#cw raw egg

[fymo-blogs]

Warning for raw egg below cut!

🍚|🍛|🍙

🍴|🥄|🍵

🍲|🥣|🫕

Fried Rice stimboard

Event: Fymos 100 Event Dsy 29

Themes: Rice

Song:

[sweetlyharley]

CAN I GET A STIMBOARD BASED OFF OF KOREAN BBQ (ROBLOX) WITH LIKE MEAT ESPECIALLY. AND LIKE COOKING AND FOOD GOD SO MUCH FOOD IM SO HUNGRY

🥩-🍖-🥩//🥚-🔪-🥚\\🍖-🥩-🍖

KOREAN BBQ (ROBLOX) STIMBOARD

#@ With themes of meat, food, and cooking !!

[hillo-onyx]

Is my stomach pain caused by anxiety, my IBS, or just actual maggots laying eggs in me :)

[oculusxcaro]

As delicious as it is, cooked food doesn't really do much for Khare. The cooking process breaks down the DNA found in meat and other animal products meaning that it actually becomes less nutritional for her. It's the building blocks of life that her body needs to slow down the mutation process, digesting what she consumes instead of attacking her own body's DNA. She hasn't had much reason to eat raw just yet as cooking is a longterm staple of humanity, but a good raw steak will do her so much better than some leftover scraps from the kitchen.

[halogalopaghost]

Egg and rice are so precious to me like, girlies that are so versatile and made for each other, soulmates fr,

Who else is doing it like them

[strawberrymothteeth]

🥩🥚🥩

A flats commission for @shadow-firegirl

[solongllondon]

okay i held out as long as i could. muss das aber leider doch mit der Welt teilen. @langernameohnebedeutung hier is das Wasserkocher-Ei-Koch-Versuch-Video von meinem papa. kochtopf/eierkocher 1; wasserkocher 0. rip.

oscar worthy, i fear...

[gelastocoridae]

I bothered my sister to come see how lovely a particular animal head looked before I processed it and she pointed out the weird smell in the room and I was so distracted by the little head in my hand I was just like

"yeah, that's the smell of old blood. and uh.. organ.. cavity.... fluid... skin."

[yevolas]

Spronkles in eggs

it was pretty good

Seriously, put sprinkles in eggs, they melt.

[luveline]

would you ever be willing to write the day spencer and stripper!reader met in the grocery store? i’ve always loved the concept when you’ve referenced it in the story, i would love to read it👀 you’re absolutely incredible and i can never say anything not anon to you because my blog is flooding you with notes constantly and i’m embarrassed😅

thank you for your request ❤️ fem!reader, 1.5k

cw for domestic violence and workplace abuse

There's this weird organic grocery store by Spencer's place that's far too expensive, but it's a ten minute walk, so that's where he goes. (Weird in separation to organic.) 

He needs a lot of groceries now he's home for the week. Bread, vegetables, rice, flour if he wants to try and make pancakes, which he does. He also needs a new pen to write a letter for his mom, but Leaven is slightly too small for a stationery section. 

He doesn't know what he'll say to her in this one. Maybe that the cases he's going on are easy, or that he's been reading about crows. She's not feeling well lately. It might help her to know he's doing gentle things, even if it isn't true. 

No, he thinks. Can't lie to her. He never lies to his mom. 

Eggs. Sugar. Coffee grounds. He fills his cart. It'll be a lot to carry on the way home, but better to do it in one go. He likes keeping busy but he's a human being, too, and he's looking forward to spending at least sixteen hours in bed after dinner tonight. 

You look tired, too. 

Your back is turned, but Spencer knows it's you. You must live close by, he's been seeing you duck in and out for months. Usually with a loaf of bread or a single box of painkillers tucked in your pocket. You don't steal, he'd be able to tell, and he wouldn't say anything if you did, anyways. All he knows about you is that you have a nice smile when you have the energy, and your voice is like silk. Purposeful or by nature, he's yet to guess. 

You're standing by the end of the aisle near the checkouts with a basket hanging from your fingers. All you're buying today is a box of pancake mix and a bag of peas. 

Weird, he thinks with a smile. Spencer likes weird stuff. It's quirky. 

You turn to see which checkout is empty and Spencer's smile abruptly drops. 

You have a bruise across half of your face. It isn't strictly fresh —he can see the split skin on your cheek starting to close in on itself, and your purpled eye is open (though barely). You're frowning. Spencer knows how bad it hurts to get hurt like that. For a split second he can't believe someone could do that to another person, and then he remembers the hundreds of women he's had the privilege to meet at their most vulnerable, who trusted him, and he thinks maybe he's capable of helping another one. 

“Hey,” he says. 

You meet his eyes with a funny smile. “Hey. Sorry, am I in the way?” you ask, your voice stretched, thin but not weak. 

“No, you're not, it's… I see you here all the time.” 

You hold your breath. When you talk, it rushes out. “So?” you ask wearily.

“Are you okay?” 

Your funny smile fades as Spencer's had. He supposes that's the talent of cruelty. Even when it's over, it's not truly over. Your bruise still hurts, and Spencer still needs to know you'll be okay when you go home tonight. 

