#anti-red hate cw

[shouta-edits]

"Hello! I would like to ask for a stimboard with beverages and icecream Ship: Celestia Ludenberg, Chihiro Fujisaki Colors: Green, brown, red, black (any colors in their designs are okay, but avoid any that aren't!)" -anon requested

SOURCES:

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[lorelune]

bathtime

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 5.1k  || ao3 || previous + next ->

Even the best bath water will find it difficult to cleanse 'sin'.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c welcome to part 3 of the architect-verse :3cc been cooking on this one for awhile 🙏 yandere blade is such a guy and scummy manipulative mommy kafka is so fun to write :3ccc thank you for beloved @ofmermaidstories for doing a read through on this one 🥺♥!! enjoy enjoy enjoy 💓

CW: dark content, yandere blade, captive/pet reader, discussions of noncon, references to past noncon on blade while he was underage and as an adult, references to past noncon on reader, use of the word rape, violence/thoughts of violence, past yingxing/dan feng, toxic blade/kafka

It’s normal for Blade to return to the Stellaron Hunters’ main vessel covered in assorted types of gore. Scraps of rent flesh, smears of blood, bile, scales— tendons and sinew wrapped under his forearms, clinging from the pressure of impact light-years away. The smell of it clings to him, still fresh, just barely beginning to rot. He stews in it during his typical return in small, covert starships. He half-suffocates with the stench of death.  

This is typical. Blade does not carry any opinion about it. If anything, he welcomes the potential of asphyxiation, though it never comes. 

Most routinely, Kafka will greet him as he returns and take him to clean up. Occasionally, when she is indisposed, Silver Wolf will be forced to hose him down in the communal gym shower or Sam will dunk him in the bath by the scruff of his neck. Blade does not... particularly enjoy the latter two options. Though he isn't sure entirely why, and he doesn't tend to dwell on it either. 

When Kafka collects him, it is easier, if nothing else. Less fuss, less grimacing over the smell of burgeoning rot and complaining that Blade should do this prior to arriving home. Blade doesn't care about the other Stellaron Hunters’ complaints, not really, but it does make the ordeal longer than it needs to be. 

(And maybe, maybe, he does not like being drenched in bone-chilling water and soaked clothing. He hates it.) 

Kafka will lead Blade back to her own room, strip him, and give him a warm bath. Frequently, she’ll take off her own clothing and join him. She’ll hold him close, his back to her front. Kafka likes when she is able to cow him into resting against her front, cow him into resting his cheek against her breasts while she scrubs away the worst of the grime. 

Never mind that they share the same, red-tinged bathwater. 

(Occasionally, things escalate. Touch that volleys between innocent and clinical and sexual. Kafka will stroke down the planes of his body, reach for his cock, and bring him to release. It’s— it's nice. He thinks. He can't tell.) 

It's hard to tell anything in the steam of the bath. Though Kafka's presence renders his mara mute, proximity makes it writhe regardless. It is not a soundless beast, though it loses its words. Muddy feelings, rather than anything clear cut. It's a reprieve regardless. 

This is why Blade prefers to be cleaned by Kafka. 

... 

This mission, however, Blade receives a text from Kafka during his return journey that she will be out. Along with Silver Wolf. And that Sam is charging and shouldn't be disturbed.  

However— 

Kafka: 

why don't you see if our little stray is up for a bath, bladie? 

There's a thought. One Blade hadn't considered. 

(There's a whisper of a refusal in the back of his mind. 'No'. Blade is not sure why. It is quiet but sure of itself.) 

Blade: 

When will you be back. 

Kafka: 

tomorrow. don't wait up until then. listen, just ask. 

Kafka's mind weaving does not work over text. But it is, regardless, difficult to resist her command. This is habit. 

Blade idles outside of your room. He has dripped mess across the vessel and left little piles of flesh and muscle in his wake. The quiet sound of blood splattering against the floor (his, maybe, though his regeneration should be almost complete) makes him aware of this. 

It feels uncouth to enter your room like this. 

Blade shakes himself off and leaks scarlet droplets against the metal paneling. methodically, he releases the five locks on your door. Each clicks when fully disarmed, and by the time Blade enters, you're already looking up at the door, eyes wide. 

You're tucked into bed with a soft blanket over your lap. A tablet (a gift from silver wolf at Kafka's behest. For 'good behavior'. Not connected to any internet, but you've told Blade it helps pass the time.) 

The device is promptly forgotten as you push yourself out of bed, "Aeons, Blade, what happened? Are you hurt?" 

You approach him with no caution. It's reckless. It's foolish, especially with this much adrenaline tumbling around between his eyes and in his veins. He has the distinct urge to shove you away and into the floor. Compress you until you break and bleed and bleed and break. 

Blade does not. 

Instead, he lets you flit around him. He lets you draw your own conclusions. 

You are not foolish. You know he is dangerous; he knows you know this. It is your... good nature that creases the surely-soft skin between your brows. It's your kindness that has you frazzled, shaking in your hands as you hover over him. Searching for wounds that are mostly healed. 

"Blade, I said, are you hurt?" You ask, voice strained, bent at the waist while examining a slice in his pants. A lance had torn his calve wide open. It has already healed. 

"I'm fine." 

"Sure." You don't sound convinced, frowning. "You look like shit. Am I really supposed to believe that?" 

"I have already healed. my injuries are no longer a concern." 

"... Really?" 

"I am an abomination of Yaoshi. This is my nature." 

You already know this, yet you look defeated. Your jaw is tight. "Uh-huh. Alright. Fuck, do you feel alright?" 

"I'm fine. I need to be clean." 

"... Alright?" 

"I need to bathe." 

"... I see that... Do you want me to call Kafka?" 

"She's off ship." 

"Oh, fuck." you curse and shake your head. "I-is she going to be back soon?" 

"No. Help me instead." 

"M-me?" Your voice trembles and you take a fearful step back. Ever the skittish thing. something in him— sort of him— vibrates. 

"Yes." 

"Can you— not?" 

"It's cumbersome to wash on my own." 

"I see." You run a hand over your cheeks and adjust the wide collar of your shirt. It’s too big. It’s one of his— probably? A sleep shirt. One that Kafka stole from him to give to you. He knows you own several. "Alright. Okay. Fine. Fuck, I-I can help." 

You shoo him into your bathroom. 

You turn away from him almost immediately, poking around in a cabinet, plucking brightly colored products and muttering under your breath. Kafka mentioned that isolation is getting to you more than you think. She thinks it's cute. 

Blade wordlessly begins to strip. First off is his blood-soaked overcoat, shredded around his ribs and with massive gouges taken out of the back. Then his undershirt. Followed by his pants. One of his belts rings a metallic clink as he undoes it. 

You choose this moment to turn around and your eyes go wide. 

"BLADE!" You cover your eyes, dropping a bottle. "What are you— you can't just do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Get... naked?" 

"You are going to help me bathe. This is necessary." 

"I understand that." You sound exasperated. Your voice is shaky. The tone is pulling something in the back of his mind. The corners of his lips almost want to curl upwards. "But you can't just strip without warning. Aeons, have some manners." 

Blade nearly laughs— good-naturedly. The urge to is something dormant and poisonous. Seldom used. Usually it's a sharp impulse, but it's almost warm now. Tepid and pleasant.  

(All for you.) 

You cover your eyes as you fumble to turn on the tap, "At least go rinse off a little in the shower first, please?" 

Doable, albeit difficult. Blade grunts something akin to an affirmative and finds your shower. He turns the water on (hot or cold doesn't seem... relevant) and steps in. The spray pours down from the ceiling, sending the worst of the gore down the drain. 

Blade does not move for quite some time.  

"Blade?" you ask warily. "You... done in there?" 

It takes him a moment to reply. The cold spray lags him, "Yes." 

"... Can you come out? The bath is ready." 

He idles, thinking about your question. The softness of your voice. The candle that he can smell, lit on the countertop. You yourself, dressed in soft lounge clothes and covered in scars that strangers gave you. He thinks about the way skin and muscle rend under his blade. The way yours could. Under him. Under— 

"Blade." 

You open the glass shower door, worry-eyed. 

He blinks at you. 

Gently, you grab his arm. He flinches with it. Has half a mind to slam you into the tile until you pop like an perfectly ripe fruit— 

But he doesn't. 

"C’mon, bath time," you coax him out, dripping, careful to not look down. It’s a preservation of modesty. It feels useless, Blade thinks, as he pulls away to clamor into the bath. 

... There are bubbles. Fragrant and herbal, with a soft oil shimmering on the top of the water. It is the perfect temperature. It feels... good. He forgets how nice warmth is. He softens. You heave out a sigh and settle next to him, outside the bath. There's a dampened washcloth, already in your hand. 

"Is it okay if I touch you?" You ask. 

"I don't care." 

"Give me a yes or a no,” you press him, glaring a little. You roll up your sleeves and rise to your knees. 

"Yes, then." He does not care. Do you not understand? 

(You probably don't. You definitely don't.) 

Your expression is unreadable as you dunk the rag into the bathwater and begin to wash him. First his right arm, then his left. Gently rubbing him down, taking extra care with his hands. The rag is gentle over his stiff fingers. You check under each of his nails individually. 

You’re meticulous. 

You ask a question or two about how he washes himself, specifically his hair, but Blade can't give you answers. Kafka stocks his bathroom. His bottles are numbered, and he never deviates from their preassigned order. It is easier that way. Even in Kafka’s tub, she tends to use the same order of expensive-looking products that she favors.  

The treatment you’re currently giving him is not routine.  

The ends of your sleeves dip into the water as you stretch over the tub, toward his legs. Your tongue peaks out from your lips, bitten in concentration. (It’s cute.) Blade feels... compelled to assist you. He raises his leg up at the knee. Just as carefully, you scrub him down, and then focus on his other leg.  

The experience fills him with a sense of unease.  

(It’s too tender.) 

