#tex-blades

[groomingfiles]

✂️ 5 all over, round head

[johnwickb1tsch]

Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (AND x Constantine😜) Imagine WIP Part 9

Here we go my lovelies! @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @tammykelly @lilspookymeh @kurai-hono-blog

Wick could have been an asshole about buying a brand new kitchen, sundries included–but instead he merely shrugs off Constantine's hostile question. "Seemed like the least I could do."

Constantine glares, but lets it go, begrudgingly sitting down to a delectable meal cooked by the man he knows, deep down, that you've never been able to forget. 

At Tex's midday administering of magical medicine, he takes your hand after you finish, refusing to let go. "Set with me a while, Rattlesnake." He pats the couch, on which there is no room unless you were to sit in his lap–undoubtedly his hope.

With a sigh and a knowing smirk you settle back in your chair. Your eyes are drawn to the burn upon his chest. He will carry that mark for the rest of his life, even if the magic is lifted.

You think on what Papa Midnite said to Constantine. "Take some big feeling..."

It kind of floors you, to think of the energy it took for Constantine to conjure that working out of thin air.

For you.

You told him a little bit about the boys. How they hurt you–and, how they saved your life. How you loved them, and how they destroyed you in their abandonment. No matter how you framed it, Constantine blamed them for the bullet wound forever seared in your side.

However, it wasn’t so simple as that. 

"Whacha thinking, baby girl?"

You just shake your head with a tired smile. "Nothing important."

"Hmm. You gonna make me guess? Alright. You're thinkin'...bout that time in Mexico it was just you an me and the stars, out by the pool in our birthday suits."

You snort–quite against your will, it turns into a giggle. 

"No..."

"Uh huh. You’re missin' my wicked tongue up between your thighs. I know that look."

"That's enough of that," you say, trying to stand. But he has your hand, and he tugs you so that you fall down to sit on the edge of the couch–and half on him. Your faces hover just centimeters away. You watch with horror a he tries to lean in, capitalizing on the opportunity. By the skin of your teeth, your heart in your throat, you just barely manage to turn your head.

"Didn't you miss me, rattlesnake?" he asks, his deep voice all sultry and low just wrecking you to the bone.

You dare reach up to caress his cheek with the blade of your thumb. "Of course I did. But there’s no going back, Tex. Maybe...that time is behind us." Just saying it hurts like a knife between the ribs, but you go on, “Maybe you and John did the right thing, letting me go.”

He just narrows his dark eyes at hearing that. You hate the way it gives you such a thrill, to the base of your spine, and lower still. “I thought you were mad about that? Hell, I’m still mad about that. I miss you so much I can hardly think straight. There’s just…” He frowns while he says it, but you know it’s just because he’d literally rather take a bullet than talk about his feelings. His grip on your hand tightens; he glares down at your silver rings like they owe him money.  “There ain’t no point to anything, when you’re gone. Do you know what I mean?”

You close your eyes; for a moment you feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, because you know exactly what he means. You lived it for months after they booted you, drifting from country to country, an empty husk of a woman, a gaping black hole where your heart used to be. Only after moving to LA, thinking about going back to school, and meeting Constantine, did your life start to feel like it had some meaning again. 

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” you answer quietly. “But how did you think this would go? You’d knock on my door, and I’d just uproot my whole life for you again?”

“Maybe?” The confusion on his handsome face is almost cute. You realize he really did think it would be that easy, and you snort, looking away to a framed Tibetan Thangka painting on the wall. This man. As ever, you’re torn between kissing him and killing him. You have to keep reminding yourself that the former option is not even on the table. 

“At least give me some credit. I coulda come in with guns blazin' but instead I brought flowers."

“You want credit?”

“Yeah. I’m practically a changed man. And I wouldn’t mind an apology from Wizard Boy either.”

"You've got to be kidding me." The pair on this man never ceases to amaze you.

"We were just having a little bit of friendly fisticuffs, but he fucked me up pretty good. That’s called unnecessary escalation.”

He would know. 

"Spare me the macho bullshit. There’s no such thing as friendly fisticuffs. You were going to hurt my boyfriend, and you absolutely deserved what he gave you. You’re lucky he got Midnite to lift it."

Only a beat later do you realize you called Constantine your boyfriend within earshot of everyone, which you never do, because you both hate labels and the word just seems too high school for what you actually are to each other–but there’s no going back now. 

“But–”

At last, at last, you are in a position where you don’t have to swallow his gaslighting. “No buts. You can behave yourself, Tex, or you can go. I mean it.” 

Maybe drawn by the sound of your raised voice, Constantine chooses that moment to intervene, appearing at the foot of the couch with a magnificent frown. 

“Well well, if it ain’t The Boy Who Lived.”

You know he’s just making yet another Harry Potter reference, but considering Constantine’s history, this nickname makes you flinch. Maybe it’s a mistake on your part, but you bristle. “Don’t call him that.”

Constantine, however, betrays nothing, just crossing his arms with that blandly judgy expression. “It’s alright, y/n. He loves childrens’ books–a man has to stick to his reading level.” You don't feel like arguing about the complexity of the later books, so you let the arrow fly.

You lift an eyebrow, side-eyeing Tex. “You do know an awful lot about Harry Potter for a grown ass man your age.”

For possibly the first time ever Tex actually looks sheepish. “Had to read something while I was in the shit.”

Tex never really told you much about his tour of duty in the Middle East. Bradford had intimated that it didn’t end well–but you weren’t exactly keen to take everything that asshole had said with any sort of seriousness. The thought of him holed up in a mud hut reading about Hogwarts kind of pulls at your heartstrings for some ridiculous reason. 

“So what you want, Wizard Boy?” demands Tex, insouciantly refusing to let go of your hand, despite you tugging on it.

“I was going to check your chakras for malevolence, but I'm having second thoughts now.”

“Sounds illegal in five states.”

Constantine snorts. “You want me to double check Midnite's handiwork or not? If there's a trace of darkness left it could spread– and you'll be fucked all over again.”

“Not the way I like, I'm guessin’.”

“Probably not. But then again, you seemed to like Desdemona at the club. You want an introduction?” Constantine has a sly look on his handsome face as he asks this. It must be the succubus you'd run off– the thought of Tex in contact with her again makes you vibrate with jealousy. It is sharp, and fierce, and utterly fucking irrational.

You should encourage Tex to find someone else.

Your heart just doesn't agree.

“I'll…leave you two to it,” you say, reluctantly standing to pull away out of Tex's grip.

Only belatedly, after you've retreated to your room, do you realize that maybe Constantine interrupted your tête a tête with Tex for his sake, rather than yours.

***

John Wick whips you all up a beautiful dinner of sauteed meat and vegetables, complimented with a nice bottle of dry red wine that you're sure did not come from Trader Joe's. You play his sous chef, chopping up veggies, and it almost feels like old times in the kitchen, although he never would have given you access to a big sharp knife before. As though you ever would have had the nerve to stab him. 

Tex was another matter.

At first you all sit down to share a semi-awkward meal, peppered with halting silences–until the second bottle of wine comes out, and then things flow more smoothly. It starts with Constantine cracking a joke at Tex's expense, which is surprisingly backed by Wick with a witty aside. Tex responds good naturedly, for once, and you just sit back and watch with a smile, a warm glow in your chest that feels too close to bliss to possibly last.

