoulders to pull you and Matt in towards his large body as you all attempted to catch your breath. When Frank pressed a soft kiss to the top of yours and Matt’s heads, your eyes fluttered open slowly, and you couldn’t help but let out a quiet amused laugh at the sight of both your boyfriends sitting on the couch together with their pants around their ankles. 

After a few moments of silence, Frank cleared his throat and relaxed back further into the cushions, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch.

“So, what’s for lunch?”

tags: @yarrystyleeza @little-miss-dilf-lover @desert-fern @day-dreaming-goddess @kdogreads @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042 @utterlynuts

[oneshotnewbie]

I hope your feeling well. I would like to request an Amelia shepherd x reader where the reader is in recovery of self harm and one day Amelia comes home and finds her harming herself. First angst and then fluff if you are comfortable <3

⚠️Trigger Warning⚠️ This one-shot includes the topic of self-harm, blood and the brief mention of suicide. These plots are presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle the subject, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

ᕚ---ᕘ

In a dimly lit room, you sat at a shabby old desk belonging to your predecessor. The room seemed cramped and suffocating, as if the bare walls were getting closer and closer the longer you stayed there in your chair. You stared at the screen of an overloaded old computer, your eyes wide open and your forehead furrowed thoughtfull, the table littered with all the papers from a new case, scattered in a chaotic arrangement while the coffee in the cup next to it has long since become cold, ignored and forgotten.

Your hands clinging to the mouse, sweaty and shaking, the cursor on the screen frantically darting over various tabs and icons as you desperately tried to get anything done amid the pressure, stress and sleepless nights of the last few weeks. Your breathing was heavy and shallow, but your chest was still falling quickly and in an irregular rhythm. The air around you thick and the pressure within it palpable, as if invisible hands were constricting your throat.

"Hey, y/n. Are you okay?" A bright, feminine voice asked, her fitting figure standing in front of your desk. Your eyelids flickered as you lifted your head, the thoughts in your head swirling wildly as you tried to keep control of them and yourself. But the only thing you wanted at that moment was to go back to the blade and relieve yourself, even though you had already been clean for three months and had promised yourself never to fall back into this addiction.

"Y-yeah, everything is fine," you lied in a broken and raspy voice, the desk lamp next to you flickering dimly as the room filled with a muffled, monotone sound that seemed to penetrate through your ears and lodge in your head. "Are you sure? You look pale and you are sweating. Do you have a fever?"

The pressure inside you grew with your colleague's questioning, heavy like an unbearable weight that rested on your shoulders and pulled you further and further to the ground. Every second that the blonde's eyes were on you seemed like an eternity, and the pressure inside, mixed with a deep panic, felt like a bubbling volcano, ready to erupt and consume everything around you. "You know what? I feel sick. I am going to go home and rest."

ᕚ---ᕘ

As soon as you got home, you quickly ran to the bathroom and looked for a brand new disposable razor, which you had disassembled in seconds. The world around you blurred into a diffuse mist of colors and shadows as you sat down on the bed and violently tore your jacket down. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears and your gaze was blank, fixated on the cold silver between your fingers. Your hands shook as you placed the blade spasmodically against your thin skin, fighting the inner storm to hurt yourself and destroy the promise you gave Amelia.

There was an ominous silence around you, broken only by the dull thumping of your own pulse. Your body was heavy, bound by an invisible chain, your legs rooted to the ground. Your face marked by fear and desperation, but also relief as you pulled the blade through and a thin line of blood appeared on the cut. It helped you release the pressure you were holding inside, pouring out the stress of the days.

It was a moment of liberation that no one understood. Another cut brought you repeated relief and at the feeling of burning and escaping emotions, you closed your eyes as you tilted your head back and took a deep breath. In your trance, you didn't even hear how the front door closed and your girlfriend checked on you in every room. "Y/n? My love, where are you?" Amelia called but you did not hear her, the environment around you seemed unreal and vague.

Amelia had come home after your colleague called her and told her about the incident that had happened at work. She was worried that you really were not feeling well, leaving you go home alone in case something happened to you, so to be on the safe side she had called the emergency contact number listed in your file to make sure you were not alone and someone could look after you when you got home. "Elizabeth called me and said that you-" she stopped perplexed in her tracks, her jaw hanging low as she spotted you, bloody razor just inches away from your wrist.