(You treat him too delicately. Even Kafka acknowledges the damage he carries, and her touch is only gentle to punctuate a roughness later on. She toys with him— it’s a farce. The way you touch him is too kind. You are too kind for him. It reminds him— makes him feel the ghost of a touch from hands more delicate and powerful than your own. From a different lifetime, blotted by Mara, corrupted and molten in his mind—) 

“Blade—?” Your voice is shaking, shattering. You’re frozen at the side of the tub.  

Blade blinks. 

He has his hand wrapped around your wrist; his grip swallowing the fragile limb. The force of it is bruising. He holds it under the water, forcing you to lean over the tub. You are submerged up to your elbow. Your expression is pinched, afraid. Your pupils pinpricked.  

An animal snared. 

His grip tightens.  

“Let go, please.” You ask, lip wobbling.  

He does not want to let go. He really does not want to let go. Blade cannot trace the feeling, it’s miasmatic. It was a bad idea to have you assist in bathing him. Mara webs itself behind his eyes. His jaw locks and breathes hard through his nose. He wants to sink his teeth into your throat. 

“Please, stop,” You whine— whimper while tugging against his hold. You are half bent over the bath. Your eyes water, all shiny.  

The tone does something to him. Many people plead around him— for their life, mercy, favor. It’s useless. He does not care. He has no reason to care. There are scripts to follow. However— there’s no script here. Just the warm suds, the blood pumping through your veins, and Blade’s tunneling vision. 

With a sharp pull, he drags you into the bath. 

You fall in headfirst. Instantly, you clamor at the side of the tub and his submerged legs to get yourself back above water. You scramble. It’s— cute. Your hair is slicked down around your face and forehead, eyes wide as you pant. His legs bracket your body. He tightens his thighs around you.  

Your thin clothes are soaked and cling to you. Fabric over curves and folds over your flesh. Blade’s half-hard and feels bad about it. 

(He can’t trace why. It’s far from the first time he’s been physically aroused in relation to you. It always makes him feel bad. Not with Mara, but something personal and sour and less mad. He hates it. He’s almost torn out a rib over the feeling.) 

You hover, frozen, between his legs. The only sounds in the bathroom are your panting breaths and the drips rolling off your body, into the bathwater. You swallow, trembling, but remaining otherwise unmoving. It occurs to Blade after a few tense moments that you are waiting for him to strike.  

Always like a little, frightened animal.  

(Something in him writhes.) 

He moves quickly, shooting a hand out to fist into your hair. His grip is unyielding, giving you no slack (though, he doesn’t yank and pull as he could. He could tear out chunks if he wanted. He just doesn’t want you to move.) He wants you closer— maybe. He wants you far away, thrown through one of the ship's thick windows and into the vacuum of space and dead. 

(Though, it wouldn’t be as satisfying for the void of space to kill you. He’d rather do it. He wants to do it, if you’re going to die.) 

You whine and paw at his wrists, babbling something.  

Blade feels disgusting as he drags your body to his, his chest to your back, and he curls over your form. His arms wind around your waist and squeeze. You scratch at him, beg maybe— he can’t tell, his ears are ringing. Your fists that slam into his shoulders and skull feel like swats from a declawed kitten. He doesn’t budge despite your protests.  

You stop fighting when you realize he isn’t hurting you. 

Blade doesn’t... want to hurt you. He thinks. Not really. Not in the way that Mara is screaming at him to. He isn’t content, you’re too warm and too alive to be this close to his body, but it's not bad. Contact both scratches an itch under his skin and aggravates a wound. It’s like a bath with Kafka, but worse— 

(Because part of him wants this.) 

Blade flinches when you go slack against him, chest heaving out breath. Even this little ‘scrap’ has tired you out. You’ve become weakened in your confined state— even if you really wanted to fight him, you don’t have the physical strength to be able to. 

You sniffle, covered in soaked clothes and soap suds. 

“Don’t cry.” Blade says without thinking. His voice is shot, dead-pan.  

Trembling, you shake your head, “I w-won’t.” 

It’s a lie. You’re already shaking in his arms. 

It’s— unfair. You’re most used to him, and less wary of him than Kafka. Part of him, a loud but small part of his mind, thinks that a bath together could be enjoyable— if he wasn’t washing blood and filth from his hair, and you weren’t shivering in your soaked day clothes. 

(‘This could be nice’, it urges.)  

His hands rub over your sides in small circles at the idea. 

You gasp and squirm, looking back at him with wild eyes, “Blade, please—” 

He stops, but his hold around your waist doesn’t waver. You sigh and lean back into his chest, deflating. Your eyes go half-lidded as you look toward the ceiling. They look— dull. Light and life drained. Like how they did when he and Kafka first collected you from that gilded planet. 

Blade knows that look— a dull mind and an active body. Your breath is still a bit too fast. Your heart is the same, running a prey-like rhythm. He assumes that you have left your body, gone elsewhere. 

“Hey.” He shakes you lightly, dragging you back to the cooling bath. “Help with my hair.” 

“... Hair?” You ask, voice soft and dreamy. “... Do you need me to wash it?” 

“Yes.” 

“... Okay.” You nod after a moment and rotate in his lap.  

Your shoulders sag forward as you fumble for shampoo and squirt a generous amount into your palm. Half of it misses and the gel sinks into the bathwater below.  

It’s unfair— part of him says again— he wants to tear it out and shred it between his teeth or under his blade. It screams that it's unfair that you dote on a creature like him. It’s unfair that you must shiver while lathering and rinsing his hair. That your pretty lips tremble with fear.  

The Mara writhes. He has not been human in so long. He does not deserve the gentleness you so often give him. Especially now, when he has dragged you closer, made you filthy with the stench of blood, and forced you so close. He wants to bite out your throat as you tip forward to grab a brightly colored bottle of oil and begin to work through the knots in his air. 

You are frowning. You are crying. 

He wants to eat you. 

Blade reaches for your chest, studying the way that the fabric clings to your skin-gone-gooseflesh. He finds the top button of your soft blouse in his own unsteady hands and undoes it. You freeze when he does, breath catching. 

You don’t breathe as he undoes another button.  

Then another. 

And another.  

You don’t breathe until the garment is nearly off. Just one button secures the fabric. He can see the peak of your breasts under the fabric, nipples pebbled in the cold. You’re so cold.  

(Blade wishes, dead Yingxing wishes, that he were warmer.) 

Your hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, and in a small voice, you beg, “Please, d-don’t.” 

“You’re cold.” Blade says. He reaches past you, sloshing water, to turn on the spigot for hot water. “You will stay cold if you wear wet clothes.” 

You look at him strangely. At first, it’s wounded. Like you’ve been lanced through with Shard Sword, and now bear the gaping wound. It morphs to one of confusion, then you bite your lip. And grab his hands in your own and stare at them. 

“... That’s all?” You ask. 

“Mostly.” Blade replies. There’s— more. Far more. But nothing that is concrete enough, or important enough, to share with you. It would more than likely aggravate his spitting Mara.  

“Okay.” You reply, looking up from your joined hands. Your eyes are round and watery. “You’re not trying to rape me?” 

He freezes.  

The word ‘rape’ pulls something disgusting and festering up from Blade’s guts. Something he wants to purge. He has the distinct urge to lean over the side of the time and vomit, but he hasn’t eaten in the last forty-eight hours, so there’s nothing to heave up. So instead, he is still.  

It’s like he can feel the rot. He’s not sure why. He knows what the word means, he is pretty sure he has been raped. Probably. Either when he was a young child, a refugee fleeing a massacred world, or maybe when he was the bedmate to a dragon. Maybe, probably, from Kafka, any number of times. Maybe last week. His mind is cloudy.  

What constitutes rape is foggy.  

He knows it would mean that he wants to have sex with you, and you wouldn’t want to have sex with him. 

And Blade— 

(He— He— doesn’t want to have sex with you? Or he does. Maybe. He wants to be close to you, inside you. He wants to curl around you and make you swear to never leave. He wants— he wants so much. Blade is selfish. But—) 

Not like that, he doesn’t think. Others have been, he’s sure— he’s sure.  

Mara pours into his mind, and he remembers then. Pieces of times, fragments of old memories, of rape. Of violation of all kinds.  

(At the hands of borisins holding him down as he screamed and cried, his body too little to do any fighting in the jaws of an Abundance beast.) 

(A tradesman who allowed him to stowaway on a cargo ship, destined for the Luofu. ‘Payment’ — the man had called it. For safe passage and a little sack of rice.) 

(Dan Feng, during one of his draconic ruts. He was the Child of a Cosmic Horror, ultimately. That’s all Aeons are, anyways. Yingxing had been split on his cock so many times, so full, he bled for a day, even with Dan Feng fussing over him with his cloudhymns, lucid-in-mind and torn apart by so much guilt for a wildly proud man.) 

(Kafka, a few days after she first picked him up from the surface of the asteroid Jingliu had been beating him into. Kafka, a few weeks after that— in a hotel that stank of blue emory roses. Kafka, a few weeks ago, draped over his shoulders between missions. There’s more. Memories drenched in the smell of her rich perfume. They tangle in feelings of comfort and revulsion.) 

Blade doesn’t want to do any of that to you. 

(He wants something with you— but—) 

(Not like that. He doesn’t want you to hurt.) 

“I’m not going to rape you.” He tells you. He hardly sounds like himself as the Mara quiets. 

He thumbs over your lips. There’s a scar in the middle of them where they had been split, repeatedly, and then healed over. You’d told him once that one of your old keepers used to deprive you of water if he felt like it. Your breath is hot against his fingertip. 

You say nothing, but your breath is still fast and shaky. Your eyes are wide. A feral, wild animal.  

“I’m not.” Blade tries to reassure you. You flinch with the sound of his voice. “You’re freezing. The bath can be refilled with warm water. Bathe.” 

Tears break over your lower lashes as you stare at him. He stares back. 

(He wonders what you’re thinking. If you have as much trouble thinking as he does— you probably do. You’ve sustained head trauma. Traumas. You’re both torn-up wrecks, maybe. It could provide him with some solace.) 

“... Okay.” You rub your eyes with balled up hands and laugh. “Okay.” 

Blade then helps you peel off your shirt. Then your shorts and underwear. When you’re bare, Blade drains most of the water from the, leaving you both with a layer of clinging bubbles protecting the barest bits of your modesty. You cover your chest and center with your hands, keeping your head down. Hiding your throat. 