You help Wick with the dishes, drying as he washes because your dish rack is tiny. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he says after the last plate, bending down to kiss your forehead. You forget. You fucking forget that there are two other people there, one of whom is your current lover, and out of longing and pure habit you tilt your head back for the second staggeringly sweet kiss on your lips that always followed. 

Only a long beat later do you realize what you've done, with Wick's shining dark eyes looking down on you, missing nothing. You gasp like a scandalized school girl, taking a small step back. “You're right,” you agree. “I am tired. Good night, everyone.” You're such a coward you can't even lift your head to look at any of them, though you can feel their eyes upon you as you scurry away.

Once in the sanctuary of your room you collapse on the bed, clutching the coverlet in your claws for hands, so embarrassed by your slip that you could die. You know that Constantine loves you, even if he’s never outright said it, and honestly probably never will–and this is how you repay him. 

You really are a piece of work.

***

After you retreat, a silence falls over the kitchen, the three formidable men eyeing each other like wolves amidst a power struggle, trying to decide who is the weakest link and who is alpha. It’s Constantine who stands without a word, fetching his green glass bottle of Ardbeg single-malt scotch and setting it down in the middle of the table with a thunk. Then he produces three glasses–none matching–and pours out a finger for each. 

“Gentlemen.” He looks between the two assassins seated at his table, a part of him flabbergasted as to how he’d even ended up in this situation. Before he met you, if someone told him someday he would find a woman he loved more than the air he breathed, he would have laughed them out of the room. 

Not now. 

How the mighty are brought low, and pride goeth before a fall, and all that proverbial biblical bullshit that is old as time and yet somehow still applies. Despite all our advances, humans are still essentially the same animal we were when we first left the cave and started walking upright–or when God created Adam out of dirt, whichever you find more believable.  

“I believe we find ourselves at an impasse.”

“How you figure?” asks Tex, knocking back his drink and helping himself to another. 

“Does being in love with the same woman ring a bell?”

Wick smirks, watching the exchange between the two, sipping his scotch sparingly. He does not contradict Constantine’s assessment, but in his succinct way he drives home the finer point. “More importantly, that woman is in love with all of us.”

The thought pulls something like a growl from deep in Constantine’s chest, but in the end he acknowledges, “Exactly.”

Tex smirks, leaning on his elbows. “Don’t be sore, Wizard Boy. Be grateful we broke her in for you.”

Constantine seems to count to ten under his breath, restraining himself from unleashing a curse on this fucking cowboy again. “You’re gonna have to give me pointers on how you manage not to murder him daily,” he says to Wick. 

“I only listen to about half of what he says,” Wick admits with a smirk, a humorous glitter in his dark eyes.

“Good to know. My point is, if I curse you both into the Seventh Circle, it would hurt her. Likewise, if you two were to dig me a shallow grave out in the desert. You hurt her enough the first time. Do you follow?”

Wick nods, grasping Constantine’s train of thought immediately. Tex, however, has to chew on it a little–maybe because he’d hoped, for once, to finally have this girl to himself. 

“You’re saying you don’t mind sharin’,” finally says Tex with a shit-eating grin, leaning back in his chair. 

“Oh, I mind,” Constantine is sure to clarify. “But it’s up to her, if she wants you or not. If she decides she wants you to go–I will make you go. If she wants you to stay…” He spreads his big hands, as though to say, we’ll figure it out. Somehow.  

Tex narrows his eyes, clearly debating if he should pick a fight over the make you go part, or take it as it sits on the table. “And how do you propose we let her know what we decided about this?”

Constantine snorts at that, draining his glass and standing from the table. “That’s your problem, Howdy Doody. Good night–and may the best man win.” The two assassins watch as John Constantine crosses to your bedroom, and practically shuts the door in their faces. 

***

You are drifting on the edge of sleep when Constantine crawls into bed with you. You smile as you feel the familiar pattern of the depression in the mattress, and moan with surprise as he covers your mouth with his. You taste the Ardbeg on his tongue, which explains some of his ardor, but not all. The fury of his kisses on your lips and neck pulls an involuntary moan from deep in your lungs, his big hands digging into the flesh of your thigh, pulling you on top of him. 

“John…?” Utterly star-struck, you blink down at him, disheveled in your pajama t-shirt and your hair a mess. He reaches up to cup your cheek, dwarfing your face in his large hand, studying you like there will be a test later. He opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say to you, but he can’t quite get it out, the words stuck in his throat. 

You think you know what it is, and your heart warms for it, that tingling thrill filling your chest and spreading outwards. You’re not even mad, that he can’t say it, because you get him. This is not the week you’re going to push him out of his comfort zone, more than you already have. Most of LA would laugh to hear it, but John Constantine has been a veritable fucking saint the past couple of days, and you’re so grateful to him. 

“It’s ok,” you say softly, tracing the line of his square jaw. “I know.” 

He frowns, almost like he wants to argue, but in the end he just shakes his head and pulls you to him.

You want to apologize for almost kissing John Wick right in fucking front of him–but that sticks in your throat too. You guess you’re both just a little raw tonight.

He peels off your t-shirt greedily as he guides you down. Hungry lips and a teasing tongue find the sensitive tips of your breasts, making you squirm with longing above him. You know you’ve already soaked through the laughable barrier of your panties, and are probably leaving an unsightly stain on his nice (200 dollar, he likes to tell you with a smirk) white shirt–but if the Chinese laundry down the street can get out demon blood stains, what’s a little cum?

You let out a cry of longing as he releases your nipple with a pop; the ache between your thighs is already nearly unbearable, and you can't stop yourself from grinding against his lean torso. You shut your mouth as soon as you open it, conscious of the paper thin walls and the two dangerous men on the other side of them.

“You like that, baby?” he taunts, hooking his fingers in your panties to tug them down.

“You know I do,” you pant. 

“Then let me hear you,” he invites with a wicked smirk, shifting down so that you are nearly sitting on his face. You don’t know what was said out there, but you are starting to get the idea that John Constantine is up to something. But before you can even begin to think what to do about it, he pulls you forward with an undeniable grip on your thighs, and his tongue is laving up your slit.

“Fuck.”

This exclamation is not quiet, and neither are the ones after it. You practically shake the walls with your cries when you cum on his tongue, your body rendered into a quivering mess of over-stimulated nerves. He does not grant you mercy, even when you beg him, and by the time he is done with you, you are halfway to your second orgasm.

“Do you want me baby?” he demands, panting from his champion cunnilingus league exertions as he undresses himself. There is a desperation in his tone you’ve never quite heard before, and you have a feeling he’s not just talking about sex.

“I need you,” you tell him, and you mean every word. It wins you every inch of his hard cock buried inside you, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning, as though there is no room for breath in your body when filled with his impressive manhood. He grips you hard enough to bruise, his face buried in the bend of your neck.

He drives himself inside of you, hips pumping with the fury of his need, but he’s prepared you for it. It’s all you can do just to hold on, to the bed, to him, letting him use you exactly the way he wants to, because you know the past couple of days have been anything but easy for him. 

When his thumb finds your clit you think you might die from the overwhelming sensation of it. “No,” you beg, somehow smiling through your exasperation. “Please. Mercy.”