Close to it, there were cuts, angry red blood dripping down onto your thigh. "Hey, what are you doing there? Put that down, please" she demanded softly, mostly out of fright and shock. You looked down at the ground, refusing to meet her gaze as she dropped her bag on the floor and immediately made her way to the bathroom to grab some bandages. Amelia returned with a small, wet rag, which she gently placed over your wrist and pressed firmly onto it. There was not much bleeding, she did not have to worry about serious injuries, however tears threatened to fall. The brunette was scared- terrified for you.

"Why?" she asked sniffling, not showing the slightest bit of anger in her voice. You looked up nervously, your shiny and relieved eyes meeting her sad hazel brown ones. She ran her fingers delicately through your strands of hair before her hand came to rest on your cheek, her thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. "You were clean. Why did you do that, darling?"

„I just needed to escape the harsh and bleak reality. Life recently got so rough and I felt like I may burst,“ you began to speak and she pulled you into her chest by the back of your head. Amelia kissed your hair, ran her hand through it and gently rocked you from left to right. Her chin rested on your skull, her eyes closed to calm her racing heart. She was not mad at you, never could be. She herself knew what it was like to fight an addiction; it took her several attempts to be sober for a good three years. "I am sorry, Am."

"It is okay. Please only answer one question," you nodded your head, still hidden in her chest and held by her. "If you could kill yourself right now, would you?" You quickly jumped and tore yourself away from her, your eyes wide at the shocking question. Placing your hands on her thighs, you gently rubbed her knees and looked deep into her eyes. "No, because suicide means that you have given up on yourself. And I am not going to do that. I just had to let the pressure go because I did not see any other option."

[dialpforpomni]

Case 2:Contracted Abstraction

Part 7: Gangle?! Where Are You??

I sprinted back through that factory. My breathing stalled, a spasmodic, jerky rhythm in the sudden stillness. "Gangle!" I yelled, my voice echoing off rotten machinery. Static was all I got back.

The chamber where we'd found Bone Pastor was empty. The drumming vortex of energy had vanished, and all that remained was the lingering stench of corrupted code and an unsettling emptiness. Bone Pastor, with his distorted logic and hellish ambitions, was nowhere to be found. Gangle had departed, too.

Panic gripped me, a shiver wave washing over my circuits. Gangle, always shifting ribbons of emotion, her gentle heart in this computer wasteland. Lost. Due to me. Due to my failure to act.

"No," I croaked, shaking my head. "No, no, no." I hunted the factory wildly, every shadow, every empty corner. I bellowed out Gangle's name until my voice cracked, until the static laughed at my rage. Nothing.

There were tears in my eyes, blurring my sight. They were not tears, not here in this virtual reality, but the pain was real, the fear a true weight. A scream was welling up inside me, a raw, unformed cry of agony. I swallowed it, clenching my teeth to keep my mind clear.

Gangle told me to move. She sacrificed herself. The best I could do in return for that sacrifice was to find them, to stop Bone Pastor from hurting somebody else.

I trembled as I dragged myself out of the factory and ran back to the patrol cruiser. I slammed the door shut, rattling itself in the stillness of Old DigiYork. I didn't even turn on the ignition. I ran.

Neon-lit streets of New DigiYork poured into view, a wrenching shock to the rotting night I had fled. I staggered into the precinct, my lungs burning, my processors failing. Mannequin officers confronted me with blank face, their motions jerky and uncoordinated. I shoved them aside, ignoring their dazed clicks and whirring.

I found Chief Gummigoo in his cubicle, surrounded by electronic paperwork and half-eaten virtual donuts. He looked up from the screen, his expressionless face not even rising to a glare.

"Pomni? Already returned? Find anything?" he asked, before responding himself without giving me a chance to speak, letting the silence hang.

"Find anything?!" I exploded, banging my hands on his desk. "Gangle's vanished! Bone Pastor kidnapped her! He's out there, making more abstractions, Chief! We have to find them!"

Gummigoo let out a long, grating sigh that annoyed my nerves. He leaned back in his chair, the creaking in protest.

"Pomni, settle down. We know you're angry, but we don't have a lot to work with. These abstractions are running us thin. We can barely keep the peace in New DigiYork, much less command a full-scale manhunt in Old DigiYork.".