“I see you all the time too. We've… we've actually spoken before, haven't we?” you ask after a moment. 

“Yeah, about spirometry. I was out of breath running and–” It doesn't matter. You asked him if he was okay, and he explained that he was, just that his lungs don't hold much air on account of his own laziness, and it doesn't matter. “Are you? Alright? It's a bad bruise.” 

“It's getting better.” 

It might be, but there's something so raw about seeing you standing there in your sweatpants too big for you and a hoodie with a hole in it, purple and yellow contusion across your eyes and nose like the clumsy stroke of a paintbrush. Spencer will admit to feeling sorry for you.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, knowing this isn't the right place. “There's the cafe at the front? Let me pay for my stuff and–” 

“I'm really okay–” 

“You had a cast on your wrist two weeks ago and now you're here with a limp and a really bad bruise,” he says softly, imploringly, “I just wanna talk to you about it. You don't have to say yes, I'm not trying to be weird, but I–” 

You cut off his mile a minute speech with a small smile. “Okay. I'm not, you know, doing anything anyways. It'll be nice to sit down.” 

Spencer knows it's dumb, but he wants to show he has good intentions. He takes your basket out of your hands and nods toward the cafe past the checkouts. “I'll come and meet you.” 

“You don't have to,” you say, gesturing at the basket. 

“The damage is done, right? This place is ridiculous.” He doesn't like the way you're holding your hip. It makes him feel sick, even though there's no proof one way or another to say you've been hurt beyond your bruising.

He pays for his things and yours and meets you at the cafe. He's half expecting you to have bolted, but you sit at a table near the entrance, completely still. 

Spencer puts his two bags under the table and offers you your pancake mix and peas in their own bag. 

“Thanks.” 

“Yeah, no problem.” 

“It was my boss.” You look at your fingers, spreading them slowly over the table top. “I’m a dancer. Sorry. I know you’re going to ask.” 

“And he hit you?” 

“Yeah.” 

Spencer knows the number for every women’s shelter in every state, but he doubts it would matter to you. He can tell already that you’d say no. He can tell you’re scared, even if you don’t realise it yourself. “Is it getting worse?”

You can’t offer him anything else. He understands how that feels. There have been moments where he desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, what was going on in his life, but he always holds his secrets like a perpetual ache in his throat. It’s like he can’t tell someone, even if they ask. 

Sometimes he just wishes they’d ask twice. 

“You can tell me. It won’t sound stupid,” he promises. He’s in some odd place between Agent Reid and young, terrified Spencer, determined to help you, but not sure how. “It’s getting worse, right?” 

“Yeah,” you say, the weight of tears on your tongue. 

“You’re a dancer. Is he just a boss– Does he… abuse you financially?” 

You laugh wetly. “He’s not my pimp.” 

He can feel his face heating up.’“No, but do you get paid on time? Everything you earn?” 

You shake your head. “No, I don’t get paid on time. He takes a percentage, and somehow there’s always another percentage, and then discipline. And now…” 

“Now he’s hitting you.” Very badly. 

“I’m not stupid.” 

Spencer frowns gently, talks softly, “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” 

“No, I know, but I need you to know I’m not stupid. When we talked before, you– you’re so smart, I bet you know so many smart people.” 

He’s not sure where you’re going with this. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about being hurt anymore. It must be a kind of torture to be hurting and know that that hurting will come again. There isn’t an end in sight for you, just right now. 

“Can I buy you something to eat?” 

“I have money,” you say, taking your small purse from your pocket. There are a few notes wedged inside. 

“You can’t take painkillers on an empty stomach, and you should take painkillers again soon. You had some before you came, and they’re wearing off.” He meets your confused frown with a frown of his own. “Your hands are twitching like you want to move away from yourself.” 

“You’re very perceptive,” you say in that smooth murmur. Power clawed back, he thinks. You’re protecting one of the things you can control about how you’re seen when everything else is far from it. 

“I’m a profiler. Do you,” —he tries not to sound hoity toity— “know what that is?” 

“No.” 

“I’m an FBI agent.” You’re laughing as he takes out his badge. He joins you. “I know it sounds like I’m making it up.” Spencer offers you his identification passport slowly, so you know he isn’t wielding it around to be an asshole. “I’m in the behavioural analysis unit. We analyse the way people act. That’s why I know you’re in pain.” 

You take his badge, looking between his photo and his real face with a growing smile. “If you need all that to know I’m in pain, you’re not as smart as you think,” you tease, gesturing to the mottled skin of your bruise sweetly. 

Spencer buys you both cold sandwiches from the front of the shop and a drink to wash down your aspirin. It’s awkward, he guesses, but he’s used to that by now, and under it he can feel your palpable relief. You trust him to not hurt you, if nothing else, and he can work with that. 

[lichenes]

on my hands and knees begging for domestic fluff w joost. cooking together, doing livestreams, playing video games, ANYTHING plz <3

My friend read the ask and suggested the whole plot so it came out like a crack fic near the end but oh well, the sillies :D Hope you like it anon and thank you for the ask!!