He refills the tub with more soap— too much probably. Mountains of bubbles appear as he dumps in a glug of shimmering, emerald-colored oil. It swirls into the water as it rises. You relax as it rises over your chest. Your eyelids droop. You look so tired. 

Blade washes you like you did him.  

You face each other as he does. Your gaze never leaves him, though it goes glassy again. Unfocused. Blade can feel your heartbeat through your skin, slowing more and more with each pass of the warm, soapy rag he is using. He massages products into your hair. He thinks that he may be doing so in the correct order. He hopes he is. 

This close, he can see all of you. Most of you. Feel you too. He feels ridges and bumps of scars. Chunks of flesh that have been torn from you, replaced by cicatrix, uneven and unnatural under his touch. You shudder when he touches you, shivering despite the heat of the room. You’re sensitive. He doesn’t want Kafka to know. 

You feel different like this. Blade is unable to place why. 

When he is through with you, steam and bubbles still rising from the bath, you drag him closer. Your fingers dig into his biceps, latching on and scrambling to get closer. 

“... You really mean it, don’t you?” You ask. Your eyes are still unfocused. “You’re not going to? You’re not fucking with me?” 

“... What are you talking about?”  

An unrestrained smile stretches over your face, “You do mean it. You do. You do.” 

Blade can only guess what you mean. You clearly will not (or cannot) tell him. You shiver against a full body thing against him. It makes him uneasy. He flips you by the hips, so that your back is to his chest, and he can curl over your shoulders. He cast a shadow into the water. 

Indulgently, he presses his nose into your cheek. You smell like fresh soap and skin. He thinks if he licked you, you’d taste like salt. 

He doesn’t. 

When that’s all he does, you laugh.  

It’s a belting thing, the kind of sound that’s punched from your gut with the same force that could break ribs. Blade can imagine the sound and sensation of it obliterating your insides as your laughter bounces around the tile of the bathroom. It’s manic. It’s an unwell sound. You clutch a fist over your chest as you howl.  

You don’t stop for a while. 

It’s clearly too much. Blade can feel it. The sound echoes in his chest. It must be shredding yours.  

His arm wraps around your midsection as you do, and he tries to press you closer— he thinks. He thinks it might help. Your breath starts to shake, each inhale pitching high and sharp. You’re hyperventilating around your laughter. You’re hysterical, but don’t fight his hold. Even as tears drip down your cheeks, splattering into the bathwater. 

Blade says your name— it should come out sharply. He means it to. 

However, it is gentle. His voice is hushed and rough. 

“You’re alright.” He squeezes you until the breath is forced from your lungs, and there’s no fuel for your laughter anymore. “You’re okay.” 

With a choked, quiet sob, you reply, “I know.” 

... 

It’s later— much later. Maybe the next day.  

Your room still doesn’t have any way to keep time other than your little tablet, which has been powered off and charges across the room on top of your dresser, so Blade can only guess. 

He lays beside you in bed, propped up on an elbow. You sleep next time to him, relaxed and soft-jawed. The soft duvet is pulled up to your collarbones, and you curl into Blade. He’s— warmer than the rest of your room. Even if he does run too cold to be properly alive.  

He runs the side of his index finger over your face.  

You had been so tired after leaving the bath, you’d hardly been able to dress yourself— you hadn’t been able to. Blade to pick out sleep clothes and help you get into them. He chose whatever he could find that seemed. Soft. 

(A flowing, soft teal top and white shorts with golden thread sewn in the seams.) 

You fell asleep quickly after that and have been ever since. Blade had only meant to sit on the edge of your mattress.  

That did not happen. 

Instead, he’s tucked next to you. One of your hands fists the front of his shirt, and your body is angled toward him. Seeking. Wanting. 

Blade could take. 

He recognizes that. 

It’s a thought, though, not a temptation. Not after the bath. Not after feeling the ways in which your body has been torn apart and so painstakingly put itself back together. You are not a creature of Abundance, you are not built to live forever and to repair yourself endlessly like he is. Your vitality is finite. Every scar your flesh must restitch takes something from you and it will not be replaced.  

You will end. 

Your bedroom door clicks, five times, then opens with a whoosh of air. Kafka stands in the doorframe. A sickly-sweet smile stains her mouth. Her lipstick is the is freshly applied and glossy. 

“I see you got all cleaned up, Bladie,” her voice is silken and smooth. He could drown in it. “Was our little pup helpful?” 

“... Yes.” 

“Good.” Kafka hums. Her heels click against the floor, and she takes a place next to you. Even as the mattress dips, you don’t stir. “You’re so helpful with training them. Good boy.” 

Blade pauses his petting of you to glare and grunt at Kafka. She looks delighted. 

“I wasn’t aware I was assisting with any sort of training.” 

“It’s all implicit. As long as they’re getting comfortable, that’s what counts. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything else.” 

Blade doesn’t like that answer.  

“I don’t want to see them hurt,” Blade says. 

“That’s sweet of you.” 

“I mean it, Kafka.” 

“I know, I know.” Kafka laughs. She sighs and falls into the bed, over the cushy duvet. She spoons you, flattening herself to your back and winding her arms around your waist. Your brow wrinkles and a little whimper scratches from your throat. “I’d like to see our new puppy kept in one piece too, Bladie. I’ve grown quite fond of them. However, we are both beholden to Destiny. If one of Elio’s scripts—” 

“I know.” Blade snaps. 

He does not want to think about it. 

His hand that had been petting you winds tightly into your hair and your face scrunches up.  

“Listen, Bladie, everything’s alright. You’re okay.” Kafka soothes, dropping a kiss onto your cheek. It leaves a smear. Kafka works Blade’s hand out of your hair. “Be good and keep them company while I give Elio a mission report.” 

“That’s what I have been doing.” 

“Then, keep it up.” 

Kafka rolls out of bed with a sigh, not a hair out of place. She leaves the room almost soundlessly, the door clicking as it relocks. Five times. 

Blade does as Kafka says. He keeps you company, sinking down into the mattress beside you. He wipes away the lipstick left over your cheek and presses a kiss to the spot. He lingers there.  

Kafka can have— a lot of him. But, perhaps, he will covet you, all for himself.  

(If the Mara in his mind had not been suppressed, perhaps he would have heard: 

(FOOL FOOL FOOL! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU COVET AND CLING? DO NOT FORGET YOUR SINS! DO NOT FORGET HIS SINS—!) 

Instead, his mind is quiet. He pulls you closer and sleeps. Space is dead around him, and you are dead to the world in his undying arms. 

Blade thinks he likes when you bathe with him.  

[141shousewife]

NSFW Price x Fat Wife Drabble >:)

Minors DNI I will EAT u like a nerds gummy cluster

Length: 1.2k Words

CW: NSFW, ANTI DADDY KINK PRICE!! Price x Fat reader, Implied Black reader, Price is married to reader, Female Reader, condescension, mocking, fingering, PiV, dirty talk,

THIS IS ONLY MY OPINION! DON'T EAT ME PLEASE

Also if u have a problem with the reader being fat n black.... IDK what to tell u gworl.

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I have one main qualm with Price x reader NSFW content. I see one reoccurring theme/headcannon:

price = daddy dirty talk

And I hate to say it but everyone else is wrong about it and I am the one who to is correct.

Price, when called daddy, looks around for a child. Being a middle aged white man with a grown in beard- accidents do happen with chubby cheeked tots who grab onto his unsuspecting leg in grocery stores and assume that he is their father.

John has been called "Daddy" many times in his life, and since he is a man who aims to please, it's been more than once that he has let it slide during one night stands.

But with you?

His girl??

His WIFE????

Price does not like to be called daddy. His spine shivers and his body rejects the implication that your attraction to him is rooted in a negative experience with your own father.

He prefers to be called other things

"Baby" especially when you call him for dinner, "Honey" is nice when you're calling for him in front of others to show your love from him, "Sweetheart" specifically when you're angry with him- because he loves the way that you maintain warmth, and lastly "John"

That one is Johns favorite because he hears it the most between breathy moans. His name is barely audible when it slides out of your mouth as his hands work you over and make you needy and pliable.

But daddy is not one that he would choose.

But does this mean that John is sterile and boring in the bedroom ?

Not even close.

John puts his ALL into pleasing you.

He loves to catch you right as you're getting into bed for the night. He always starts with watching from the bed as you stand in the bathroom finishing your bedtime routine. Where John's head lays he can see your back as you rub the last of your sweet smelling lotion onto your wide shoulders and soft arms and tie the bow at the front of your bonnet. When finished- you turn around and wow.

Wow.

Wow.

John is raking his eyes over your round and soft body, covered in a flowy pink night dress and he could just cry over how beautiful you are. Your body sits beautifully beneath the dress, your nipples poking through and visible from the coolness in the room, your arms shifting into being crossed over your chest-

"-Baby, did you hear me?" Your sweet voice beckons him back to reality as your brown eyes graze over him for any recognition of being lucid.

"I'm so sorry honey, I was thinking. What did you say?" John immediately feels guilty for missing what you said and instead oggling you like a dog would do a slab of meat.

"I said what are you looking at me like that for?"

John looks at you. Caught. Red handed. (more like red tip right now but that neither here nor there")

The smile that spreads over your face immediately says: 'i know what you want- and im prepared to give it to you.'

He looks at you and lowers his tone into a rasp. It hits you in a way that makes you feel like you can't deny him his requests.

"Come -ere."

Your body seems to walk toward the large plush bed without your permission.

You look at him doe eyed "what?" You can't tell why you're also whispering but it feels right.

He, in one move, tosses the comforter off of his lower half and sits up to grab your wide hips.

"You're acting like you caught me with my hand in the cookie jar, but you're just as wound up as me. Aren't ya?"

You stare at him breathlessly not realizing that the previous question was not rhetorical

John reaches him hand up and under your night gown and rubs your slit through your panties.

"I said: Aren't ya?"

You feel dizzy and unbalanced from the sensation and grip onto his shoulder to steady yourself.