"Few resources?" I shouted, my voice rising. "Gangle is one of your officers! She's part of us! And Bone Pastor is a threat to all of us in this entire simulation! We can't just sit around and do nothing!"

"I'm not saying we're doing nothing, Pomni," Gummigoo said, his tone ever so slightly softer. "But we can't afford to be practical. We can sacrifice a few officers, maybe send Chad and a handful of Mannequins to scout the area out. But a full-scale manhunt? It's simply not practical right now."

"Several officers?" I laughed contemptuously, rage fighting with incredulity. "Chad and two Mannequins? You've got to be kidding! They'll be back at sundown saying they couldn't find anything. We need everyone, Chief! All officers! We have to saturate Old DigiYork, search every square inch until we find Gangle and arrest Bone Pastor!"

Gummigoo shook his head, his face hardening. "Pomni, I know you're dedicated, but you're going mad. I can't pull everyone off their duties. The city would fall apart. We have to make decisions."

"Prioritize?!" The word erupted from my throat. "Gangle is the priority! The safety of this whole simulation is the priority! What's the sense in keeping New DigiYork in line if Bone Pastor is roaming around converting everyone into monsters?"

I stepped closer, my tone dropping to a sinister whisper. "Chief, I'm not asking you. I'm commanding you. Order all units to Old DigiYork. Now."

Gummigoo glared at me, his features set in a mulish refusal. "Pomni," he said slowly, "you're out of your depth. You're letting your emotions get the best of you."

"My emotions are the only thing that's keeping me together right now!" I barked. "You require me to be rational? Fine. Rationally, Bone Pastor is a ticking time bomb and Gangle is his human shield. With every second that goes by, the likelihood of both of them being collateral damage increases."

I could glimpse the flicker of uncertainty in Gummigoo's eyes. He knew I was right, but his bureaucratic inertia, his unwillingness to upend the fragile equilibrium of the cyberspace, held him back.

"I need a team, Chief," I appealed, my tone not quite so harsh but the metal still underlying. "I know Old DigiYork best of all. Let me be the one to lead the search. Give me what I need, and I promise you, I'll have them back."

He stood there for a long moment, then finally released a deep sigh.

"Alright, Pomni," he answered, his voice weary. "You have your unit. But I'm taking it personally if this causes you any disruptions. And if you don't find them within twenty-four hours, the plug gets cut. Clear?"

"Clear," I said, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. "Thanks, Chief."

I did not let him have time to think about it again. I spun and ran, shouting orders at the Mannequin officers as I made my way out. "Get Chad! Rally every unit you can get on the ground! We're moving to Old DigiYork, code red! Move, move, move, now!"

The precinct erupted into pandemonium. Mannequins hummed and rattled, officers scrambled to collect their gear. A burst of adrenaline, a last hope, ignited in my heart.

This wasn't about finding Gangle anymore. This was about stopping Bone Pastor, about saving all these people in this simulation from his distorted vision. This was about showing that hope hadn't been lost in this shattered world.

As I was about to head back into the digital depths, I made a silent promise to Gangle. I wouldn't rest until I had her, until I had her back home. And I wasn't going to let Bone Pastor destroy everything we were battling for.

This was war. And I was prepared to battle.

[tsunagite]

Oodlies

[caterpillar-the-magnet]

Magnetism

Powers [all are products of magnetism]