CW: cursing, broken washing machines??? wc: 689

•───────•°•❀•°•───────••────────•°•❀•°•────────•

He walked through the door inhaling the familiar scent of your shared home. “You’re home!” You said with excitement, thrilled to see Joost. He talked to you about the latest concert, his eyes sparkling with joy when he described a huge group of people shouting the lyrics to his song alongside him. 

You were happy to finally have him back home as this was the last concert of the tour. He expressed how grateful he was for your support and couldn’t quite stop apologising for - as he called it - abandoning you for so long. You reassured him constantly hoping he would one day realise what made him happy, made you happy.

You both were too tired to do anything more than discuss things on the surface level. “You know I wouldn’t give you up for anything in the world.” He said as you both were laying in your shared bed. You nodded, constantly surprised by the level of affection he sported while extremely tired. 

You woke up well rested, finally not worrying if he was okay, he was next to you after all. “I’m doing laundry, do you need anything washed?” You said no and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast for you two. When he was done with the load he got into the kitchen and hugged you from behind inhaling your scent. 

“Missed you.” He mumbled into your neck tickling you with his breath. “Missed you too.” You were standing over the stove with a wooden spoon stirring the scrambled eggs. Joost thought proved to be a severe distraction. “I need to focus on the task at hand, Joost.” He let his gorgeous laugh out. “I knoww~ but I didn’t have much time to spend with you and I need you now.” Your face got warmer at those words. “You’ve got me all to yourself lovely.” You said this time making his fair skin turn a shade of red. 

He stopped hugging you and opted instead to set the table. It was quite small but enough for both of you to dine. He made sure to give you your favourite glass. You served the food up. He commented on how tasty it was despite it being only eggs and salt. “It’s hard to fuck up scrambled eggs.” You said with a slight jest in your voice. He laughed and continued. “But it’s not impossible!” 

You went into the living room of your apartment after he was done with washing the dishes and you were done drying them. Your day was spent laying in bed and watching some stupid series full of cheesy jokes which were just cringey enough to make both your stomachs hurt from the laughter. At some point you stood up and went into the bathroom.

Your socks were met with a wet floor which you didn’t expect. Suddenly you realised what was going on. “Joost!” You shouted, calling him over. “What’s up?” He walked right into the puddle. “The washing machine malfunctioned… grab some cloths.” He nodded and walked up to the closet and pulled out some, handing it to you with a smile on his face to cheer you up before the work you both were going to do soon. 

Unfortunately you didn’t catch the malfunction in time which meant the floor panels lifted due to the moisture they absorbed. Renovations were long overdue and you were planning on changing up the floors anyway you told yourself when you saw the panels literally de-gluing themselves from the floor. 

You decided on a herringbone style of floors this time opting to lay them yourselves, after all how hard could it be? You bought raw planks and let Joost lay his heart out. You loved seeing him work all stuck in his own world. He weatherproofed the planks after cutting them up into size appropriate pieces and made your home look brand new with the shining new floors. 

“You did a great job baby.” You said when he came over excited to show you his work. “We should monitor our washing machine better next time though, we wouldn’t want to ruin these gorgeous floors.” 

•───────•°•❀•°•───────••────────•°•❀•°•────────• masterlist

[yandereunsolved]

When you have the time, yandere chain reaction to reader wanting to help by making dishes from our world for them? Like pizza, breaded chicken, spaghetti, lasagna, grilled cheese sandwiches,ect. Dishes you don't see in hyrule ya know? Maybe they first got to cook for them when wild is too exhausted or sick to cook? Actually, I don't think they know how to make boiled eggs or popcorn. Be funny if reader invented popcorn for hyrule. Hope you have a great week

Okay, I love this. You too, anon! 𖹭 ( part 2 )

cw: a mention of them possibly crossing your boundaries (at the end)

We'll set the mood by saying The Chain has had an absolutely exhaustive day. They've had to fight off multiple monsters of varying varieties, and to top off the sundae of shit, you have the rotten cherry of all of you being pushed into another portal. You're soaked in things you don't even want to imagine; all of your yanderes are neglecting their health and trying to take care of you; and you are hangry. You end up snapping at them and then getting gaslit for about twenty minutes. 

That's when they learned about the wonderful world of ✨ human cuisine ✨ —peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, meat pies, puff puff, zapiekanka, etc...

You were on the edge of your seat, and Wild was exhausted, so you told them that if they left you alone for an hour, you'd cook for them. After a bit of convincing the more worried and overbearing yanderes, you finally got more than five feet away from them. That's when you cooked a dish from your homeland.

Let me tell you, you just fell into a deeper hole than you already were. They are already dependent on you for love, affection, and attention. Now, they want you to always cook meals for them. They are all trying to get the recipes for your favorite meals out of you so they can win your favor. Naturally, Wild has them outmatched in this sense, and none of them are happy about it.

Wild gets all of your attention when it comes to cooking things. You get to share recipes and learn from each other. Sometimes Sage is able to join since he has more refined cooking abilities, except his Zonai arm always acts up because it reacts to his suppressed yandere tendencies towards you. It's a weird quirk his arm has gotten into. He still isn't sure why. Everyone else in The Chain always tries to undermine Wild's cooking skills when you aren't around. 