"I am- I want you to- hah -touch me. Please"

You normally aren't this sensitive but the way that he is talking to you is making you weak.

"Look at me. Where do you want me to touch you. Cmon use your words?"

You try to just moan in response as he slows his pace.

"God- you're difficult. Is this it?"

John quickly inserts his fingers and begins pumping them as you hold onto his shoulders and writhe from the contact.

He only continues to rub the spongy spot inside of you and speak to you in a cooing, mocking tone- "What? That feel good? Are you gonna keep fucking yourself on my fingers until that cum drips down my wrist?"

You start to feel the heat and coiling in your stomach about to snap.

"Yes, John, please!"

Right as your vision is about to white out in pleasure, you tell John pulling his fingers out.

Whining in frustration you push out "John I was so close why would yo-"

The rest of you sentence is cut off as John stands up and moves behind you and roughly bends you over, making the excess fat on your body jiggle with the impact of you hitting the bed and pulling off your panties.

Your complaints are quickly silenced as John grabs for a pillow to put beneath your soft tummy. You moan clench around nothing as he lewdly leans down and spits on your entrance to make himself fit well.

"Your pussy is such a hungry little thing- you just needed some proper dick to shut you up huh?"

Your eyes begin to roll back into your head as you feel the rough stretch of John repeatedly pushing his dick inside to the hilt, exiting, and pushing inside again.

You can barely breathe- let alone form thoughts when he fucks you like this.

His raspy moans and quiet curses only push you closer to you orgasm.

He quickens his pace and you know you are done for- you aren't going to be able to hold it.

"John, pleasepleaseplease. I'm gonna- I'm- "

Completely invested in making you crazy- John slides his hand around your wide hip and plays with your clit and begins to talk into your ear in a condescending tone.

"You're gonna what huh? What are you gonna do? Are you gonna cum all over this dick baby?"

You can't even respond because that statement makes your vision completely go away as you babble incoherently and make a mess down John's thick, hairy thighs.

You don't notice during your orgasm but as you squeeze down into Price you begin to fuck back into him, roughly slamming your round ass onto him, making John completely incapable of holding out.

John fills you with a keening low moan as you finally begin to slow down

"Babyyy- fuck. -hah -just like thatttt."

John grabs onto the fat of your hip and buries himself inside and gives you the last of his orgasm.

He pulls out, cleans you off, lets you use the bathroom, and gets into bed and wraps his arms around your soft waist.

As you both quietly breathe slower and slower John finally speaks with an eyeroll-

"You definitely knew what you were pulling with that outfit. You know I'm a mumu man.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 1/3

Guys, I don't even know. Have some Vampire!Tommy/Witch!Buck for shits and giggles.

(CW: age gap? In that Buck's like 22 and Tommy's like 800; morally ambiguous!Tommy in that he's decent for a vampire but does not have a problem with hunting humans)

Read on AO3

The music was louder, the skirts were shorter, and lights were brighter, but somehow nothing at all had changed about these parties in two hundred years.

Wall-to-wall bodies, all of them vying to show off who had the most money, the finest jewelry, the prettiest partner hanging on their arm. The din of voices rising and falling to be heard over the music pumping through the room. Liquor flowing like water, waitstaff carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres that probably cost more than they made in a month. People practically falling over themselves to be seen, to be noticed, to be admired.

All of them completely unaware of the predators that walked among them.

“You don't look like you're having much fun, Kinard.”

He didn't react outwardly beyond raising an eyebrow as Lucy sidled up next to him, a glass of what was most assuredly not red wine in her hand. She leaned back against the wall he'd been holding up all night, scanning the crowded room in front of them with a practiced eye. No doubt she'd already identified the major players here tonight and had been working the room to their advantage since she arrived. Lucy was the youngest of their little coven–turned a mere fifty years ago–but she was already Alonzo's right hand. A position he had been only too happy to cede to her.

“I'm not,” he said dryly, waving away pretty waitress when she started to approach with a tray of champagne flutes, and ignoring the look of pouty disappointment that flashed across her face.

Lucy gave a neutral hum and sipped at her wineglass, her nose wrinkling briefly. Tommy could smell the anti-coagulants in the bagged blood Gerrard was serving the special guests…cheap bastard. Though he supposed it was better than the old days where he would just lure some desperate, destitute souls in off the street and bleed them dry right into the decanters he had sent up to the banquet tables. Okay, maybe these parties had changed a bit in two hundred years.

“You trust that shit?” he asked, jerking his chin towards the glass. Lucy smiled and threaded her arm through his.

“Gerrard's not stupid enough to try and poison me with you and Sal right here,” she said. “Spiteful enough, sure. But not stupid enough.”

Tommy grunted, a slight smile twitching at his lips. It was true. Gerrard was one of the oldest and most powerful vampires on the west coast. His coven sprawled across several cities, and his place at the forefront of coven politics was undisputed. In comparison, Alonzo’s coven was tiny. But they were incredibly respected, well-connected and well-established. Sal had friends in nearly every coven apart from Gerrard's and Tommy…well.

Tommy was also one of the oldest and most powerful vampires on the west coast.

He and Gerrard had history that stretched back much farther than the two centuries Gerrard had been hosting these “parties,” a long and (quite literally) bloody history. He hated the man more than he had ever hated anyone or anything in existence. Including the vampire that had made them both. Gerrard was better at politics, had amassed more power than Tommy could ever have even if he wanted to.

But Tommy had always been stronger.

So yes, Gerrard may have been spiteful enough to try and fuck with their representatives at this little soiree…but he wasn't stupid enough to try anything with Tommy right there.

“Any chance we can duck out before the finale tonight?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

Lucy dug her elbow into his side before letting go of his arm. “Hey, I know you can get by on a couple pints every month, but I'm fucking starving,” she said. Then she sobered and glanced around before leaning up to whisper in his ear. “Besides, Gerrard's been trying to put some bugs in ears about us going soft, not hunting properly. We can't afford to look weak with Gerrard trying to ally with Ortiz. The humans he brought in tonight are gonna die no matter what. Sucks for them, but things are too volatile. You don't have to tear some kid's throat out, but you're not leaving.”

“I hate it when you're logical,” he muttered back, leaning down to kiss her cheek before disengaging from her entirely and straightening up from the wall. “Guess I'll go do a lap. Remind everyone I'm here,” he said. Lucy chuckled.

“Oh trust me, Kinard. Everyone knows you’re here.”

He flipped her off as he skirted the edges of the party, scanning the crowd of writhing bodies with distaste. There were a lot of humans here. Maybe a few coven pets or potential turns–but if he knew Gerrard (and to his everlasting despair, he did) most of them were completely ignorant of the nature of this party, and the bloodbath in their very near future. No doubt they were all people not many would miss–struggling actors who'd come to LA with nothing but audacity and a dream, broke college kids with few family ties, temp agency regulars who barely stayed on a job long enough for people to know their face, let alone their name. Cattle, as far as Gerrard was concerned.

Granted, Tommy used to share that attitude. And hell, it wasn't like he was protesting the mass murder that was about to happen, or trying to warn anyone. He did, as a rule, avoid the wanton violence that Gerrard enjoyed so much, preferring to drink from willing coven pets or flit from victim to victim in the anonymous atmosphere of a club or bar, taking a sip here and a sip there until he was satisfied. Tommy had the self-control to do that, though, and at his age his hunger was easily sated.

He waded through the crowd, expertly ducking away from wandering hands and flirtatious glances, and nodding politely to the members of other covens he knew. Gerrard was hosting in one of the many sprawling mansions his coven owned, the party spread throughout the entire ground floor of the house. Eventually he found a parlor or gameroom or something that had been set up as a sort of bar area. Several bartenders were stationed at various points, all of them dressed in rental uniforms from the same temp agency. Idly, he wondered if Gerrard had someone on staff funneling victims to him. Probably.

Fucking bastard.

The guy holding court at the section Tommy ended up at was just a kid. Granted, pretty much everyone in the room, fellow vampires included, was a kid to Tommy. Hell, there were world heritage sites that were younger than him. But this was a kid. Tommy knew he had to be twenty-one for the temp agency to send him to tend bar, but if he was much beyond that, Tommy would kiss Gerrard when he saw him. He reminded Tommy almost painfully of Lucy the first time he'd seen her.

Granted…he'd never been quite so aware of how beautiful Lucy was.

And the kid was. Beautiful.

Unfairly blue eyes. An easy, charming smile that lit up his whole face like sunshine. Sandy brown hair that was starting to curl where his hairline was damp with sweat. A pink splotch of a birthmark over his eye that gave his handsome face a bit of character in the sea of LA-good-looking people. He mixed cocktails and poured drinks with a smooth confidence that didn't quite go all the way through, the whiff of false bravado in such a pretty package drawing the predators around him like catnip.

What was weird, though, was the guy seemed to be noticing. Not that it was particularly noteworthy that some hot young thing in this line of work would notice unfriendly eyes on him…but as Tommy watched, the kid's blue, blue eyes skated dismissively over the humans watching him with hungry eyes, but zeroed in on every single vampire that approached him and watched them unblinkingly until they moved away from him.

Intrigued as well as admiring now, Tommy slid into an open spot at the bar being tended to by another young man (not nearly as interesting or attractive) and ordered a whiskey, neat, and separate glass of Coke. Human food and drink was useless to him, of course, but he did still enjoy the taste of good alcohol. He could while away quite a bit of time just sipping on a drink, holding the taste in his mouth, savoring the flavor, before reluctantly spitting it out into another glass.

He watched the young man with the birthmark get jumpier and jumpier as the night wore on, though he hid it well. He didn't have any of the tattoos or sigil rings or jewelry that the covens used to mark their pets, didn't smell like he spent a great deal of time around vampires (although whatever cologne he was wearing smelled fucking delicious, and Tommy usually hated the artificial scents humans doused themselves in). He wasn't exactly sure why he was so interested in the kid…but damned if he wasn't curious. There was maybe even the thought that if he had to participate in tonight’s “feast,” he may as well indulge in such a tempting offering. The poor boy was going to die, anyway…Tommy could make it gentle. Pleasant, even.