. Magnetic momentum control (moves objects) . Magneto-static potential (magnetic charge) . Magnetic flow (moves material) . Magnetism-induced electric current (electricity) . Magneto-saturate repulsion (concussive force) . Magnetic marking (magnetic writing) . Magneto-influx thermo-regulation (heat control) . Magnetic compression energy containment (imprisonment) . Unstable magneto-conductivity rupturing (explosions) . Magnetism-induced gravity suppression (zero gravity) . Magnetic percussion (bulletproof aura) . Magnetic Newtonian-force dispersal (wind blade) . Magnetic ionisation (radiation poisoning) . Magneto-atomic charge manipulation (elemental transformation) . Photo-magnetic wave arching (laser bending) . Hydro-magnetic bond shifting (water state changing) . Psycho-magnetic stress suppression (mental clarity) . Ether-magnetic energy manipulation (power over ghosts) . Manna control (magical energy dominance) . Maji momentum control (curse control) . Novatic mastery (power over stars) . Info-horizon mastery (power over dark matter) . Alpha, beta and gamma radiation control (nuclear power) . Light spectrum manipulation (visual illusions) . Radio wave control (telecommunication hacking) . Microwave synchronising (the power of a microwave oven) . Electric current arching (bend lightning) . Carbon and silicon manipulation (no-one is safe) . Hydro-oxide bond manipulation (acidity regulation) . Nitrogen manipulation (don't live in an inhabitable environment) . Gallium state manipulation (gallium fluidity control) . Non-Newtonian state manipulation (can manipulate maize) . Plasma state manipulation (turns fire and lasers off) . Fire arching (fire bending) . Exothermic reaction ignition (fire generation) . Kryomagnetic energy control (sucks the life out of the room) . Crystal formation manipulation (jewels to rock and vice versa) . Magmatic flow control (tectonic %@$#ery) . Phosphoro-reactivity control (jetpack and firework control) . Magnesium permeation control (make boom bigger boom) . Hydrogen density control (summons the demon core) . Oxygen folding (ultraviolet control) . Monoatomic state manipulation (heavy metal control) . Material corporality control (phase through object) . Energy signal masking (untraceable) . Thermobaric cataclysm induction (smash rocks) . Fissure fibro-momentum control (knit wounds) . Time-flow rate warping (speed up and slow down time) . Higgs field control (reality warping / dimensional travel) . Magneto-gravitational weight control (crushing) . Sub-field atomic arrangement (shrinking) . Nuclear fission exponent (a nuclear blast) . Degloving (watch the uncensored music video to Rock DJ) . DNA manipulation (change someone's DNA) . Protein bond disassembly (flesh to soup) . Chloro-bond dissemination (bones to soup) . Magneto-potential signature repositioning (teleportation) . Psycho-magnetic signature broadcasting (cloning)

-

Weaknesses [all side effects of overuse of magnetic powers]

. Psycho-magnetic energy feedback (overstimulation) . Memory loss (Alzheimer's disease) . Over-stimulated brain function (epilepsy) . Nervous system dissemination (feebleness) . Psycho-magnetic energy withdrawal (brain freeze) . Cognition loop false stop (brain fog) . Identity disconnection (dissociative fugue) . Amygdala-specific coma (irrational fearlessness) . Pain-reaction loop discharge (thermo-sensory numbness) . Frontal lobe function suppression (zombie mode) . Adrenal chemical-potential overload (blind rage) . Lacto-reactive function collapse (cramps) . Lipo-function instability (pyrexic paralysis) . Spasmodic-induction self-perpetuation (muscle spasms) . Circulatory introstate induction (collapsed lungs) . Plexo-complex desynchronisation (erratic heart rhythm) . Follicle-wave electro-sensory neutrality (vertigo) . Canular rhythm regulation (tooth ache) . Olfactory static traversal blockade (no sense of smell) . Testosteronal-construction disintegration (withering) . Dendral-knotting friction lactation (scurvy) . Carto-seminate lubrication displacement (arthritis) . Osmoidal-salinate disparity (jaundice) . Symbiotic negotiation breakdown (auto-immune disease) . Hyperactive defence network runaway (allergic reaction) . Cock virus fungal-network reorganisation (shingles)

[dustedmagazine]

Open Head — What is Success (Wharf Cat)

Open Head’s songs are unrelenting. They lurch spasmodically like George Romero zombies and slither with serpentine energy, creeping deeper into our brains with every stab of angry synth and slash of angular guitar energy. The Kingston, New York quartet produce a fractured brand of post-punk, born in the shadow of the nearby hulking metropolis but drawing inspiration from myriad locales. Laced with elements of noise rock, hip hop, and post-hardcore, their music is Byzantine and jerky, frenetic and slathered in murk.

What is Success, the band’s sophomore effort, coalesces with a snarl. Synths lacerate the air over a cacophony of chittering insectoid cymbals and broken beats. This maelstrom eventually births opening song “Success,” on which Open Head angrily question the nature of the titular subject and why they should even care about it. A gruff, spectral vocal croak rises to a shout as chiming guitars permeate an angsty rhythm. The song devolves into a synth-guitar drone as it fades away. They’re setting up a pattern here, periodically deploying outré interstitial passages, dropping them in to linger briefly in chaos before launching the next song salvo. These noise and drone bursts create cohesion in the album, framing the songs within a sinister narrative. Beat by beat, Open Head reveal their story.