It backfires when Wild gets to be the one to cuddle up to you, and he manipulates you by telling you how the others hate him. They hate him because he is different. They hate him because he has you. They hate him because he is everything they are not. It just all seems so vulnerable and raw. Why would you not believe him? Do you not trust him? Do you not love him?

Over all, they are fascinated, and it only feeds into their worship of you. They are enamored by the foods you have brought them. Any of them practically drops dead when you make one of your native snacks for just one of them. Oh my, you made it just for him? No one else. You must really love only that Link! Fierce is even willing to use his deity magic to get ingredients from your world for you. 

How did Fierce do this?

Does this mean he is able to get you home?

No, uh—his power is limited because of the mask. Something, something, a convincing lie to get you to stay and not question him. He is a deity, after all. He knows better than you.

They may crave your food, but there is one thing they long for more—you. How long will you be able to deprive them of your body before they take what is rightfully theirs?

[carnivorousyandeere]

Harpy; Homemade Meal

cliff, flying, illusion

Day four for @yandere-sins’ Monstober and @ozzgin ’s Yantober! Sorry for the lateness, weekends are rough at work 😭

CW: injured darling, probably unsafe food that darling is forced to eat

The Harpy cocks his head.

“Eat,” he croaks. He nudges the unidentifiable meat towards you with a claw, bobbing his head from it to you. “Eat.”

You shrink against the edge of the nest, shaking your head.

You don’t know how to explain to him that you can’t possibly eat what he’s trying to give you. You can’t eat it raw, and even if you could you’re not hungry, especially after seeing how he’d made the food— the Harpy had only picked you up last night, your body is still exhausted and aching and every time you try to stand you get so dizzy that for a moment you’ll be convinced you’ve fallen right between the twigs of the nest and are plummeting right to the forest floor— but the Harpy only leans down towards you, fluffing his feathers and cocking his head the other way. “Eat.”

You take it with trembling hands, pretending to imbibe some. “Mmm, delicious.”

The Harpy’s eyes narrow. Your wavering smile dissolves into tears. His beak rubs against the side of your head, your neck.

He dips his beak into the broken-open shell of the egg he’d laid for you, and takes a gulp first, as if assuring you it’s safe.

“Eat.”

[valentine-cafe]

May I have some egg tarts please?

[Gn reader]

Just thinking about Jingyi having you bent over his lap! Spanking your ass with one hand wrapped around your throat to choke out your cries!!

-🍄

˖⁺. ﹙ naga mechanic bf x gn reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . maybe stop acting a brat !! 🍒 :  mechanic ˖ naga ˖ villain character﹙ verse 1311 jìngyí. ﹚

spanking and choking, all because you wouldn't stop being a brat !! cw : spanking, choking

“don’t be difficult.”

words spoken through clenched teeth bite with a harsh spank to your ass. the callouses of those fingers that you adore so much smooth out in circles over the warm, tender flesh. as though he has the audacity to apologise for spanking you sore.

you bite into the fabric of his pants. another spank. you bite harder. another spank.

the material between your teeth does little to muffle your cries. but his palm wrapped around your throat certainly down. the delicious squeeze is almost as good as two fingers that reach to squeeze at your sensitive, throbbing parts.

the grin that etches across his face when he retracts the pleasure and exchanges it for another rough smack is something straight from the pit. “aww, what is that? thought you deserved it? not a chance baby.”

what more can you do but bury your face into his pants and whine out against the fabric. so desperately wishing that it was his hips smacking against yours instead. perhaps if you behave better next time - his dick would be the only thing making you tender and raw.

[lorelune]

braised

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 3.2k  || ao3 || previous + next ->

The Stellaron Hunters and their newest prize settle in and find routine.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: HELLO >:3c this lil story has me gripped!! this piece is meant to be read after "scrap metal" but can be read as a standalone. mind the tags and enjoy 💕

CW: dark content, captive/pet reader, violence, implied/partially depicted physical abuse, force-feeding, general talk about food and eating, thoughts of violence toward the reader

"They didn't eat again."

Silver Wolf tosses the metal bowl on the counter with a frown. It’s full, heaped with eggs, kixi wafers, and some yogurt-based sauce. It’s untouched, sauce gelatinized from being out in the open air.

Kafka clicks her tongue from the cockpit, pausing her scrolling. Her gaze flicks up, "Not a bite?"

"Nope." Silver Wolf frowns and fidgets. "They didn't even look at me when I gave them their lunch either."

"They haven't eaten since the day before yesterday then. That’s no good." Kafka sounds concerned, but there's an edge to it.

Blade feels antsy. Out of his skin. He doesn't know why.

“They haven’t been drinking much either.” Silver Wolf frowns. “They’ll shrivel up and die at this rate." 

Kafka nods, "That’s more than likely their intention, even if it's a long and foolish way to die. That’s a shame. I thought they'd be better than this."