He just pays you that impish curl of lips that always seriously makes you question which side he's playing for. “You can take it,” he informs you. “For me?” The way he pouts down at you while simultaneously rearranging your insides should be illegal.

“Fuck,” you swear again, and he grins down at you, knowing he’s got you in the bag. With your ankles around his ears he slows down for you, but still fills you to the absolute brim, working you in just the rhythm he knows you need with the tip of his too-clever thumb. There is a heart wrenching beauty in making love like this. The two of you have reached an understanding of each other's bodies, a point of familiarity in which you just know, and yet somehow each time is better than the last.

It isn't long before you cum on his cock with a ragged scream that you know there’s no way in hell the boys didn’t hear, yet you cannot stop it, you cannot care, because the man inside you has rendered you into a vessel for this mind-bending pleasure and in this moment, you belong completely to him. His hips snap against yours, and soon he follows with your greedy little cunt fluttering around him, spilling himself inside you with a loud groan.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You revel in the sticky warmth of his seed seeping between your thighs, his heart a furious drumbeat beneath your ear. “Jesus fucking Christ,” is all you can manage to wheeze against the warmth of his chest.

“Right initials,” he pants, pressing lips to your hair. “Wrong guy.”

Thinking you really might have lost your mind, you start to cackle, and you can’t stop until you literally can’t breathe. You do not even have the energy to clean up, falling asleep in the beautiful mess John made of you, and maybe it’s just you, but even in his sleep John Constantine seems to hold you more tightly than he ever has before.

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

😬

it's on? 😈😈😈

@sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff @tammykelly

[lolabearwrites]

I would have loved if Krolia wasn't a good person.

Like yes, Keith reuniting w/ his Galra mother and them fighting for the same cause is rlly nice but...

Damn I would have loved if Krolia wasn't an undercover Blade, and genuinely a part of the empire.

She gets stuck on earth with no way to communicate with the outside world, and does settle down and fall in love w/ Tex because she knows there's no hope to rlly ever leave the planet.

Of course, we know she eventually does get to leave and that's just such an interesting conflict she would be presented with! Keith is a baby, her baby, could she really take him to war? He could stay on earth, But she believes in the Galra cause and is a loyal soldier to a fault, how could she abandon her empire? So she does leave him w/ Tex but promises to return when the Galra Empire wins the war.

Obviously, it takes much longer than anticipated and Keith grows up without a mother, becomes a paladin yada yada

Can you imagine if they met again??? Last time Krolia saw Keith, he was her little kit, and NOW he's not only a paladin of Voltron but also a part of BOM, a group of Galra traitors???? (It does present the plot hole of the knife tho...maybe she kept it as a souvenir of a blade she killed in the past? Yet all this time Keith thought it meant he was a blade legacy or something Idk)

It would be so interesting to see her trying to win him over, and could show us as viewers some of Galra propaganda the empire feeds to its soldiers.

She made the vow to never leave him again, but how far is she willing to take that?

[correctrvbquotes]

Cut to Tucker with his big blue bladey thing, and Donut with his crappy little gun.

Donut: Wow, that's sweet! I like the glowing part. Wh-h does it make cool noises when you swing it?

Tucker: I don't think so... no, wait, is "whoosh" a noise? Because if it is then it does, it goes whoosh whoosh, whshsh, whshthsh, whithishsh, wh-kch, chchchchc, whshsshh, hhshshsh ing, ching, whsch, wheouw. (swings the blade a couple times, making it whoosh in the air) See?

Donut: And you found that in a hole?

Tucker: Yeah dude I was just walking along, following Tex, not really paying attention you know. I fell in some hole. And uh, Tex didn't help me out, she figured she was better off without me, and that's when I found this.

Donut: You know, most people would tell that story in a way that makes it sound a little better.

Tucker: Yeah but, you know, that's not really my style.

Donut: Man, I've never found something that cool in a hole. And I've explored just about every hole you can think of!

Tucker: Hey dude, do me a favor and don't talk like that when I'm playing with my thing.

[sflow-er]

Sunday snippet

I haven't done these in a while, so to kick myself back into gear, I'm sharing with you the start of an aged-up Henry oneshot that grew out of my QP Walty writing practice...

It's a long one, so I'm putting it under a cut.

[Title TBR]

If there was one thing about today that Henry did not expect to struggle with, it was his necktie.

After all, he’s got enough experience to tie it on muscle memory alone. Three whole decades’ worth. From the tedious lessons with his father since before he started primary school, to the uniformed school celebrations and secret Society meetings at Hillerska, to the summer balls of Riddarskapet och Adelns Ungdomsklubb and an assortment of high society events that have dappled his life since early adulthood. A tie was not necessarily required on all those occasions, but he always found it harder to meet the standards without one.

That’s not even to mention the last few years and the campaign he started after his father’s untimely death. Sometimes, it feels as if he’s been armoured in a silk tie and a Windsor knot every other day since the funeral, to meet with some old baron or former Society brother. Rationally, he knows that’s not true; there was plenty of tieless time in between, and the last six months have been almost entirely tie-free. It’s just hard to see that when the tie days get on top of his mind.

Which makes today’s fumbling all the more frustrating.

Even with Henry drawing on his vast experience – and standing in front of the massive bathroom mirror that should remove all margin for error – the knot keeps coming out untidy. Whether it’s one or both shoulders peeking out, or the blade being too short and the tail too long, or the end result being too tight or loose by look or feel.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine what the late Carl Emil Silfverfeldt would make of this travesty his sole heir has just inched up to his collar. Henry can see it when he holds his own gaze in the mirror; the blue of their eyes is exactly the same, as is the critical look. The longer he stays like that, the easier it is to feel a hand on his shoulder and the words ‘we agreed that you would give it your best, and we are men of our word, aren’t we?’ in his gut.

This, he thinks grimly, is most definitely not his best. He would not settle for it even on an average day, let alone an occasion. Regardless of everything else, today is an occasion, and he cannot – will not – turn up in this mess when he’s perfectly capable of making it look right –

He breaks eye contact with a sigh and catches his head with his fingertips. Careful not to mess up his hair, he kneads his forehead from brow to temples, trying to disperse the thought that’s been popping up all morning.

Maybe a break is in order. He isn’t sure if he can still afford one when he’s already wasted so much time, but it’s not like the party can start without him.

He slinks back to the bedroom, removing the tie along the way. He should probably hang it with his jacket and waistcoat, but he can’t be bothered to circle around the king-size bed to get to them. On top of the dresser will do.

Both his phone and his smartwatch keep blinking at him as he adds the tie to the items already laid out next to the charging station – signet ring, cufflinks, antique pocket watch, little square box. No doubt he’s missed a ton of messages. Figuring he might as well catch up now, he grabs the phone and takes a seat at the foot end of the bed.

He could have guessed that the first batch would be from his mother, Mikaela. She’s been freaking out about Säpo at the manor house all morning, as if there was any risk of the agents suddenly ruling the venue unsafe and calling the whole thing off.

Then again, that would be a pretty smooth way out of this tie slump. Is it too late to call August or Wilhelm and ask them to fix a last-minute security threat? Surely at least one of them must have done it before.

The thought coaxes a laugh out of him, but alas. Mikaela’s texts about the Security Police hassle end with someone having reassured her that the event can proceed with both former crown princes in attendance.

She has moved on to requesting his input on something else, apparently explained in a long voice message. There’s also a random picture of stylised yellow roses.