There are times when the band’s spastic lurch becomes a full-on zombie horde onslaught. “N.Y. FRILLS” churns with Sonic Youth guitar swirls and an insistent drum pummelling. Angularity dissolves into a stormy throb accompanied by a sinister, almost spoken word, vocal. “House” attempts to attain the same pulsating thrust but dissolves into a sweat-soaked David Yow-like abandon. Slashes of guitar punctuate the thrum of the bass while a vocal chant becomes a lacerating yowl. Both songs are simultaneously fascinating and frightening as Open Head demonstrate their ability to charge ahead unfettered.

It's the band’s combination of volatility and finesse that makes What is Success a complex and compelling listen. The frenetic and intricate drumming keeps the songs taut yet unpredictable, always thrusting but in multiple directions simultaneously. The guitars and synths seem about to explode like a chained dog ready to leap, and the growl-to-howl vocals chase the energy of the music like a disturbed swarm of bees. This battle between chaos and syntropy turns the second law of thermodynamics on its head. What is Success is a listenable manifestation of balance in the universe.  

Bryon Hayes

[2dkapsddr]

December 15th (and 14th!), 2024 - Arcaea, Phigros, SDVX EG, WACCA Reverse, IIDX 32, GITADORA GALAXY WAVE, CHUNITHM SUN

another day, another... arcade session day? well, kinda? while i didn't have any exclusive plans to visit the arcade today, i was planning on going with my friends to the arcade for our very first meetup in what felt like ages!!! however, that meetup wasn't scheduled until the evening, so i'd have to make do with my devices until then . and that's exactly what i did in the case of arcaea, resulting in finally getting... FLUFFY FLASH (FTR-9+, MAX-37) as FTR PM #215!!!

it was a great score indeed, but the downside was that i accomplished it at ~6 AM when i had stayed up until ~2 AM the night before, meaning i really needed to catch up on my Z's after getting that score, which i did! once i woke up, i felt even more energized than i was when i got that score, but since i'd pretty much ran out of arcaea stamina... i spent it instead on phigros and catching up on my Middle Chart grind that i had abandoned a while ago!!! i got through the Rhythm Master pack's middle charts and the first four charts of Chapter 5, which ended in me unlocking Spasmodic by complete accident!! but i couldn't get a Phi on Spasmodic before my phone died, and that's when i decided i'd stop playing phigros for the day, so all i have to show for the marathon today is this Phi on Sonshin ~The Guru~ [HD Lv.11]

well, wouldya look at the time!! in between phigros and leaving for the friend meetup, i spent most of my time writing that December 14th post and all the super long, super crazy stuff that happened that day . but it was taking too long, and i needed something to engage my fingers a little more so i could stop making typos while writing the post. that led me to get an itch for playing vivid/stasis, which i then did, and i immediately proceeded to go off with this massive jump from SS to V rank on execution_program [FINALE 16] !!!

but alas! time indeed went by fast, and before i knew it i was actually Late to the meetup as opposed to being the first one there (especially given it was one of my favorite places to go...) . i grinded out my remaining arcaea stamina on the super long 20-min bus ride there, but didn't really get any notable scores on it (because . well. bus) besides progressing further in the Absolute Nihil unlocks! to the disappointment of my friends, i did indeed arrive rather late, and so the meetup probably wasn't as long as they'd hoped by a half hour... but nevertheless, i greeted my friends (including one friend that i hadn't seen since pre-covid iirc?), watched them play voltex for a bit, and then we wandered around the arcade doing whatever came to mind!!!

i'll save most of the details for my personal journal writing spree, as none of them really include anything regarding rhythm games or the like and we just caught up with what good friends we were during our middle school years :] but there was still rhythm gaming to be had in the form of SDVX plays while my friends either played SDVX as well, or just sat and chilled or gambled with the cranes at the arcade as we waited for another friend of ours to be free . gave the weekly score attack song, snow storm -euphoria- [EXH 17], a few tries that didn't really lead anywhere as i kept forgetting how to play the chart, but then when our dear friend came over for a split second... i tried Bi [MXM 18] once again to show off the Sheer Comedy of this game and managed to upscore it!!!