Blade drums his stiff fingers over the hilt of Shard Sword. He hardly remembers summoning it. 

"Bladie, dear? Try and convince them to have a bite or two tonight." Kafka's attention almost drifts back to her phone before she meets his eyes. Her own are clear, pupils intact. "Be careful, though. Hungry pets will still bite the hand that feeds them."

Blade doesn't reply with anything other than a jerky nod. He ferries himself across the ship to a padded training room and shreds two dozen practice dummies until they're nothing more than piles of polymer leather and filler.

...

Kafka had implemented a rotation. A 'feeding schedule' to acclimate you to your new environment, and get you used to your new comrades. You’re pricklier than she originally anticipated, but she doesn't seem concerned.

(If anything, she seems... delighted. She has a spring to her step that she usually doesn't. She leaves your room glowing.)

It’s Blade's turn to bring you dinner. Your meal is piled into the same metal bowl. Heaps of rice, covered in a sticky sauce with chunks of meat and veg. It’s still steaming as he walks silently to your cell— room. cell. He's not sure.

He undoes each lock (seven) and enters your room without any announcement.

The room is... less destroyed than it was yesterday. When Blade brought you lunch the day before, your mattress had been dragged onto the floor, sheets torn to shreds and spread around the room. You’d thrown a book at his head when he'd entered.

(Which he caught and gave back to you. You looked terrified when he got at all close to you.)

Blade didn’t like it. And he isn't sure why.

Today, you're less frantic. Instead, you’re balled up on your mattress, tucked in a corner with your knees up. Your head is down. You only flinch when Blade enters, but don't regard him otherwise.

Blade's frown deepens.

"Dinner," he says, and sets the food on your nightstand. Kafka has replaced the diffuser you broke the day prior. A new one pumps out an herbal-scented mist. "Eat it."

"Just leave it,” you reply, voice scratchy and raw. You rarely speak to him.

"No. Eat it now."

"I will later."

"You won't. You aren't eating."

"And what's it to you?" You unfurl just a fraction and shoot him a glare. It’s angry. vitriolic and guarded. (But a scared stray will bear its teeth and bite, won't they?)

(What is it to Blade? Other than Kafka's order. There’s something there. There has been something there since he saw you muzzled and dead-eyed, and Blade's always half-aware of it. How it refracts and shudders and fills him with such intense unease. He knows the feeling— recognizes it like the scent of an old lover. But he does not like it. It does not feel like it is his.)

He’s struck with the particular urge to throw you against a wall and watch your skull splatter against the metal paneling.

He doesn't. Because his mara isn't that uncontrollable, not now anyway. Instead, he frowns at your scowl.

"You'll die if you don't eat."

"Ah, and if I die, you'll lose an asset, right? I'm not stupid, I know how these things work." You sound... almost petulant. Blade does not know how to approach you, or it, or this attitude.

"You'll die. You shouldn't die. You should eat and live."

"Fuck you." You snap at him, fist balling up in the sheets at your side. You've picked your nails short and raw. "Fuck you."

Blade doesn't know what to do.

He pushes the bowl closer to you on the nightstand before departing.

Kafka catches him as he heads to the training rooms (again, because he needs to shatter a few holograms with his bare fists if he wants to feel close to sane in the next few hours.)

"Any luck, lovely?" Kafka's expression is kind. She must already know.

"No."

Kafka sighs, and shakes her head. "I'll take care of it, Bladie. I suppose we’ll have to do things the hard way.”

...

Kafka is the one to bring you breakfast the next morning. Blade does not normally keep track of Kafka's morning routine, because she is insane, but considering it involves you, he's more keen to it. Kafka prepares a light breakfast of garlic and shash rice, and secondarily, a shake of greens and nutrient powder.

(He... he thinks he knows the substance. Recognizes the acrid, must-driven smell of it, and remembers how awful it tastes. Like bile mixed with metal shavings. Who knows where Kafka acquires it from. He has smudged out memories of choking it down when Kafka first pulled him out of a crater, covered in blood and scarred— but not dead. Never. Never, never dead— )

Blade fractiously goes to your room and waits outside your door. Kafka is still inside when he arrives, speaking to you in that sweet, syrupy tone that drips into muscle and bone like molten metal.

"You need to eat, darling."

"Fuck you—"

"The more you fight, the harder this will be. Why don't you be good and let me help?"

"Don’t fucking touch me—!"

There’s the muffled sound of a struggle, which Blade assumes isn’t much of a struggle because Kafka is far stronger than she looks. Blade leans against the wall, next to your door. He can feel vibrations of a fight in the soles of his shoes through the floor. The thump of a body hitting the wall echoes.

Blade hears crying. You’re crying.

"Oh, tears? I’ve hardly done anything."

"You’re fucking monsters. Just let me go—!"

"You know that won't happen. Play nice.”

"Don't—!"

You sob, probably, and there's another sharp sound of flesh on steel. Blade would've flinched if he wasn’t an abomination.

"Let me take care of you, sweetheart. The sooner you give in, the easier this is. This doesn't need to be difficult."

"Get off of me—!"