He'd resolved to hang around the bar and stake his claim quickly when Gerrard announced that dinner was to be served, when the kid quietly grabbed the bartender who had served Tommy by the elbow and jerked his chin towards a darkened hallway that led off into another part of the mansion. The other bartender rolled his eyes, but followed willingly enough. Tommy was debating on following them, when one of Gerrard’s newer turns melted from the crowd and followed the path they'd just taken.

Tommy narrowed his eyes, recognizing the expression on the younger vampire's face. He was hungry. And he was tired of waiting.

It wasn't really his business. But unaccountably, he didn't like the idea of one of Gerrard's lackeys following the pretty human. He didn't like the idea of anyone else sinking their fangs into the intriguing kid, but especially one of Gerrard's people. Damn it.

He got up from the bar and made his own way down the hall.

“I'm telling you, man, something’s off here! We should go.” The urgent voice was whispering, but away from the music pumping in the other parts of the house, Tommy was able to hear it easily.

“Go? Are you fucking crazy? Evan, we're getting two grand each plus tips. That's rent and bills for this month and it's only the first!”

“Exactly!” ‘Evan’ hissed back. “You don't think that's fucking weird? The temp place doesn't book us in places like this! Please, let's just cash out and go. Something's…something's really wrong here. Something bad.”

“Evan,” the other bartender sighed. Tommy paused in the shadows of the darkened hallway, cocking his head and just listening. “Dude, normally I would totally take your word on vibes, but we need the money, man. Like–are you seriously telling me you can't show some creepy old dude a good time for a couple hours? For two grand?”

“Max! I'm not talking about some old creep grabbing my junk, something is wrong here and we need to leave.”

‘Evan’ sounded increasingly desperate, and Tommy frowned. Just what was freaking the kid out so much? What had he figured out? Tommy fucking hated Gerrard, but credit where credit was due, he was good at hiding the true nature of these parties until it was too late.

“Look man, you can leave if you want. I'm sticking it out. If one of these rich fucks tries to touch your no no box, send ‘em my way, okay? I will be happy to show them a good time for this kind of cash.”

“Max!”

Tommy heard a scoff and then the sound of feet rapidly approaching. The other bartender stalked past Tommy without even acknowledging him. Shame. He should have taken Evan's advice. It had to be getting close to midnight, and Gerrard was a dramatic fuck. If all the doors and windows weren't locked, yet, they soon would be.

But Tommy wasn't interested in Evan's friend. He continued down the hallway, ears pricked and listening for the other vampire that had followed the young men. The mansion was a labyrinth of hallways and interconnected rooms…the other must have skirted another route to avoid being seen.

His suspicions were proven right when he rounded the last corner of the hall and came out into an unused parlor. It was too small to be of much interest to the party-goers, too far removed from the main part of the house. It did have a lovely pair of French doors that opened out onto the moonlit garden, though. The other vampire must have detoured through the gardens.

He'd burst through the French doors.

And he had the pretty human pinned up against the opposite wall.

He wasn't even trying to hide his true nature, his fangs fully dropped and grinning, his eyes the gleaming, blood red of vampire about to feed.

“No need to leave early,” the vampire hissed, like a fucking cartoon villain. “We can get started on the main event right now.”

God, even Gerrard's turns were dramatic fucks.

The kid was clawing at the hand around his throat, his eyes wide with terror, the piercing scent of fear filling the room. He kicked and hit at his attacker, fighting like a maddened animal. Gerrard's turn just laughed, enjoying his struggles, a cat playing with a mouse. Tommy growled, low in his throat. He didn't really mean to…it just happened.

The other vampire startled a little, his gaze whipping over his shoulder towards Tommy, his grip on the kid's throat loosening.

Evan dragged in a desperate gasp of air, grabbed hold of his attacker's shoulders, and croaked out a word in a language other than English. Tommy's ears caught on it, the shape and sound of it dimly familiar, calling up barely-there memories of sitting in church with a woman whose face he hadn't been able to picture clearly in centuries.

Beneath Evan's hands, the other vampire's clothes started to smoke. Still facing Tommy, his face contorted in surprise. And then pain.

And then he was burning.

Fire raced over his body, exploding outwards from his chest, consuming him in a flash, in a heartbeat, in an instant. Before Tommy's very eyes, the turn's body dissolved into glowing ash, erupting into a cloud of fine grit that scattered over the floor in front of the kid.

A witch.

The thought skipped through Tommy's head, shock almost making him slow, almost making him miss the way the kid's head snapped up, his terrified gaze zeroing in on Tommy. A witch. The kid was a witch. He was a witch and he was looking at Tommy, realizing Tommy was another of the things that had just tried to kill him.

He saw the kid's face harden, saw him reach one hand out towards Tommy, pointing as he opened his mouth again.

The kid was a witch. But Tommy was very powerful. And very fast.

In a flash, he was across the room, snatching the witch up and shoving him against the same wall Gerrard's turn had. He clapped his hand over the boy's mouth, crowding in close and holding him immobile with his bulk.

“None of that,” he said, “someone's gonna have to vacuum this carpet tomorrow.”

The witch, Evan, glared at him furiously, his chest still heaving, his scent still sour with fear.

Behind them, the thumping music of the party suddenly cut off. A moment later, the first piercing scream rang out in the mansion.

“Guess it's dinnertime,” Tommy sighed, groaning and looking up at the ceiling a moment. “Well. What am I gonna do with you?”

[dizzyjelly]

Ruined Party

Word Count: 1.7k

summary: you're at a party w/ Ellie, Dina, and Jesse when you go to get drinks, but are interrupted by some perv guy. Ellie comes to the rescue and beats him up 😁 (you are dating Ellie)

Cw: inappropriate touching

You seriously hated parties. As much as you tried to not to be, you were basically the definition of anti-social. However, Ellie had been talking about this all week and you knew she’d really wanted you to go with her. Maybe it wasn’t your favorite, but the smile on your girlfriends face was definitely worth it.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get a drink.” She leaned down to whispered in your ear, then removed her arm that was linked with yours as she made her way to the kitchen.

You slowly started to panic as you stood alone in the corner, hoping nobody would notice. Then, you relaxed the tiniest bit when Dina and Jesse came to talk to you.

“Wow, I can’t believe she actually did it! You know as annoying as she can be, Ellie’s pretty damn persuasive.” Dina admitted, then took a sip of her drink.

“Hey! I heard that.” Ellie whined as she’d returned with two red solo cups, one for herself and the other for you.

She put her hand at the small of your back as she’d whispered in your ear once again, you blushed as you felt her hot breath against your neck.

“Don’t worry, I got you something light.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek then threw an arm around your shoulders as she sipped on her drink.

The four of you stood, talking and drinking. When eventually Dina and Jesse couldn’t keep their hands off each other, like always. You scrunched your nose with the smallest bit of disgust as they started to sloppily make out.

“Ugh, get a room!” you shouted, then noticed your drink was empty as well as Ellie’s, “I was gonna go get a refill, what did you have?” You asked her as you took her empty cup.

“Just surprise me.” She shrugged with a smile, pressing another kiss to your cheek before you left to the kitchen.

Once you got there you saw a decent amount of different drinks on the counter, picking up something random to pout for Ellie and then taking some for yourself as well. You were shocked at how smoothly that went, but it was too good to be true because some guy came up to you as you were trying to go back to the living room.

“Now, what is a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?” He tsked, smirking at you.

“I’m not alone.” You said with a rather dramatic eye roll, as you tried to push your way past him.

He wouldn’t let you to the doorway, grabbing your forearm with a tight grip as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Come on baby, let me show you a good time.” His breath sent tingles down your back, and not the good kind.

Trying and failing to remove yourself from his hold, you shook your head quite aggressively.

“Uh, no way dude. Can you please let me go?” You asked with a sigh, tired of whatever game he was trying to play.

“Ooh, and she’s got manners. I think I’m starting to like you.” He had another smirk on his face, then his other hand snaked around your waist and to your back.

Your eyes widened as he brought his hand down to cup and squeeze your ass. That familiar feeling of panic rising in your chest. You tried to push him off of you, but it was to no avail. He brought his hand to your waist, pulling you in so that your body was pressed against his.

You grimaced as you dropped the drinks in your hand, due to the fact that his hard on was pressed firmly against your thigh.

“Get off.” You groaned as you pushed him, but he only held you tighter.

“Dude I'm serious get the fuck off me.” You raised your voice slightly as you pushed harder.

Of course this asshat didn’t listen, his hand that previously held your arm now moved to your breast. You felt tears prick your eyes as you struggled to breathe regularly.

“Stop. Stop it!” You yelled now, growing hysterical as he continued to touch you.

Now there were tears coming down your face and you could barely breathe. You tried your hardest to remove his hands from you, but it was no use. He grabbed your hair from the back, pulling your head so it was on his shoulder. You couldn’t even hear whatever dirty things he was whispering in your ear because you could hear your own heart pounding.

Ellie was making her way to the kitchen because you’d been taking a while, and then she saw you crying while some douchebag had his hands on you. It didn’t take long for her hands to ball into fists at her side.

“Hey, asshole!” She shouted, grabbing the guy by his shoulder and ripping him away from you, turning him to face her.

“What? Can’t a guy have a little fun?” He laughed, as if he’d done nothing wrong.

You stood back against the kitchen wall, sliding down it as you sat on the tile floor. Your head was in your hands as your chest rose and fell at a violent pace, now you were just having a full on panic attack as you sobbed.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” Ellie spoke with fury.

You couldn’t help but turn to look when you heard the sound of a hard punch. Thankfully it had been from Ellie, she’d gotten him square in the nose. Quickly, you turned back around and buried your head between your knees as you brought them to your chest. Ellie was now on top of the guy, blows landing against his face repeatedly.

“Jesus Christ, Ellie! Ellie, stop!” you heard Jesse shout, then the punching stopped as you assumed he’d pulled her off of him.

Dina ran over to you on the floor, getting down on her knees as she placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Y/n? Hey, just breathe.” She spoke softly, her other hand on your shoulder as well now.