‘Darling, I know you’re busy getting ready, but if it’s not too much trouble,’ Mikaela starts in a tone that strongly implies it will be. ‘I’m getting a lot of questions about what is and isn’t appropriate. Five separate people – for example, Cecilia showed me her card this morning, and there were roses on it. I said you said no flowers, but she insisted, so I promised to send you a picture. Let me know what you think, okay?’

Henry sighs and enlarges the photo. He doesn’t know much about flowers or what they’re supposed to represent, but his aunt probably does. He doesn’t hate the card – but that’s about as far as he gets in forming an opinion before his mother overwhelms him with the rest of her query.

.-.-.

Cutting it off here for now (and also reserving the right to edit further). I'm fairly excited for this one so hopefully I can continue working on it to finish it soon-ish!

[transingthoseformers]

I love the Combaticons and just thought of a very funny situation in which people who are Spark bonded also share pregnancy symptoms with their partner and Texaid have been sneaking around so Vortex is trying to be supportive and take on First Aid's worst nausea and aches since he can't be there in person–First Aid us being per on by his entire gestalt and all the Autobots–meanwhile Onslaught is on a warpath trying to figure out which of his "fragging idiots" got knocked up and Vortex was dragged in first as "most likely" and Onslaught grudingly let him go and is currently trying to push all the others into getting tested but Blast Off is off planet and his now horrified and convinced his and Blast Off's affair is going ro be discovered only to find he's also nlt pregnant.

So now the Decepticon base is blowing up with accusations and Onslaught trying to force Brawl and Swindle to confess which one of thoae "HUGE FUCKING MORONS" bonded someone while they were in a gestalt. Vortex is a little offended that he is apparently so "unplatable" that Onslaught didn't suspect him. Affairs are uncovered and Swindle is convinced he may have knocked someone up and desperately trying to get Lockdown to pick up. Onslaught is in the dog house because he implied Blast Off might have cheated. Vortex is sweating buckets of coolant while throwing up in a bucket and tecting First Aid (and Blades) a play-by-play of the revelations because apparently Brawl has game and has slept with half the Air Force so Starscream is acreaming and dragging them all to get checked up which reveals some surprises but none of them Brawl's.

Vortex eventually slips away to go get "captured" by the Autobots for a few months.

Ssgdgdg ohhh tex nooo, yes.

On has questions he needs answered NOW, and he blames Vortex (which he's kinda right kinda not, and wrong in thinking he's wrong)

The dramafest is spectacular, like. So manyyy affairs, and the Actually Pregnant First Aid just needs to know

Ah yes, a "suprise capture", delightful

[silver-tooth-the-panther]

Some Ideas For A TADC

AU!

Now, I’ve had some ideas since I got into The Amazing Digital Circus, so I figured I should share them!

First off, I thought up of an OC! He’s a tall navy blue wolf plushie that has yellow slinkies (yes, the spring toys) for his neck, legs, and arms! His eyes are similar to Barnaby from Billie Bust Up, but instead of them being different shades of orange, they are different shades of purple. His name is Party Animal (his human name is Percy Atticus) and he’s a rather strange one at the circus. Party doesn’t seem to care about finding the exit…I wonder why…

Anyways! There another idea that I had as well. What happens to the memories and character traits that are removed from the humans when they go inside the digital world? Well, perhaps they are turned into whole other beings that get thrown to the depths of the digital world!

Here are the creatures known as The Identities!

Penny (Pomni): Penny is a black and white character who wears a white suit with a black suit vest. A soft bow tie takes the place of a normal tie and a spear’s blade takes the place of where the bell should be on her tail. She still has her signature jester hat, but it is black and white and bears no bells. Her eyes are as dark as tar and tiny white spirals replace her pupils. A bone is wielded in her hand at all times. Her and Bubble would get along well, since they have the same smile. She does seem to wear a mask that covers the rest of her face though…Personality wise, She’s sweet, but can be rather off putting, and is incredibly loyal. Just don’t let her horrific appearance fool you, she’s a sweet lad. She’s the official leader of this rag tag gang.

Annie (Ragatha): A weeping raggedy doll who has a serrated mouth and one loose button eye. Her functioning eye was ripped out, thus she is completely blind. Her dress is covered in rips and tears and her mitten hands are covered in black blood and have been turned into sharps claws. She cries most of the time, she carries the burdens of Ragatha’s past life. Luckily, Penny makes for great company (and a lovely girlfriend!)

File 1 (Jax): His real file name is 17384295, but his friends just shorten it down to 1. Since he is an NPC, File 1 is supposed to exist in the circus, but here he is! He’s mostly silent, but is very loyal to the Queen. File 1’s senses are incredibly heightened senses. This mixed in with his teleportation abilities makes him a lethal prankster! His body is a bulky, black mass with long arms and a head that resembles a rabbit. Red teeth and eyes glow on his face. If you miss them, you’ll never know he’s there…

File 2 (Gummigoo): File 258963 is his real name, but the gang shortens his name too. This creature is a melted mass that fused with machinery to keep his body as stable as it could be. File 2 is the most rational of the group and remembers every little detail. Even details that never existed…

Angel (Gangle): This mess of ribbons of broken masks is best described as unpredictable and shy. The only mask that isn’t broken is a pitch black one that has a strange eye to the left. She typically serves as the group’s security.

Zoey (Zooble): Oh where to begin on this mess. They’re quite literally in shambles! This creature is made from various parts of random beasts! A bear’s leg, a dragon’s tail, a donkey’s hoof, you name it all! They seem to be very depressed and tends to sleep than play.

Kevin (Kinger): A broken king chess piece with a makeshift mouth, spider legs, and veins connecting its hands and eyes to its body? What could possibly be creepy about this one? He’s incredibly stable and is typically the one you go to when you need a problem solved!

Tex (Party): Tex is a black furred, two-headed beast. One of his head bears no soul, so it limbs down and its eyes swing from side to side. His limbs are now made of jump rope and his claws are large enough to pierce the heart of any human. STAY AWAY FROM HIM! This creature is genuinely abusive and will try to steal your code to free itself from the depths. He was the one who blinded Annie and who overthrew Penny. Maybe…that’s all about to change…

That’s a wrap! I hope you enjoy this little idea! If you wanna leave any questions or requests for this AU, my ask box is always open!

[braverynight]

Meet the Sheep Twins

I’ve been kinda obsessed with an AU where the Lamb and the Ex-Bishops go to a far off land to spread the word of Lamb and stumble upon these sheep twins

Valais, or Val as her friends call her, is aggressive and tough, proficient in all weapons and always has a minimum of 20 blades on her person at all times. Kinda necessary when you escaped a genocide. She loves to cause chaos but reels it back when her brother tells her to.

Texel, or Tex for short, is the calmer more educated one of the twins. While his sister studied the blade, he studied archery and magics, and is a pretty good shot with magic and a bow. Whenever they aren’t on the run, Texel likes to read all the books he can find, educating himself on the happenings of their old home, hoping one day they can return and see if they can rebuild their old lives.

Anyways yeah! I love me a “The Lamb isn’t the last of their kind” AU!!!

[polyamarhousgarden]

Selfshiptober Day 5

All Dressed Up | Blade

"They've always been like this, Eliot, you just never noticed."