More struggling. Blade closes his eyes and tries to imagine it. Kafka is ruthless in getting what she wants. She knows how to pry people apart, pick at their inside, and pull strings until they fracture. It is why Elio is such a fan of hers. It is why Blade keeps her close, as she knows the delicate, bowstring dance of keeping his mara in check.

He wonders what Kafka sees in you.

(He wonders what he sees in you. You're nothing like— like— who? Who are you so different from?)

Blade has a headache.

The sounds echoing from your room dissolve into muffled sobs and the occasional sharp cough. A gag. Inhaling and what must be your fist beating against the metallic paneling of the floor. He hears Kafka hush you, over and over. Quietly praising you after each gag and retch.

Blade's not sure how long it goes on before things feel still and quiet.

The sound of a kiss, audible, "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"... F-fuck you.

"Such a filthy mouth. Do you need me to wash your mouth out with soap? I'm happy too."

"Wait, don’t— no—“

Blade realizes his shoulders have hiked up. He forces them to lower. You scream and fight just feet away, really. All that separates you is seven locks.

Kafka seems to be handling things. The sounds continues, and become dull background noise. Shouts and pants fade into his thoughts as they get sap-sticky.

(Someone beloved, something far away. Bitter liquor on each other’s lips. Blade can’t recall the name.)

(A comet with a tail burning yellow. It is cold. A blade, driven into his chest. A blade stabbed into his eye. A blade put sidelong through his skull. A blade splitting his throat. Cold, cold, cold, cold.)

(Do you know cold? Do you know how frostbite turns flesh black? Do you know necrosis? What pain do you know?)

Blade, startlingly, does not want you to know pain. He wants you to eat your meals.

Kafka exits, almost startling him. She does not look surprised to see him hovering. She rearms the locks and glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“Down, loverboy. A scared dog will bite.”

“Do not call me that.” 

"Alright, alright,” she laughs and her grin grows sharper. “I’ll be taking care of their meals for the next few days. Listen, grab a medkit, the poor thing needs it. Though, I’ll let them hurt for a while first.”

Kafka walks off, and Blade follows at her heels. There are indentations in Kafka's gloves-- half-moon bite marks of teeth.

He decides he is going to break his own fingers, maybe. He can watch them heal back into place.

It’s meditative.

...

Several days pass with your ‘new routine’. Kafka handles each meal. Blade stays away from your room. The entire wing you’re located in feels nuclear. He stays in the training room. Throws himself at matted walls until his shoulders dislocate, only to pop them back into place to repeat the cycle.

He makes a point to check the kitchen after each of your meal times. There’s always an empty dish, a clean plate. A chunky-looking film left on a glass in the sink. Kafka is diligent, Blade doesn’t doubt this. 

The whole thing fills him with unease.

He asks Kafka to wipe his memory, but she denies him. She’s in the cockpit, swiveling in her seat.

“You don’t need that yet, Bladie. Give it some time.”

“But—”

“Discomfort isn’t mara suffocation, dear.”

“You’re patronizing me.”

She sizes him up, sighing, “Listen to me, keep it together. You’re alright. How about this, you can feed your pet starting tomorrow for lunch. Would that make you feel better?”

It would. He’s not sure why.”

“It would.”

Kafka looks pleased with the outcome of the conversation. She tells Blade to get some rest, pats his cheek, which does take the edge off the mara rooting around in his psyche for purchase. 

Blade takes a long route through the ship to his chambers. A deliberate path that brings him in front of your door. He doesn’t dare to enter, only listen. It’s late, you could be sleeping given the hour— but Blade can hear you shuffling around. Grumbling to yourself. One of your feet is dragging on the floor as you walk. Blade wonders how it was injured. 

He departs after hearing the shifting of your sheets, and the light under your door goes out.

(He feels insane. Insane in a way that isn’t mara-ridden, which is more terrifying. He knows the gnawing beast of Abundance that crawls around inside his skull and bones, he doesn’t know madness that has burrowed itself between his ribs. It feels light, like the carbonation bubbles in the bottled soda back on the Luofu. His palms sweat when he becomes aware of it with each thought of you.)

(Maybe he’ll try tearing out his organs again. That could fix it.)

Blade returns to his room and paces, before stripping and climbing into bed.

It’s only when he’s half-asleep that he realizes he’s hard.

He’s not sure why. 

...

Lunch is some takeout. It scalds his hands through the bowl he heaps it into. Braised trelk ribs with scallion and carrot, ladled over a bed of chewy-looking noodles.

"Bladie," Kafka tells him from the cockpit. She glances at him with a curling smile. "Be careful, they're sensitive."

Blade does not know how to be... careful. Not like how Kafka is implying he thinks anyway.

Silver Wolf snorts from her seat, speaking through a bite of noodle, "You’re asking a human-shaped hydrokenia bomb to be 'careful'?"

"Blade's a good boy, I'm sure he'll do great." Kafka's eyes are that spatial, nebula magenta. He feels pleasantly high when she looks at him. "Won’t you?"

"Yes."

Kafka looks pleased, "Listen, take your meal too. Eating with them will get them comfortable."