Her words meant nothing because you just continued to hyperventilate as you wrapped your arms around your knees tightly, squeezing your hands together.

“Ellie! Get in here, I’m not sure what to do!” Dina shouted, removing her hands from your shoulders as she stood.

Ellie rushed over to you, her brows now furrowed with worry. She grabbed your hands in her own, slowly caressing them so you’d loosen them. It worked after a minute, but your head stayed in your knees and your breathing wasn’t getting any better.

“Hey. Baby girl, it’s me.” She whispered as she leaned into you.

“Can you look at me, please?” She whispered, and gave you a small smile as you lifted your head.

“Hi. I’m right here, now listen to me you gotta breathe, just try your best to match me, ok?” She brought a hand to your cheek while the other held your hand.

She took slow, deep breaths and waited as it took you a minute to get there. Once your breathing was normal, she pulled you in for a hug.

“Good job, baby. I’m so proud” She whispered in your ear, you buried your face into her shoulder as you wrapped your arms around her neck tightly.

Her arms wrapped around your middle. One of her hands made its way up and down your back soothingly, the other stayed placed at the small of your back. You sniffled, tears still falling.

“He- he wouldn’t stop touching me.” You spoke with a quiet, broken voice through your tears.

“Shh, shh. I know baby, I know. It’s ok now, I’m here baby girl. I’m sorry.” She whispered, holding you tighter.

“I j-just wanna go home.” You cried harder into her, and she sighed against you.

“Ok. Let’s go, come on.” She held both your hands and helped you to stand, her arm came around your waist as she walked you out and to the car.

Your eyes widened as you saw the guy from earlier, he was now lying on the floor with a bloody face as he whined like a baby. Sniffling, you looked away and just focused on the girl beside you. The two of you got to the car and she opened up the passenger side door for you, then closed it as well.

Ellie got into the driver’s seat, letting out a defeated sigh. She brought a hand to rest on your thigh, knowing that was something that always comforted you. You placed your own hand on too of hers, your tears slowly came to a stop as you were out of the party environment.

“I never should’ve let you go off alone. I’m such an idiot.” She would only blame herself for what happened, of course.

“Hey, don’t say that. You couldn’t of known, it’s not your fault.” You spoke sincerely, bringing a hand to cup her cheek.

She leaned over the middle console, giving you a kiss. Then she waited a second before starting the car and driving the two of you home. Once you got there, you immediately went up to bed. Getting changed into some comfortable clothes first, but right when you were comfy your climbed right into bed and under the covers.

Ellie joined you shortly after, making sure to lock up the house and shut off the lights. She got in bed beside you, lying down so she faced you as you were on your side facing the wall. A small smile made its way to your face as she leaned closer, spooning you.

Her arm went around your waist and her hand rested on your stomach, rubbing small soothing circles on your tummy. You held your hand on her forearm, letting out a small sigh of relief.

“G’night Els.” You mumbled as your eyes were fluttering shut.

“Goodnight baby.” She whispered back, giving you a light kiss on the cheek before she shut off the lap on your bedside table.

The both of you fell asleep shortly after that, and surprisingly slept all the way though the night. Even after the events of the party, you were just happy to go home with Ellie and feel taken care of and protected.

[broodwolf221]

meta that's mostly about vivienne and her pro-circle views, but also touches on both sera and anders. I love them all and that shows, none of this is character hate, but I'm trying to explore the nuance at play here

adding character hate on this post will get you blocked

cws: mentions of the following: abuse; starvation; murder

obviously sera and vivienne are very, very different from each other... but I think one important commonality between them is a desire to avoid anarchy as a solution

sera doesn't want the red jennies to become a new political power - she wants to keep the current batch of nobles on edge, knowing that the "red jenny" may come for them if they fuck up too much. she also doesn't want to take out all the current nobles bc she knows that new ones will rise to take their place. she hates the nobles, but she also sees how an anarchist revolution would harm the very people she cares about, those she's trying to help as a red jenny

vivienne doesn't want to abolish the circles, but she also doesn't want to permit the abuses within them... but she, quite realistically, views the destruction of the chantry/subsequent vote for the dissolution of the circles as an inciting factor in the mage-templar war

anders' actions gave people new and immediate reason to fear mages. whether he was right to do it or not - and I tend to think he was - does not preclude it having consequences, even those that directly harm the very group he was trying to liberate

further, the function of the circles as a place for mages to train is necessary, and is also why I personally tend to feel a little uncomfortable with direct parallels being made to rl groups. no minority or oppressed group in rl can accidentally burn down the family barn because they get upset. I'm all for ppl making these connections if that works for them, but I always look at things first and foremost as existing within their canon context, not referencing reality outside of it

with that in mind... training mages is necessary. they need to be able to avoid possession, to learn to control their abilities, etc. does it need to be in a circle tower? no! ofc not! but there does need to be a form of training

vivienne sees the circles as fulfilling that role. the dissolution of them plunged mages into uncertainty - the anarchy she is so opposed to. who will train new mages now? how will they even be discovered?

in banter with dorian, sera once mentions a mage who got picked up by the templars, so he's "better now." dorian reacted with shock, asking if she knew what the southern circles are like, and she replied that he got three square meals a day, a cot. and he wouldn't starve or be killed in the street, both of which she'd seen

this isn't saying circles are the ideal, because they have abuses occurring within them too. the one in kirkwall seemed to be the worst, but we can't know the extent of it in every circle throughout time. it is, however, a place with a severe power imbalance and stark controls placed upon people as a matter of course

it is also the current and only solution within a large part of thedas. without it, what will happen to those kids who get mad and burn a building down? will the non-mages around them be kind, or will they be brutal? will they be able to turn them over to rogue apostates?

this is the problem with anarchy imo - some systems absolutely deserve to be destroyed, but there are a LOT of people who are going to fall through the cracks in an anarchist revolution

so, tl;dr: anders was right. and vivienne is right. circles are bad, but they are also the only system in place rn. and sera and vivienne have an anti-anarchy pov that they share, which is very interesting to me.

[transmascpetewentz]

Intro + Basic Stuff

It has been 5 days since a transandrophobe has been horrifyingly disrespectful of a gay trans man who died of AIDS on one of my posts or in my inbox.

It has been 3 days since a cis gay man has whined about his genital preference in my notes and/or inbox when I didn't ask.

If you're here because someone accused me of being a TERF, please know that I am not. Read this for more details.

I can't think of a name to use on this blog so just refer to me either by my URL or a silly nickname. My BYF as well as a few blinkies are under the cut.

my pronouns are he/him, but any are fine if you're clearly using them to show that you respect me. they/them is generally okay as long as you aren't using them to dehumanize me.

i prefer gendered terms (boy, girl, enby) over neutral terms, but i will block you if you use "girl" in a misgendering sense. malewife and similar terms are fine. also, this is highly unlikely to come up, but please don't call me "queen."

i'm USAmerican, and when i'm talking about issues, i'm likely talking about USAmerica unless i indicate otherwise.

i'm currently having brainrot about: fall out boy, american idiot, red white and royal blue, fallout new vegas, and velvet goldmine (the 1998 film).

i also post untagged discourse on this blog, specifically talking about transmasc issues, trans liberation, queer liberation, and how to be normal about transmascs if you aren't one.

i'm also looking into converting to judaism, and as such i might post about conversion and judaism in general. filter #judaism if you don't want to see it.

i'm part of a system, so it might not always be the same person answering asks. i probably won't post about it mostly because i want to stay out of syscourse.

all original posts are #wentz.txt, asks are #asks. if i ever have photos of myself on here, they'll be #wentz.jpg.

this blog runs on a queue, so just because i post doesn't mean i've been online recently.

this is my alternate account. i have a main blog that i'm ignoring due to harassment. if you have me blocked on my main and try to follow me here, i'm blocking you for your own sake.

cis women are welcome to follow but don't touch any of my posts making fun of cis gay men or i will bite you.

blog rules:

no, i'm never sharing my age on here.

tag filtering: flashing, eyestrain, loud, violence cw, sexual assault cw, pedophilia cw, self harm cw, suicide cw, not worksafe, long post, anon hate, arguing with bigots, fascism cw.

please do not ask me about whether i am pro or anti ship, whether i support endogenic systems, or my views on intracommunity issues i'm not part of.

i'm autistic and as such might not understand if i'm making you uncomfortable. please either block me or DM me and tell me to stop doing something.

i won't reblog your callout post, reblog bait, guilt tripping, or donation post. an exception might be made for your donation post if we're mutuals.

if i don't block you, then i don't mind you following me. i don't softblock. please don't softblock me either, just block or else i'll refollow.

if i have reblogs enabled on a post, i'm fine with anyone reblogging it. if i have replies enabled, i'm fine with anyone replying.

if you're going to send anon hate, it has to be interesting, original, funny, and/or creative.

also, if you're going to send anon hate, please refrain from calling me slurs, sending me death threats, sexually harassing me, or misgendering me. also, please censor the name sh***a, or don't use the name at all in your ask.

i don't really have a dni, but i will block you if: you fetishize gay men or trans men, you support capitalism and/or cops, you glorify the actions of the ussr, you deny that transandrophobia exists, you think that feminine cis men are more oppressed than feminine trans men.

actually, i have to add a dni now: please dni if you falsely accuse gay men who died of aids of sexual assault. yes, someone like this tried to interact with me.

That should be it for now!

[zoomiespeedilywrites]

Whump Snippet #3

CW: Self-harm!!!

“Izuku?” Aizawa knocked on the door. 

“D-don’t!” His voice sounded wet. Aizawa was instantly alert. 

“Izuku? Are you okay?” 

“No- I mean, yes,” he was crying. “Don’t come in!” 

“Izuku, I need to talk to you. I have good news.” 

“Go away,” A sob. Aizawa sighed, and opened the door anyway. The kid could hate him after Aizawa made sure he was okay. 

He most definitely wasn’t. 

Izuku was a wreck. His long, poofy hair was slick with sweat, his body shaking. He was wearing only a tank top, and Shota could see half-picked scabs leaking down his arms. Izuku held his blue pillow close, shaking his had over and over again. Aizawa stepped forward, seeing the blood dripping down Izuku’s arms. 