In which, in a particular con, they had Clara take over as the main grifter while everyone sets the scene and for the first time Eliot sees that they are capable of presenting themself as more than the quiet and almost conservative teammate that could tell convincing lies.

Seeing Clara flirting and smiling and giggling away while speaking with their mark using a soft British accent was something that made Eliot pause.

Fake accent aside, what would it feel like if Clara flirted with him?

This is around nearing the end of season 1

Taglist+Uncaptioned under the cut!

TAGLIST: @tex-treasures

Please tell me if you wanna be added to the taglist through the rbs or comments!!

[lilflowerpot]

If a galran (such as Krolia) disappeared, and then later returned to the galra empire (not the blade of marmora, the empire) with a hybrid child (such as keith) how would people react and what would happen to them?

In my original post concerning Krolia taking him with her, I did indeed say that she'd make a beeline for the BoM, but I also touched upon the general reaction of the Empire as a whole:

In Imperial circles, the ramifications of bearing a hybrid kitling can range quite dramatically from being side-eyed at one’s choice in bedfellow, to disgust and outrage at having sullied the gene-pool… though this extreme is reserved for the Empire’s strict traditionalists, many of whom still perpetuate racist attitudes within galra circles, so you see why they’d be so upset by a hybrid. As I’ve said before, harming a galra child (even if said child is a hybrid) is distinctly ingalran and goes against their principles, as all children are culturally precious; sequestering a hybrid child away so as to conceal their family’s shame, however, would not be out of the question.

For argument's sake, let's say Krolia's backstory unfolds as it did in canon, except Tex dies, so she takes Keith back with her and for whatever reason is maybe intercepted by an Imperial vessel before she gets to the Blade. In this scenario, there's no hiding that she has an obviously ingalran child with her, and so of course she has to claim him as her own thus revealing that he's a hybrid. As stated above, harming a galra child (hybrid or no) is out of the question, and Krolia certainly wouldn't be the first Imperial soldier to have produced hybrid offspring, so more than likely Keith's existence would be formerly recorded and he would become an official citizen of the Empire; accommodations would be made and Krolia would likely be transferred to a military position at one of the quieter nursery colonies (which would be of little use to the Blade, but a wonderful place to raise a child) and though it's not impossible that Keith would still experience a certain degree of othering from his peers for being so overtly ingalran—especially those from more "traditional" bloodlines—I'm inclined to believe that he'd actually have been happier among the galra than he was among humans, due to his instinctual behaviours aligning far more closely with this side of his parentage.

Ultimately, Keith would grow up as the galra do, with a vast extended family of peers and parental figures alike, he would have discovered his love of flying early on, and despite his dubiuos bloodline the Imperial military wouldn't want to waste talent like that so he'd have been encouraged to serve his Emperor as best he could. When the red lion is discovered, and the best of the best are being submitted as potential paladins, Keith naturally would want to throw his hat into the ring and maybe it's a trial, maybe there's resistance from the higher-ups because if their finest were unable to claim the mighty crimson beast then what could a half-breed possibly offer, but,,, maybe, just maybe, he gets his chance.

And maybe, this time, the red paladin of voltron wears the Emperor's colours.

[bentosandbox]

LaTers lyrics TL

keysmashed this out quickly yesterday because i think we're not going to get an official one

disclaimer: done with the power of JLPT N3 and a honorary texlapp doctorate also i tried to reword some the english lyrics to make them make sense

texas / lappy / both

この身を盾にして 影は背中に迫っていた My self as his trump card, his shadow approaches my back

自由��縛ったのは 自分か世界のせいか Who was it that bound my freedom, was it me or the world

境界を踏み越えて満ちる 騒がしさを知った I step over the boundary, and am full of the turbulence I knew

狂乱を巻き込んだ力 戦いで示すだけEasy My power engulfed by frenzy, demonstrating it in battle is easy

昨日に追い付かれるのか Will yesterday catch up with me

明日を追い駆けるのか Will I chase after tomorrow

Which one do you like? Which path will you take?

さよなら 告げるために此処にいる ‘Goodbye’, I came here to say this

最初から 揺らがない覚悟を持って From the very start, with my unwavering resolve

打ち砕け Sink or swim Break into pieces, sink or swim

逃さないよ Stop bugging me Can't get away, stop irking me

Fight to the last 速度を上げるStory Fight to the last, speed up the story

追憶を振り切って Break from your memories

何の因果が結んだ 聞こえない振りは止めてよね Just what kind of fate has tied us together? Stop pretending you can’t hear me, okay?

重く感じた刃に 縋り付くのは記憶 My blades feel so heavy, with the weight of my memories clinging on

愛憎の重なった玩具（おもちゃ）ぶつけ合えばいいよ Playthings of both love and hate, it’s fine to smash them together

退路は塞がったままで 信じた道を歩んでくJourney My path of retreat still closed off, I set off on the journey I believe in

受け入れて楽しもうか Why not accept it and have fun?

掻き消して進もうか Why not drown it all out and move on?

Which one do you like? Which path will you take?

さよなら 高くついた代償は ‘Goodbye’, an expensive farewell

これから 斬り伏せて払えばいい From now on, I cut down whomever I please

Live in this world And live in this world

過去から 地続きの 夢を見た I dreamed of a connection from the past

未来へと 臨むため現在（いま）を行こう Let’s head towards the present (now) to face the future

いつかは… Someday…

ありがとう 次を描きたいから ‘Grazie’, I’ll express this next (time)

応えよう 剣先に触れる音で Come on, respond, with the sounds of our sword points touching(🤨

さよなら 告げるために此処にいる 'Goodbye', I came here to say this

最初から 揺らがない覚悟を持って From the very start, with my unwavering resolve

忘れないで Be the light Don’t forget now, be the light

夜明けまで Slash the darkness Until day breaks, slash the darkness

Fight to the last A fight to the last

速度を上げて行け Come on, let’s speed things up

もう止められない程 (Til) it can’t be stopped no more

追憶を振り切って Break from your memories

I'm guessing it's supposed to be the 'later' in ‘see you laters’ if La = Lappland and te = texas what is rs relationship???

lines that made me ????

Which one do you like?

my gut() is telling me it's more along the lines of 'which path do you like better' so i went with 'Which path will you take?'

逃さないよ Stop bugging me

was wavering between the first part referring to tex (as in lapp telling her she can't run away forever) but the 'stop bugging me' convinced me its referring to herself being unable to escape the quagmire

ありがとう 次を描きたいから

nobody corrected me on twitter so i take it my reading isn't horribly off lmfao..texas saying thank you to LAPP?? dio mio

[johnwickb1tsch]

THE DEVILS' TRIANGLE

A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (& now John Constantine) Imagine Part 9 by:

@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and @tammykelly (with honorary dream weavers / shit stirrers @lilspookymeh & @kurai-hono-blog ���)

Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘

ALL CHAPTERS

PART 9

Johnwickb1tsch:

Wick could have been an asshole about buying a brand new kitchen, sundries included–but instead he merely shrugs off Constantine's hostile question. "Seemed like the least I could do."

Constantine glares, but lets it go, begrudgingly sitting down to a delectable meal cooked by the man he knows, deep down, that you've never been able to forget. 

At Tex's midday administering of magical medicine, he takes your hand after you finish, refusing to let go. "Set with me a while, Rattlesnake." He pats the couch, on which there is no room unless you were to sit in his lap–undoubtedly his hope.