Silver Wolf raises an eyebrow, "Is that really a good idea?"

"I think so. Blade can handle it if they get testy."

She looks at him with a grin that's collapsed empires and immolated planets. Blade leaves the room with two bowls in his hands.

When he arrives at your cell— room. It's your room. He unlocks the locks methodically and enters without a greeting.

Today, you are not tucked in the corner of your bed. You’re instead perched in the rounded window, gazing at the starscape. Your knees are raised, and your arms are wrapped around yourself. You look small and defeated, eyes darkened and downcast. Blade watches you rub your shoulders.

You look up when he enters. Blade sets the bowl on the ledge next to you, and sets a pair of chopsticks on top, "You will eat."

It's not a command, but a statement of fact.

You scowl, looking so angry. Alive with it. He recognizes vitriol so easily. It's in your eyes and in the way you bare your teeth at him, ready to strike. Maybe you'll bite down on him, into him, until you taste blood. Blade's sure you wouldn't leave a scar— he heals too quickly from the types of flesh wounds to give him a lasting mark.

(There's something enticing about you trying. Blade does not know the floating, filmy part of himself that suggests such a desire.)

You carry Kafka's mark. There are bruises around your throat, the clear shape of hands. There are lumps across your jaw, darkened in color. Scratches of nails over your neck, down to your collarbones. Your eyes are red-rimmed. Your lip is split, barely scabbed over. You're shaking.

You open your mouth, ready to snap. Maybe you'll spit venom— Blade doesn't know your species. You could.

(Blade remembers your expression on different faces from the glitter of your canines. It reminds him— of—? Jingliu was colder. Frigid in her rage. Dan Feng was always so calm with his, Only shattered near the end, like a tide that swelled too high on the shore to swallow the world whole. Your expression is white-hot, like metal pulled fresh from a stoked forge. Desperation and terror make dull teeth sharp. Actions become erratic and desperate.)

(Blade has not remembered so much, so clearly in a long time. He really needs Kafka to wipe his memory again.)

The mara in him writhes. It’s a necrosis, a vitality that has long since sank into his marrow and will not leave. It rolls through him. Blades tips back his head and rolls his shoulders. There's a high to it, followed by an immediate and tumbling withdrawal and dread and clarity—

And it's all interrupted by the little gasp you make. The abrupt jolt you take backward, into the window, closer to the depths of deep space. Your body thumps against the glass. 

('Fragile', Kafka had said.)

Your mouth closes, and your bloody lower lip wobbles. Tears glitter on your lash line as you retreat. Maybe, Kafka broke you. She’s good at that. 

"Fucking— I-I mean, fine. I’ll fucking eat." You stumble over your words with a sniffle. Your voice is raw and strained. You rub your nose on your sleeve and scramble for the bowl and utensils.

Blade stares as you eat your first bite. Then your second. Followed by your third. You start crying after the fourth, sobbing with the fifth, and hiccupping between mouthfuls. You're eating too fast, occasionally looking at him with an expression he recognizes as terror. He's used to seeing a look like that at the end of his blade. Frozen before draining of blood and death.

He frowns. You should not look that way..

"Slow down," he says, sitting next to you.

You look at him and wipe over your mouth, lips parting, but seem to think better of speaking. You take another bite, chewing slower. Blade picks up his own bowl and eats small, meticulous bites.

(He shared a meal all the time. Shoulder to shoulder with Dan Feng, splitting casks of viridian wine in the moonlight. Food tastes better when someone you... like is near.)

You finish before him, and don't stop crying. If anything, you cry harder. It sounds painful.

Blade pauses his meal, idling. searching. There's something there. A feeling coated in the roots of mara, but... perhaps it's a delicious agony. Not so much a memory, but a want. Something other than— than what and why—

Blade stands. He departs to your bathroom (there are blood stains on the counter) and grabs a cloth towel. He dampens it with water, letting the sink run until it's pleasantly warm.

He sits closer to you when he returns. You flinch away in retreat, leer away as he comes close, hands up—

"Please, don't, what are you—"

"Hold still." Blade grabs your wrist and you wince.

With entirely conscious thought and great effort, he loosens his grip. And... gently, Blade brings the cloth to your face. He dabs around your eyes, then your cheek and nose, and lastly your mouth. you're frozen, wide-eyed, and still shaking.

When he's done, he grabs a blanket from the bed. He wraps it around your shoulders. It feels... somewhat right.

"You should rest." He tells you. "You need it."

Blade thumbs over a swollen round on your jaw. You tremble, eyes wide.

But maybe a little less scared.

"... Are you gonna stay while you finish eating?" You eye his half-full bowl.

"Yes."

"... 'kay... and you're not gonna rough me up like Kafka did?"

"No." He has no plans to.

"... Fine."

You cautiously make your way back to your little bed, sitting at the head of it, and half-slipping under the covers. It's... cute.

(Blade has not thought of anything as cute in several centuries.)

Blade wants to break your legs.

When he finishes, he collects both bowls, and looks around your room. It's sparse, though. There are a few books on the nightstand.

"... Are you bored?"