we went over to the above-ground section of the arcade to play the wider selection of rhythm games they had (wacca, taiko, iidx the works), and i got the idea to do some wacca/iidx versus matches with each other!!! unfortunately the local versus play on wacca didn't work, but we still had fun starting the same chart simultaneously and seeing how close the scores between my two other friends were!!! ...and as you can see below, i'm not referring to the third friend who was a decently seasoned rhythm gamer... (songs in the IIDX image: COSMIC V3LOCITY [SPH-10] and Mesmerizer [SPH-9])

and now, for a brief GITADORA spree!!! it's been so long since i played this game, but holy hell it's just as fun as i remembered... even more fun than before, actually!!! i felt like i'd gotten way better at the game recently, and that demonstrated itself in the incredible accuracy/high-level clears that i hadn't gotten before... maybe i could dedicate a little more time to this game in future sessions?? i have only really been leeching off free credits after all, except for today...

but alas! after a long while of rhythm gaming, crane game gambling, and waiting around for the fifth friend to join our pack... she was finally free!!! and we were reunited for the first time in ages!!! it was beautiful, but then we decided to make it even better via challenging each other in SDVX Megamix Battles!!! knowing the sheer gap between me and my friends (i don't even wanna sound cockyyyy i just don't think it'd be fun for them to face me with my level LOL), i stood back and watched, gave encouragement most of the time that they were playing... but one of my friends (probably the second best/most dedicated of the bunch) challenged me anyways, and as expected, i kindaaaa maaaybeeeee BLEW HIM OUT OF THE WATER LIKE HOLY HELL LMFAO . of course, i do feel kinda bad for him about it, but what can i say?? you come at the king, you best not miss!

aaand that concluded the meetup!! we took a group photo, chatted together a bit more, figured out who would go back home with who, and bid our farewells as we headed back to rest up for the night (excluding me LOL) . but i guess while there's plenty of free space for images remaining and nothing else to put down here... i'll just share the cut scores from yesterday's session that i couldn't fit in the earlier post due to the image limit!!!

[im-a-walmart-bag]

Chapter 7 part 1

Leonardo and the Fallen Kingdom

Inside the throne room now dark from Shredder's presence. Shredder angrily paces near the throne, his armor clinking with each step on the towel floor, his cape ruffling as he walks. Karai stands by, fiddling with a knife. watching her father with confusion. "Father, what's wrong? Why are you pacing around? We have to feed it Splinter and The Wretched Turtles! why are you not celebrating your victory?" sugar stops, pacing and glares at Karai with anger. " victory? you call this a victory?! you do not understand Karai. Victory is hollow without the full prize! I searched not just their defeat, but their power!" Karai walks closer, trying to comprehend what her father just said. " but we have the castle, people, that are weapons, their secrets-" Shredder cuts her off with a snarl. " what good are their secrets without their Ninpo?! When Leonardo was sucked into that portal, his ninpo along with his brothers' and Splinter's went with him! Their Ninpo Remains out of my grasp!" Karai's eyes widened in realization. "Leonardo escaped?" Shredder's fists clenched tightly. "Yes, and with him, the essence of their power, but don't worry.. I won't be denied, I may have a way to find him." Just then the large double doors of the throne room open. guards enter dragging the lifeless bodies of the Fallen Warriors behind A them. The guards position the bodies before Shredder and Karai. Karai's face tails at the site. "What... What is this?" Shredder steps forward to the bodies, a Sinister smile spreading across his face under his kabuto, two guards closing the door. " a contingency plan.. if I cannot have their needle entirely, I will still wield their power in another form" Shredder raises his hand chanting in the dark, ancient language. The air grows thick with dark magic. the bodies on the floor twitch, their fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically. Slowly, their movements become more coordinated as some unseen force is pulling their strings. the room is filled with a low hum, the sound of dark magic coursing through their veins. Shredder continues his chant, his hand glowing black and deep purple. "Tenebris potestatem meam auge animas tuas recludam!" A dark Aura envelopes the bodies seeping into the corpses' skin. Their eyes snap open, now black as obsidian, voids that seem to absorb all light. red markings appear over their injuries, glowing anonymously, pulsating with the rhythm of Shredder's incantation. The wounds, those stove is cool scene to close slightly, the flesh knitting together with dark energy. the turtles' tapes would flow behind them as they stood up. splinter, now standing as well, his maroon robe would ruffle as he joins the turtles, his eyes just as dark and lifeless. Karai watched both in awe and horror. "Father.you can control them?" Shredder's lips curl into a malicious grin. "Their bodies are mine to command. They will serve us for our little quest to reclaim what should have been mine." Shredder lowers his hands, and with a final word, the now dark magic controlled warriors stand at attention, their movements unnaturally smooth and precise. Shredder steps forward, examining his new shoulders. "Arise my dark legion. You abound to my will. With you, I will find Leonardo, and this time... Nothing will stand in my way..." The warriors nod in unison. Karai looks at the warriors, smirking. "I will get Stockman to start at dawn, Father." Shredder smirked back, both of them laughing evilly.