With a sigh and a knowing smirk you settle back in your chair. Your eyes are drawn to the burn upon his chest. He will carry that mark for the rest of his life, even if the magic is lifted.

You think on what Papa Midnite said to Constantine. "Take some big feeling..."

It kind of floors you, to think of the energy it took for Constantine to conjure that working out of thin air.

For you.

You told him a little bit about the boys. How they hurt you–and, how they saved your life. How you loved them, and how they destroyed you in their abandonment. No matter how you framed it, Constantine blamed them for the bullet wound forever seared in your side.

However, it wasn’t so simple as that. 

"Whacha thinking, baby girl?"

You just shake your head with a tired smile. "Nothing important."

"Hmm. You gonna make me guess? Alright. You're thinkin'...bout that time in Mexico it was just you an me and the stars, out by the pool in our birthday suits."

You snort–quite against your will, it turns into a giggle. 

"No..."

"Uh huh. You’re missin' my wicked tongue up between your thighs. I know that look."

"That's enough of that," you say, trying to stand. But he has your hand, and he tugs you so that you fall down to sit on the edge of the couch–and half on him. Your faces hover just centimeters away. You watch with horror a he tries to lean in, capitalizing on the opportunity. By the skin of your teeth, your heart in your throat, you just barely manage to turn your head.

"Didn't you miss me, rattlesnake?" he asks, his deep voice all sultry and low just wrecking you to the bone.

You dare reach up to caress his cheek with the blade of your thumb. "Of course I did. But there’s no going back, Tex. Maybe...that time is behind us." Just saying it hurts like a knife between the ribs, but you go on, “Maybe you and John did the right thing, letting me go.”

He just narrows his dark eyes at hearing that. You hate the way it gives you such a thrill, to the base of your spine, and lower still. “I thought you were mad about that? Hell, I’m still mad about that. I miss you so much I can hardly think straight. There’s just…” He frowns while he says it, but you know it’s just because he’d literally rather take a bullet than talk about his feelings. His grip on your hand tightens; he glares down at your silver rings like they owe him money.  “There ain’t no point to anything, when you’re gone. Do you know what I mean?”

You close your eyes; for a moment you feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, because you know exactly what he means. You lived it for months after they booted you, drifting from country to country, an empty husk of a woman, a gaping black hole where your heart used to be. Only after moving to LA, thinking about going back to school, and meeting Constantine, did your life start to feel like it had some meaning again. 

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” you answer quietly. “But how did you think this would go? You’d knock on my door, and I’d just uproot my whole life for you again?”

“Maybe?” The confusion on his handsome face is almost cute. You realize he really did think it would be that easy, and you snort, looking away to a framed Tibetan Thangka painting on the wall. This man. As ever, you’re torn between kissing him and killing him. You have to keep reminding yourself that the former option is not even on the table. 

“At least give me some credit. I coulda come in with guns blazin' but instead I brought flowers."

“You want credit?”

“Yeah. I’m practically a changed man. And I wouldn’t mind an apology from Wizard Boy either.”

"You've got to be kidding me." The pair on this man never ceases to amaze you.

"We were just having a little bit of friendly fisticuffs, but he fucked me up pretty good. That’s called unnecessary escalation.”

He would know. 

"Spare me the macho bullshit. There’s no such thing as friendly fisticuffs. You were going to hurt my boyfriend, and you absolutely deserved what he gave you. You’re lucky he got Midnite to lift it."

Only a beat later do you realize you called Constantine your boyfriend within earshot of everyone, which you never do, because you both hate labels and the word just seems too high school for what you actually are to each other–but there’s no going back now. 

“But–”

At last, at last, you are in a position where you don’t have to swallow his gaslighting. “No buts. You can behave yourself, Tex, or you can go. I mean it.” 

Maybe drawn by the sound of your raised voice, Constantine chooses that moment to intervene, appearing at the foot of the couch with a magnificent frown. 

“Well well, if it ain’t The Boy Who Lived.”

You know he’s just making yet another Harry Potter reference, but considering Constantine’s history, this nickname makes you flinch. Maybe it’s a mistake on your part, but you bristle. “Don’t call him that.”

Constantine, however, betrays nothing, just crossing his arms with that blandly judgy expression. “It’s alright, y/n. He loves childrens’ books–a man has to stick to his reading level.” You don't feel like arguing about the complexity of the later books, so you let the arrow fly.

You lift an eyebrow, side-eyeing Tex. “You do know an awful lot about Harry Potter for a grown ass man your age.”

For possibly the first time ever Tex actually looks sheepish. “Had to read something while I was in the shit.”

Tex never really told you much about his tour of duty in the Middle East. Bradford had intimated that it didn’t end well–but you weren’t exactly keen to take everything that asshole had said with any sort of seriousness. The thought of him holed up in a mud hut reading about Hogwarts kind of pulls at your heartstrings for some ridiculous reason. 

“So what you want, Wizard Boy?” demands Tex, insouciantly refusing to let go of your hand, despite you tugging on it.

“I was going to check your chakras for malevolence, but I'm having second thoughts now.”

“Sounds illegal in five states.”

Constantine snorts. “You want me to double check Midnite's handiwork or not? If there's a trace of darkness left it could spread– and you'll be fucked all over again.”

“Not the way I like, I'm guessin’.”

“Probably not. But then again, you seemed to like Desdemona at the club. You want an introduction?” Constantine has a sly look on his handsome face as he asks this. It must be the succubus you'd run off– the thought of Tex in contact with her again makes you vibrate with jealousy. It is sharp, and fierce, and utterly fucking irrational.

You should encourage Tex to find someone else.

Your heart just doesn't agree.

“I'll…leave you two to it,” you say, reluctantly standing to pull away out of Tex's grip.

Only belatedly, after you've retreated to your room, do you realize that maybe Constantine interrupted your tête a tête with Tex for his sake, rather than yours.

***

John Wick whips you all up a beautiful dinner of sauteed meat and vegetables, complimented with a nice bottle of dry red wine that you're sure did not come from Trader Joe's. You play his sous chef, chopping up veggies, and it almost feels like old times in the kitchen, although he never would have given you access to a big sharp knife before. As though you ever would have had the nerve to stab him. 

Tex was another matter.

At first you all sit down to share a semi-awkward meal, peppered with halting silences–until the second bottle of wine comes out, and then things flow more smoothly. It starts with Constantine cracking a joke at Tex's expense, which is surprisingly backed by Wick with a witty aside. Tex responds good naturedly, for once, and you just sit back and watch with a smile, a warm glow in your chest that feels too close to bliss to possibly last.

You help Wick with the dishes, drying as he washes because your dish rack is tiny. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he says after the last plate, bending down to kiss your forehead. You forget. You fucking forget that there are two other people there, one of whom is your current lover, and out of longing and pure habit you tilt your head back for the second staggeringly sweet kiss on your lips that always followed. 

Only a long beat later do you realize what you've done, with Wick's shining dark eyes looking down on you, missing nothing. You gasp like a scandalized school girl, taking a small step back. “You're right,” you agree. “I am tired. Good night, everyone.” You're such a coward you can't even lift your head to look at any of them, though you can feel their eyes upon you as you scurry away.