It was bright red and fresh. It wasn’t slightly tinted like blood under a scab was. No, those were new wounds. Those were deliberate. 

“Oh kid,” Aizawa rushed over to Izuku's side. The kid was shaking. Blood stained the pillow he was holding. “Let me help you,” 

“No, no you can’t, it’s all me, I’m sorry, I can’t be a hero, I just can’t, I promise. I never will, I’ll never leave, I promise.” 

“Shh, Izuku, it’s gonna be okay.” Blood dripped into his hands. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

“I don’t- I don’t wanna die!” Izuku gasped, shaking his head. 

“I know, I know.” Aizawa grabbed a tissue from nearby, slowly cleaning up the blood he could. It was soaked in seconds. 

“It just- I itched so bad, I’m so itchy because of everything!” 

“The scabs?” Aizawa whispered. His upper body was littered in them, big and small and all half bleeding. Though those cleared themselves up much better than the fresh cuts on Izuku’s wrists. 

“Yes!” He sobbed. Aizawa used his scarf to bring over the box of tissues and slowly cleaned up what he could. “It hurts so bad.” 

“Talk to me, Izuku,” Shota whispers, cleaning his wounds with a touch so light Izuku thought he imagined it. “Why do these if it hurts so bad?” 

“I’ve been- so many- I can’t feel my arms!” He half screamed, rocking himself back and forth. It jostled his wounds, and a few of his deeper wounds spurted blood. Aizawa felt something squelch under his knee, and he almost vomited. A chunk of meat. 

“You can’t feel your arms?” Aizawa asked calmly, ignoring the feeling against his knee. “I get it, I do.” 

“It hurts, but I need it, I need to feel something.” 

“Is that why you pick at them all the time?” Izuku sniffled and nodded, his rocking slowly coming to a stop. He heard a gasp. Inko Midoriya. 

“How’d you lose feeling?” Aizawa asked softly. He heard a sob and the sound of something being picked up. “Will you tell me?” 

“School…” 

“Inko, do you have bandages?” 

“I do…” Inko rushed out of the room before coming back with a box of medical supplies. 

“Mom…” Izuku whispered, another tear leaving his eye. 

“Shh, Izuku. It’s okay. I get it,” Inko sat next to him, pulling the blood soaked pillow away from him. “I have some too.” 

“...you do?” 

“I do.” She laughed, a pitiful wet sound. “Just like yours.” 

“I’m so sorry, Mom.” 

“I’m sorry too, my baby.” She cried softly, pressing his bloody scarred hand against her face. Aizawa cleaned the boy’s wounds as quickly as possible, not missing how Izuku barely flinched as he applied the anti septic. Some of these needed stitches. Mostly the wounds that were chunks of missing flesh. They could deal with those later.

Right now, Izuku was his biggest priority. 

[alidoesgaming]

Vault-Tec Calling - The Day The Bombs Fell

Series Masterlist here!

Summary: It was just a day until the bombs fell.

CW: Anti-Communism themes, nuclear bombing, war

Aemyra should've known. Nate was excitedly planning for their future. The last time he did that was two days before he was shipped out to go fight in Anchorage. She hated that stupid, pointless war. Her thoughts were that there were more pressing matters on the home front.

For God's sake, drug usage was rampant and there were homeless veterans all around the greater Boston area. Science was advancing in all the wrong places. Surely, the United States government could yield to the Chinese.

Nate tried to tell her then that it was her hormones causing these "unpatriotic" thoughts. He was a soldier through and through, one in a line of dozens in his family. Aemyra loved him, truly. Even if his blood ran, as he called it, "red, white, and star spangled blue" and it diminished his thinking critically of his orders and his government. She always said she could be logical enough for the both of them.

She should have known.

The Vault-Tec representative came knocking at their door for what felt like the thirtieth time that month.

"Congratulations! You've been pre-selected for entrance into the local vault, Vault 111," he said enthusiastically.

He had the slimy charm of a salesman without ever asking for a dime. It was Nate's military service, he had explained, and she had no reason to question it. Most of their community was like them. Veterans and their families, coming to settle down after war. She was the only wife there that had a degree in law, but many of the women were much better homemakers than she could ever hope to be.

Aemyra pre-registered their family into entry. It would make the process smoother in case of "total nuclear annihilation". Less paperwork and fuss was always best for her.

When he left and she went to care for Shaun, Nate followed her. He was talking about taking Shaun to the park that weekend. It was almost Halloween. They should go and take Shaun to enjoy the weather before winter came.

God, she wanted to go back.

Codsworth called for them from the living room. Aemyra entered the room only to hear the news breaking of confirmed nuclear detonations. Plural. All over the country. It was no longer a drill like all United States citizens were used to. It was real.

They ran outside. Their neighbors were panicked, the military moving in. They had to get to the Vault. Their son, their baby, deserved to grow up. They had to get there.

As they approached the gates, both military and Vault-Tec personnel were guarding the gate. That damned Vault-Tec representative was there, pleading to get in.

"But I AM Vault-Tec," he exclaimed. But it was to no avail, the soldiers preparing to open fire on anyone trying to push their luck.

Once he ran, she rushed forward and gave the man her name. Nate's name. They were urged to follow, quickly. She looked back to Nate, wondering what he thought about his precious government now that they were willing to gun innocent people down for no other reason than being scared. But she couldn't think too much about that.

They were put onto a platform, one that would take them down into the Vault. She was safe, Nate was safe, Shaun was safe. They were going to live.

And then the bomb fell before they could be lowered.

The heat rushed over their heads just before the platform was down far enough for them to be sealed away. But it's okay. It was far away enough. It had to be.

><><><><><><><

Taglist: @zaldritzosrose

Let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist!

[quadrant-horror-stories]

[cw - mentions of suicide and cults]

My kismesis indirectly murdered her entire friend group, and 𓂀 don't know what to do.

𓂀 (Hemoanon) have known this girl (Cerulean) since we were grubs, but we only made it official half a sweep ago. She's the nicest person that 𓂀 know and doesn't really get blackromance the same way 𓂀 do, but our quad is pretty healthy. We rarely meet in-person, only once a few wipes, but we do talk online often.

They asked me to join a blog they were making about three perigrees ago, something about anti-rebellion or justice or something. 𓂀 declined, and they seemed kind of upset about it since some of her other friends (Jade, Gold, Cerulean, Violet and one Hemoanon) would be there too and she really wanted them to meet me. 𓂀 told her 𓂀 don't really deal well with online crowds, especially higher-blooded ones. She was still kind of hurt about it, but she let me off the hook.

A few wipes or so later, she's completely stopped talking to me if it's not about the blog. The entire group's dissolved into petty infighting, and there's a bunch of new people there that neither of us have even met. Someone's claiming to be a cherub and posting disgusting food pictures, some purpleblood keeps saying cryptic shit about fate and getting their head cut off, and apparently one of Grumblr's helmswomen got involved?

𓂀 decide to visit her a little earlier, just to check if they were doing okay mentally as the ringleader of this shitcarnival. First thing 𓂀 notice when 𓂀 arrive is the beheaded corpse of a purpleblood laughsassin outside of her aparthive door. Apparently her name got leaked on some fucking seadweller Shredditor blog and some sick fuck thought it'd be funny to try and off her. Fucking disgusting.

So imagine me, violently pissed off as hell, practically kicking her fucking door down to see if the dumb asshole's alright.

And the first thing 𓂀 see when 𓂀 walk in that room is her surrounded by red string and photos of dead bodies. Sobbing her eyes out, visibly shaking, whispering about how she can't save anyone and about how she's a murderer. Turns out the blog was being used as a breeding grounds for a suicidal animal reincarnation cult behind her back. 𓂀've never seen anyone cry so hard in my life.

𓂀 don't know what to do. What the hell can 𓂀 do? 𓂀 hate her as much as any good kismesis can, but knowing that she indirectly caused all of these deaths without even knowing is just horrible.

,

[dotthings]

Laugh it up over your incorrect, petty, viral grudgewanking posts, bitter destiel stans, but you’re only making yourselves look bad and tipping your hand about what actual antis you are. I am saying this as a Destiel shipper myself. You aren’t cute.

First of all, The Winchesters is not tanking. That’s a false narrative invented by antis who don’t know how to do math and don’t understand the importance of demo. Cheap pr fluffing from a desperate new network owner who had to sell land in order to fund operations of the bankrupt CW and avoid debt adding up raw viewing numbers for a press release is understandable marketing practice but they are not going to be actually ignoring the demos. The Winchesters is doing great. It’s doing better than the supposed “#1 show” and supposed “#1 new show!!” Also please note the obvious pr fluffing is at the expense of All American and All American: Homecoming, two black led shows (not only with all black lead casts, but written, produced, directed predominantly if not entirely by black people), who are the actual most consistent ratings champs at CW and don’t anyone forget it.

Secondly, why on earth are certain bitter hellers so eager to have Destiel due to delusions of grandeur they can bully Jensen into it. I guess that false power rush is heady. But they don’t want it if it’s something Jensen, the boss of spn, came around on, something Jensen has on the brain, something Jensen cares about and feels a personal pull to address. Aside from how some bitter hellers really want to rob Jensen of all his autonomy and rob him of all credit, I am baffled why this fantasy that Jensen hates Destiel, Jensen is against Destiel, and Jensen will only do destiel as a desperate ratings grab is so attractive to some people from the destiel lane. Their bitterness has warped their lenses.

This is not me talking from my own desperate wishlist. It’s a common sense pragmatic approach because I’m not warping everything.

I’ve also had enough of bitter hellers trying to hold positive destiel shippers who respect Jensen’s viewpoints responsible. No. It’s not our responsibility or our fault if you keep spewing bitter distorted narratives and it’s not our responsibility whether you decide to believe or not. We’ve been hurt too. Badly. It is our choice how we want to respond to a completely changed conditions—the old guard that kept yanking back the writers’ efforts at destiel is gone, the old corporate structure is gone, Jensen is the spn boss.

It must just terrify anti-Destiels that Jensen isn’t anti-Destiel with them.