I know it’s short, but damn, it took me a while to find the right words (I used big words! :>) for this to sound even more cool, and the Latin, I just used Google translate 😂 Hope you like it my Lovelies!

[wordsonly]

Geist

Man in his relationship to the world

Indubitably a late developer

Total reality, elevated to metaphysical musings

Pantheistic phenomenology of minds lost

Floating the zeit

Eternally divided

Between apes and angels

Rocking and rolling through

Hegelian thesis,

antithesis

synthesis

thesis

Deific alienation trolling the process

The historical rhythm

Consciousness of freedom

Knowing all is one;

He is you

Me is he

We are them

Rational peace

Desires in harmony with reason

Chop off their heads

Dialectical razors

Self projecting to the skies

Bursting rain clouds

Washing away the charm of development

Laws

Liars, thieves

Plateau in the abstract

All darkness, all the zombies strutting

Shuffling

Staggering the grimy pavements

Crooked

All you

Spilling your drink

Pissing up against the wall

Stumbling the organic whole

The freedom of markets

The spring collection

Buggery and balderdash

Manipulating a new set of targets

Manifestoing

The mighty algorithm

Curator

Knowing you

Knowing all

Better than you know your self

Form and content

The logic board, eternally mutable

Our exposition clumsily droppped

Into the natural order

The perpetual change

The universal mind lego’ing reality

Trotting out the next burning rod

The greater reactor

The spasmodic ejaculation

Beginning and ending life

[snowlithills]

Reading Adorno after this essay made such an impression on me is crazy. This aphorism basically says the same thing, but Sandlin was writing in 1997, while Adorno was writing in 1944!

“Like the Thirty Years’ War, so too does this war – whose beginning no-one will be able to remember anymore, once it comes to an end – disintegrates into discontinuous field campaigns, separated by blank pauses; the Polish campaign, the Norwegian, the French, the Russian, the Tunisian, the Normandy Invasion. Its rhythm, the alternation of spasmodic action and complete standstill, due to a lack of geographically accessible enemies, has itself something mechanical about it, which characterized the means of war in the particular and which has very likely evoked once more the preliberal form of the campaign. This mechanical rhythm however completely determines human conduct towards the war, not only in the disproportion between individual bodily strength and the energy of motors, but deep into the most secret cells of the modes of subjective experience.

The sheer incommensurability of the body to the war of attrition the previous time around [i.e. WW I] already made authentic experience impossible. No-one could have talked about it the way the battles of the artillery-general Napoleon Bonaparte were recounted. The long interval between war memoirs and the armistice is not an accident: it testifies to the laborious reconstruction of memory, which remains conjoined to something powerless and even inauthentic in all those books, regardless of whatever horrors the writer witnessed. WW II however is as completely devoid of experience as a machine is to the movements of a body, which it resembles only in periods of illness. The less the war retains any sense of continuity, history, the “epic” element, but to a certain extent starts all over again at each phase, the less can it leave behind a continuous and unconsciously preserved picture of memory. Everywhere, with each explosion, it has broken through the protective shield in which personal experience formed, the duration between the healing forgetting and the healing memory. Life has transformed itself into a timeless succession of shocks, between which gape holes, paralyzed intermediary spaces.

Nothing however is perhaps more catastrophic for the future than the fact that soon literally no-one will be able to think of this, that every trauma, every unprocessed shock of that which recurs, is a ferment of coming destruction.”

- Minima Moralia, 33

For whatever reason I didn’t get around to “Losing the War” the first couple times argumate reblogged it, but I finally did and it is phenomenal and haunting writing.