Once in the sanctuary of your room you collapse on the bed, clutching the coverlet in your claws for hands, so embarrassed by your slip that you could die. You know that Constantine loves you, even if he’s never outright said it, and honestly probably never will–and this is how you repay him. 

You really are a piece of work.

***

After you retreat, a silence falls over the kitchen, the three formidable men eyeing each other like wolves amidst a power struggle, trying to decide who is the weakest link and who is alpha. It’s Constantine who stands without a word, fetching his green glass bottle of Ardbeg single-malt scotch and setting it down in the middle of the table with a thunk. Then he produces three glasses–none matching–and pours out a finger for each. 

“Gentlemen.” He looks between the two assassins seated at his table, a part of him flabbergasted as to how he’d even ended up in this situation. Before he met you, if someone told him someday he would find a woman he loved more than the air he breathed, he would have laughed them out of the room. 

Not now. 

How the mighty are brought low, and pride goeth before a fall, and all that proverbial biblical bullshit that is old as time and yet somehow still applies. Despite all our advances, humans are still essentially the same animal we were when we first left the cave and started walking upright–or when God created Adam out of dirt, whichever you find more believable.  

“I believe we find ourselves at an impasse.”

“How you figure?” asks Tex, knocking back his drink and helping himself to another. 

“Does being in love with the same woman ring a bell?”

Wick smirks, watching the exchange between the two, sipping his scotch sparingly. He does not contradict Constantine’s assessment, but in his succinct way he drives home the finer point. “More importantly, that woman is in love with all of us.”

The thought pulls something like a growl from deep in Constantine’s chest, but in the end he acknowledges, “Exactly.”

Tex smirks, leaning on his elbows. “Don’t be sore, Wizard Boy. Be grateful we broke her in for you.”

Constantine seems to count to ten under his breath, restraining himself from unleashing a curse on this fucking cowboy again. “You’re gonna have to give me pointers on how you manage not to murder him daily,” he says to Wick. 

“I only listen to about half of what he says,” Wick admits with a smirk, a humorous glitter in his dark eyes.

“Good to know. My point is, if I curse you both into the Seventh Circle, it would hurt her. Likewise, if you two were to dig me a shallow grave out in the desert. You hurt her enough the first time. Do you follow?”

Wick nods, grasping Constantine’s train of thought immediately. Tex, however, has to chew on it a little–maybe because he’d hoped, for once, to finally have this girl to himself. 

“You’re saying you don’t mind sharin’,” finally says Tex with a shit-eating grin, leaning back in his chair. 

“Oh, I mind,” Constantine is sure to clarify. “But it’s up to her, if she wants you or not. If she decides she wants you to go–I will make you go. If she wants you to stay…” He spreads his big hands, as though to say, we’ll figure it out. Somehow.  

Tex narrows his eyes, clearly debating if he should pick a fight over the make you go part, or take it as it sits on the table. “And how do you propose we let her know what we decided about this?”

Constantine snorts at that, draining his glass and standing from the table. “That’s your problem, Howdy Doody. Good night–and may the best man win.” The two assassins watch as John Constantine crosses to your bedroom, and practically shuts the door in their faces. 

***

You are drifting on the edge of sleep when Constantine crawls into bed with you. You smile as you feel the familiar pattern of the depression in the mattress, and moan with surprise as he covers your mouth with his. You taste the Ardbeg on his tongue, which explains some of his ardor, but not all. The fury of his kisses on your lips and neck pulls an involuntary moan from deep in your lungs, his big hands digging into the flesh of your thigh, pulling you on top of him. 

“John…?” Utterly star-struck, you blink down at him, disheveled in your pajama t-shirt and your hair a mess. He reaches up to cup your cheek, dwarfing your face in his large hand, studying you like there will be a test later. He opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say to you, but he can’t quite get it out, the words stuck in his throat. 

You think you know what it is, and your heart warms for it, that tingling thrill filling your chest and spreading outwards. You’re not even mad, that he can’t say it, because you get him. This is not the week you’re going to push him out of his comfort zone, more than you already have. Most of LA would laugh to hear it, but John Constantine has been a veritable fucking saint the past couple of days, and you’re so grateful to him. 

“It’s ok,” you say softly, tracing the line of his square jaw. “I know.” 

He frowns, almost like he wants to argue, but in the end he just shakes his head and pulls you to him.

You want to apologize for almost kissing John Wick right in fucking front of him–but that sticks in your throat too. You guess you’re both just a little raw tonight.

He peels off your t-shirt greedily as he guides you down. Hungry lips and a teasing tongue find the sensitive tips of your breasts, making you squirm with longing above him. You know you’ve already soaked through the laughable barrier of your panties, and are probably leaving an unsightly stain on his nice (200 dollar, he likes to tell you with a smirk) white shirt–but if the Chinese laundry down the street can get out demon blood stains, what’s a little cum?

You let out a cry of longing as he releases your nipple with a pop; the ache between your thighs is already nearly unbearable, and you can't stop yourself from grinding against his lean torso. You shut your mouth as soon as you open it, conscious of the paper thin walls and the two dangerous men on the other side of them.

“You like that, baby?” he taunts, hooking his fingers in your panties to tug them down.

“You know I do,” you pant. 

“Then let me hear you,” he invites with a wicked smirk, shifting down so that you are nearly sitting on his face. You don’t know what was said out there, but you are starting to get the idea that John Constantine is up to something. But before you can even begin to think what to do about it, he pulls you forward with an undeniable grip on your thighs, and his tongue is laving up your slit.

“Fuck.”

This exclamation is not quiet, and neither are the ones after it. You practically shake the walls with your cries when you cum on his tongue, your body rendered into a quivering mess of over-stimulated nerves. He does not grant you mercy, even when you beg him, and by the time he is done with you, you are halfway to your second orgasm.

“Do you want me baby?” he demands, panting from his champion cunnilingus league exertions as he undresses himself. There is a desperation in his tone you’ve never quite heard before, and you have a feeling he’s not just talking about sex.

“I need you,” you tell him, and you mean every word. It wins you every inch of his hard cock buried inside you, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning, as though there is no room for breath in your body when filled with his impressive manhood. He grips you hard enough to bruise, his face buried in the bend of your neck.

He drives himself inside of you, hips pumping with the fury of his need, but he’s prepared you for it. It’s all you can do just to hold on, to the bed, to him, letting him use you exactly the way he wants to, because you know the past couple of days have been anything but easy for him. 

When his thumb finds your clit you think you might die from the overwhelming sensation of it. “No,” you beg, somehow smiling through your exasperation. “Please. Mercy.”

He just pays you that impish curl of lips that always seriously makes you question which side he's playing for. “You can take it,” he informs you. “For me?” The way he pouts down at you while simultaneously rearranging your insides should be illegal.

“Fuck,” you swear again, and he grins down at you, knowing he’s got you in the bag. With your ankles around his ears he slows down for you, but still fills you to the absolute brim, working you in just the rhythm he knows you need with the tip of his too-clever thumb. There is a heart wrenching beauty in making love like this. The two of you have reached an understanding of each other's bodies, a point of familiarity in which you just know, and yet somehow each time is better than the last.