And you can dislike TW if you want to, that’s your right, but that doesn’t mean everyone has to lie down quietly and pretend your false narratives and hate fixation isn’t a thing.

These things are a narrative of anti-TW, anti-Jensen, and anti-Destiels. The first clue should have been the OP is a blog named for hatred of spn itself. I suspect the post is a troll who wants you to think they’re all for Destiel but all they’re doing is spreading the narrative anti-Destiels want everyone to believe.

Congrats on playing yourselves very very hard because you bought into all the bad discourse spewed from the warped bitterness of the J*red stanning lane.

[shouta-edits]

"Hii I was wondering if I could get a Javier Escuella and John Marston moodboard ? Both from Red Dead Redemption ( the first game ) with themes of wolves, lovers to enemies tropes, and CNC / dubcon ?" -@reddeadselfship requested

[bracketsoffear]

Warren the Eagle propaganda: here's a video compilation of his nasty crap--https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iD-67y0Iq30&t=103s.

He tries to seem like he's just a friendly and energetic guy there to teach the trio about how to be a good friend, but it quickly becomes apparent that he's highly selfish and neurotic, responds very poorly to any criticism to his ideas, and is only using the OK Stop program (which he is not supposed to technically be affiliated with anyways) to try and rope others into listening to his podcast, and he immediately starts acting pushy and overbearing towards Imaginary Shy Older Brother the moment he realizes that he can get away with it.

To illustrate the effects of bullying within friend groups, he launches into a song/slideshow about a "guy that I knew," which is actually just a musical rant about his former friends. Sorting through his bullshit, we can infer that Warren was part of an anti-bullying organization called OK Stop, but got fired because he got upset when his coworkers didn't pay him enough attention or listened to his business ideas and started harassing them--a newspaper in an earlier episode mentions "WORM FIRED FOR HARASSMENT." He went on to steal some equipment from the place, claiming that he still had the legal right to continue using it, and continued being an unofficial "Friendship Expert" for his own self-serving ends. He's also implied to be trying to get the students to pay for a "Restaurant Style Meal" for him, given how he insists on having it with them despite being a stranger.

He constantly says friends need to take each other into consideration, but he makes everything about himself and it's up for debate whether or not he just made the situation between Red, Duck, and Yellow worse. It's most clear when, after his attempt to make everybody listen to his podcast is shut down, he immediately declares that friendships are about doing what everybody wants to do and not just doing your own thing, before resuming his attempt to put on his podcast. He then tries to trap Yellow Guy in his own mind forever so Warren can be his "best friend" while Yellow Guy's body sags and melts.

He's also described by the puppets as being generally unpleasant and gross:

Warren: "But how could a confident, handsome worm--EAGLE!--have trouble keeping friends? Good question!"

Red Guy: "Is it because of the way you look? [...] Yeah, all sort of lumpy and red-raw."

Duck: "Is it because you look like a bit of a bigger animal that fell off or was removed and then came to life?"

Yellow Guy: "Looks more like an old person's finger."

Duck: "Reminds me of an infection I had up my--"

Red Guy: "Or was it the voice?"

Colin: "He looks like a tumor!"

Duck: "And he stinks!"

Yellow Guy: "I know! It's because you've got beady eyes like a rat!"

Red Guy: "Or because you're generally unlikeable in a way that's hard to pin down."

And his final form--the one he takes when he chases Yellow Guy through his mind to force friendship upon him--looks like a Cronenbergian mound of slimy flesh folds.

He's the embodiment of intrusive thoughts and insecurities. Warren feeds Yellow Guy's fears that Red Guy and Duck hate him and he literally crawls into Yellow Guy's brain and ruins his happy place. After removing him from Yellow Guy's head, Red Guy and Duck sing about how everyone has a worm in their brain that tells them negative and upsetting things (such as how Red Guy can't wear denim) and they should be ignored.

Video Link

CW: body horror, blood, death, surreal, toxic relationships

[reveseke]

Nomu ! Katsuki AU ; AFTERMATH

Simple continuation of nomu!katsuki origin which you can find here ( linklinklink ) . How does everybody feel about Katsuki' s supposed death ? Also the handlers not good with grief so brief discussion on it nothing more lol .

Have a lil sneak peak of a fic I'm writing as a continuation as the headcanons are short lol .

Genre — [ Angst ]

Characters — [ Katsuki Bakugo mention | Reader + Class 1A mention | Ms. & Mr. Bakugo mention | UA staff ]

Additional — [ Slight all might hate | Katsuki x reader fic | male he him Reader ]

CW — [ None | Angsty ? ]

DNI - Fudanashis/fujodashis, women & fem-aligned, profic/proship, anti - LGBTQ+ folk & exclusionists, anti-antis, Necro- Zoo- Pedophiles + (NO)Maps(and other terms), basic DNI criteria, kink/nude/nsfw/sh/vent/pro-ana/ed/18+ blogs

So it came as a surprise to Japan that Bakugo died during the Kamino incident. it was broadcasted for it being a major incident in the first place.

All might felt like he failed to rescue his own student, hitting him in the head harder with quilt bc he had hit the boy accidently. Sending Kat into a wall and rendering him unconscious while he bled out with a rather obnoxiously large piece of wood stuck to his stomach.

When he had realised having hit the boy he had rushed to check on him. It was supposed to be a quick mission so no medics were on the scene. He felt the boy weaken in his arms quite literally.

Every one of his classmates mourned on the topic, leaving their condolences on the boy's desk. Few it may have hit even harder than others were Izuku and few Bakusquad members including R.

Grown close knitted Izuku mourned a childhood friend. R, Eijiro and few others mourned a good friend on the side instead.

Katsuki's family was not vining with the news of losing their only child. Mitsuki going off hella mad and upset and not even her husband trying to calm her bc he's just shook on the news, but not Mitsuki scared to cuss All might out on not saving his little boy and senting the teachers out in a quarter of a second.

The death of Bakugo Katsuki' was ruled as the villains fault

Which it partly was. But was it disclosed to be the raid teams fault as well? To the public, to anybody outside that team? No. No it was not. It was left out for the pride of the heroes.

Therefore nobody excepted it to come undone, by the claws of the survivor.

Ring-a-ding the desk bell rang in the dead of the night. Waking up the half-a-sleep boy from his slumber, a trail of drool down his chin wiped off as he pushed himself off of the desk he had so graciously nodded off.

Wandering out of the staff backrooms with annoyed groan as R took a look at the shop side. Ready to warn the comer that hey the shops actually closed he stopped in his tracks before getting a peep out of him.

Shifting rather uncomfortably in its wake a tall easily a little too big dragonic creature with a wild mane of cherry red and blond stood behind the staff desk. Nuzzling the desk bell like it's life depended on it, while pushing it down too much so it didn't continue to ring, stopping in it's tracks as R came to view.

The two looked at each other.

One of dumbfound and still sleep hazed and the second with pure need of assistance and curiousity, one could say.

[facepalming-since-chernobyl]

Can confirm the John Wick prequel is filming because one of the actors on it confirmed it on an interview I watched for another fandom. And I'm going to say something else to play devil's advocate which will probably piss off people/set off a firestorm but I have to say it: I don't blame KMCG for working on it and here's why: unless you're an A-lister (Hanks, Cruise, Roberts, Clooney, Streep, etc.), oftentimes actors/crew don't have the luxury of turning down which projects they do. Most actors in Hollywood are not filthy rich movie stars, they're "jobbing" actors just getting by and even ones who work steadily still have to worry about how little money they take home once the dust settles (look up Adelaide Kane's story about how little money she made on her CW show once all her bills were paid). The reality also is that if you're a regular working actor lucky to get work, if you turn down something because someone problematic works on it, you may never work because problematic people in Hollywood are everywhere. Would I do what KMCG is doing? Probably not. But I'm not going to judge her or the other cast/crew who may just be trying to pay rent and put food on their tables and may not have a choice so have to take what jobs they can get or risk not working. Just my .02.

Anon, for the third time.

No one is hating on McG, even if imo working with Mel Gibson, who is not problematic, but a women and babies beater, open homophobe and anti-Semite, is a red flag, sorry not sorry, no matter if you are C class actor or not, but it's about her fanatic STANS, who created some weird ass standards, call everyone jobless if they don't act for a month, and toxic because of bieng "friends with AK and harassing women on set" and then turned blind when their fave doesn't work or work with a real piece of shit. Is it my fault or other people that they have enough of the hypocricy? Probably, don't care.

[cashmere-caveman]

it is my deep seated personal belief that in any modern day lotr au gondor would be some kind of in-name-only parliamentary monarchy (think skandinavia/spain/the netherlands or sth) with their royal line actively dying out and aragorn only being in line for the throne bc the last monarch died a childless only child and probably even divorced or sth idk and even though hes like technically only royal through fifteen degrees of separation he suddenly is hunted down by the royal chief of staff or the inbreeding monitoring bureau of gondorian royal relations or sth (idk how royalty works can u tell) bc they need a king, goddamnit!!

meanwhile aragorn is in deep cover hiding at elronds hunting lodge or sth bc aragorn Does NOT want to become king. he wants to hang out with his fancy elven girlfriend and avoid his pseudo father slash father in law (i like to think of the dynamic between him and elrond kind of like the one barry allen and joe west have on cw's the flash) pestering him if hes gonna make his daughter an honest woman or man up and break up

and obviously to top it all off, boromir is the eldest son of a v famous family/dynasty of politicians (think uhhhhh. the only international recognizable politician dynasty i can think of rn is the kennedys. or the bush family if u wanna be mean about it) who is a staunch anti-monarchist and fucking hates aragorns guts the first time they are introduced on principle alone (gondor has no king! gondor Needs no king!!! he is on that chris eccleston wavelength u get me)

anyway idk what to do w this except to say if EYE had written red white and royal blue (i have not read that book. i have not seen that film. and i never will <3) it would be about very stressed 40 somethings reluctantly joining forces to try dismantle the monarchy for good while trying to survive the grease fire that is gondorian politics and also arwen subtly scheming to get the threesome of her dreams 😌