"Huh?" You ask. You'd been lost in thought, eyes lost. "Oh, I mean. yeah? There's not much to do."

"I'll bring some things. Bear it until then."

"Oh! Okay." You wrap the blanket around your shoulders tighter. "You're... Bladie, right?"

"Just Blade."

"Oh, okay. sorry." You wring your hands. "Thank you, Blade."

The thing in his chest blooms. A monstrous flower, mycelium under acres of land in a network that eats and never dies. Undergrowth that does nothing but rot and grow, grow and rot. 

Blade doesn't reply as he leaves the room. He gets halfway to the training wing before he has to pause, withdraw his phone, and send Kafka a frantic text: 'Meet me in the weaponry room.’

He pockets his phone before punching the wall. Clumsy fingers break upon impact, and the indentation of the fist remains in the metal. 

[h0neybane]

"i am hungry. i have been hungry. i was born hungry. what do i need?"

Morwenna Veil Lore UTC.

CW: cannibalism, child death, violence. seriously if u dont wanna read it its ok this is DARK

'You want your mother, you think. You don't think the words, for you've just been born and have not learned any, but you can feel that you want your mother. The cold bites at you like a parasite. You want to burrow deeper into your shell. But you reach outwards, tentacles uncharacteristically slow for a mer of your kind. You're hungry, ravenous.

Your teeth tear into more flesh. It's raw, warm. This would've been your sister— no, it is your sister. You're eating your sister, and she's warm against the cold of the sea. You're glad most of her upper half is already gone.

You want your mother. Yₒᵤ wₐₙₜ yₒᵤᵣ ₘₒₜₕₑᵣ.

Ỹ̸͉͇̙̑̔̉͋̋̆̒o̷͇̤̙̤̓̌̈́̚u̷̖̫̘̤̥͗̀͝͝ ̸̡͈̜̅̍̈̓̓̇̒͝w̴͔̘̼̣͙̝̗̌͊̽͆͛͗͜a̸̩̭̗̭̻̪̦̹̟͖̾̒̌ǹ̶̨͇̖̫͙̈́̀t̸̺̩̞̥̮̹͈̩̽̅͜͝͝ ̵̜͈̉̍͠y̷̥̟̝̣̣̺̌͜ỏ̷̟͍̞̥̞̟̖̪̌́͐̂u̶̜̩̺̬̲͕̜͆̒̋ͅr̸̨̺͙̠̟̱̤̗̰̲̆̈́̊͆̈́͘ ̷̨̻̪͉͍͖̖͋̂̅͜ḿ̶̯̹̲͓͓̺͕̐̏ỏ̴̮͈̳̙̹̦̻̱̘̞̿͝t̴̨̯̠̥͍̓͌́͗̂͒̌̇͜h̵̛̙̤̙̑̇̇̌̄̕e̶̯̬̦̺̦͉̩͎̾̐̏͆̈̽̅͑ŗ̴̧͙͚̋̎̋̓̚.̵̡̫͉̻̠̺͖̺̹̌͑͊̀̐͒̚'

uhhh hey...... YAYYY FIRST OC LORE DROP!!! here's a summary of the first part of her actual backstory so you can understand more!

Morwenna is a Humboldt Squid Mermaid, and was born like one too. Humboldt squid will lay gelatinous egg masses that are almost entirely transparent and float freely in the water column. These egg masses usually contain at least a million eggs, having humboldt squid take the crown as the cephalopod with the highest amount of eggs laid at once. For the sake of believability, as one million mermaid eggs sounds ridiculous, we are going to reduce this amount to one thousand eggs. Assuming that a large amount of these eggs will be eaten or destroyed and not make it back to their mother, this feels reasonable.

In the darkness of the deep sea, Morwenna and her sisters and brothers laid silent in their egg mass. Usually, the egg masses would be left to their devices, and the baby mers would find their way back to their mothers on their own. However, Morwenna’s mother is on the more sentimental side, and she would frequently come to check on the eggs. The eggs began to hatch a few days earlier than planned, maybe around an hour before Morwenna’s mother arrived. Morwenna slowly emerged from the membrane into dark, cold waters. 

A sperm whale found the egg mass. It devoured a majority of the eggs and babies before leaving to find and attack the adults of Morwenna’s family. In the midst of the chaos and the blood in the water, Morwenna pulled the half-eaten corpse of her sister sticking out of one of the eggs and hid inside, cold, dark and alone. Morwenna and her siblings spent three days and three nights alone. They ate the remains of their dead siblings to survive. By the time Morwenna’s mother made it back to them, there were three (including Morwenna) babies left. 

This incident has deeply affected Morwenna in the coming years. Although the birth of a mer isn't usually tender, Morwenna’s experience is exceptionally cruel even compared to the average. In the coming years, Morwenna has developed claustrophobia and a fear of sperm whales.

taglist (ask to be added!): @taruruchi @honeyedpearcrushh @teighveepao @boopshoops @scint1llat3

@h2llish @viperbunnies @buttholesparkles @oya-oya-okay @cheerleaderman

@qsoap + @beneathsakurashade since i know you love morwenna