It isn't long before you cum on his cock with a ragged scream that you know there’s no way in hell the boys didn’t hear, yet you cannot stop it, you cannot care, because the man inside you has rendered you into a vessel for this mind-bending pleasure and in this moment, you belong completely to him. His hips snap against yours, and soon he follows with your greedy little cunt fluttering around him, spilling himself inside you with a loud groan.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You revel in the sticky warmth of his seed seeping between your thighs, his heart a furious drumbeat beneath your ear. “Jesus fucking Christ,” is all you can manage to wheeze against the warmth of his chest.

“Right initials,” he pants, pressing lips to your hair. “Wrong guy.”

Thinking you really might have lost your mind, you start to cackle, and you can’t stop until you literally can’t breathe. You do not even have the energy to clean up, falling asleep in the beautiful mess John made of you, and maybe it’s just you, but even in his sleep John Constantine seems to hold you more tightly than he ever has before.

Sweetwolfcupcake:

The first signs of dawn begin to show on the dark sky, timid but consistent in pushing back the darkness previously reigning over the sky when you open your eyes-- blinking lazily as you register your dry lips and slightly open mouth. You feel parched, but the arms wrapped around you feel like a slice of heaven by your side and you are too lazy, too sleepy. You try to ignore it but your throat feels like it would scream for water any minute.

Sighing, you gently remove Constantine's arms from your body, not an easy task though-- his arms are firm vines around you, holding you close with a distinct gentleness that you've seen so often in his eyes when they gaze at you.

After you are finally off the bed without waking up Constantine (you're surprised), you tip-toe out of the room and into the kitchen for a much needed glass of water.

It's quiet, you notice as you gulp down a glass of water. With the overpowering sleepy haze gone, you grow more conscious of the environment.

Such an hour is supposed to be quiet. But there is a severe lack of tranquillity in the quietness--- it's more of a deafening silence. And you do not have a good feeling about this. Emptying the glass, you put it silently aside and turn around to rush return to the safety of---

Your eyes widen as you blink away the reminder of sleepy haze from them at the sight of John Wick's looming form in the kitchen doorway.

lo spettro

Indeed, he is like a ghost who appears right when you least expect it to. Though at the moment, he looks more like a formidable predator-- or maybe it is you who feels threatened like a prey.

Whatever it is, it does not settle easily in your stomach. There's chaos, flipping and swirling in there. All are born out of jarringly conflicted emotions and thoughts you feel simultaneously.

You stand still, eyeing him warily. He isn't dressed in his classic three-piece. In fact, he is in simple trousers a white t-shirt, that bulges at all the right places. No, he isn't dressed to hunt, but he seems very much ready to with the way his eyes are set upon you. You know the stare all too well. The thought brings back memories that are now the source of your heartache and you stiffen again.

"Had a busy night with your plaything?"

Ah, of course...

"He's not a plaything." You snap without a second thought.

John smiles faintly, but there is no softness to it. Instead, it looks sharp and somehow feels bitter as he diminishes the distance between you both in two strides.

"Was he good enough? Better?" He invades your personal space as smoothly as he invades your dreams.

This time though, you are determined not to back down and bend to his will. You stand-- stiff and with your heart hammering-- but you are determined to not let it show.

"Our bedroom is none of your business."

Oh, you know the way his chocolate orbs darken. Your words have ruffled him. He presses closer and you know, you just know that he can feel your heartbeat, but there is nowhere else to go, and you are sandwiched between the counter and him.

"Yeah? That's a pity, thought I could show this boy how it's done."

You glare up at him.

The audacity.

If this is a game of riling you up, he was unfortunately winning. But being away from them and being with Constantine has evolved you in ways you are thankful for. You are not going to bend easily under his games anymore.

Your glare charges into a sardonic smile--

"Oh, don't bother. It is blissful when you don't feel like a disposable toy."

To a degree, even you are surprised at the venom in your voice. But the surprise is overshadowed by the sight of John Wick faltering. You admit, the sadness do not make you happy, but having gained power in the conversation does satisfy you.

"I am exhausted after a long so..."

With that, you slip away from him and walk back to the safety of your bedroom, there is a rush in your steps, and the moment you lock the door from inside, relief floods withing you.

A part of this whole encounter reminds you of your childhood ritual of switching off the lights before running upstairs to the safety of your room-- but as a child, it was just your active imagination, right now, your heart thunders the same way it would as a five-year-old, running from the 'ghosts'.

Constantine calls your name lazily from the bed, eyes half-open and hair dishevelled. There is a certain domesticity in the air and your heart unexpectedly flutters-- not an anxious, thrilled flutter, but one that confirms what you are afraid to admit.

You fear losing this. This sight of Constantine laying so unguarded, so vulnerable and open on the bed. You are afraid to not feel his arms wrapped around you again. You are afraid not to feel his lips on you another morning.

You are afraid to lose him.

You are afraid to be abandoned again.

In your fear, you find courage. The courage to finally acknowledge this fear of losing him, losing what you both share.

Silently, you make your way back to bed, slipping under the covers and back in his waiting arms.

You know Constantine can probably sense the shift in your energy, but he chooses silence. He puts your comfort before his curiosity, his doubts. That makes you snuggle closer to him, to his warmth.

Tammykelly:

Songs to get in ya feels:

Karma by Summer Walker

Stand still by Sabrina Claudio

You lay awake under the silk covers, with Constantine quietly breathing beside you in a deep peaceful slumber. You shift your focus to his pace of breath so you can match your own in hopes to fall into the calmness of the space bubble around you. The limbs of your body are heavy, and yet your mind is ever so awake, having drifted towards conscious awareness of bitterly sweetened memories, rather than much needed sleep. Your eyelids flutter shut, as a yet another frustrated sigh escapes your mouth. The silence of the late hours is mockingly embracing the racing thoughts in your mind and pumping heartbeat, uncomfortable heat continues to fill every particle under your skin, amplified by the feel of rushing bloodstream, as if no concept of rest exists in this moment. A small furry body curls itself closer, next to your side, and your hand slowly reaches to brush its fingers through Baby Killy’s soft fur, more purring gently filling your ears, as you give into what your subconscious can’t seem to stop replaying, guided by the whisper of the shadows.

- a flashback -

You feel a warm breeze rush past you, carrying the salty scent of the Mediterranean coast, disrupting the shattered shadows. A tiny glimpse of sunlight pervades through the thin crack between your eyelashes, your narrowed eyes taking in the sunny serenity of French Riviera that envelops you again in its natural flow and beauty, before you hear a stream of rapid gunshots that only alert a flock of birds, rising from your garden.

You watch a tall man’s broad back stiffen, as he reloads the gun. You lazily get up, not taking your eyes off his powerful muscles moving under the skin, as he takes the position again. You feel your chest contract, breath caught in your throat, as his whole body seems to have become one with the weapon at the highest alert, before all the motion subsides, and he fires more shots at the moving targets.

You’re not sure whether it’s the thumping of your heart, ringing in your ears, bringing rising heatwave to your body, or it’s the sun that collects the multitude of nervous specks across your subconscious, melting them through all the layers onto the surface, forming a deeper shade of blush on your cheeks. He looks majestic, engulfed by sunlight, a gun in his hand, akin to an innate extension of his hunter-like, perhaps, hereditary nature. Your gaze traces the sweat dripping down his skin, as a gentle sigh leaves your lips, making it hard for you to look back up.

You don’t try to make your presence known, the sound of your steps remaining almost entirely silent, for even your slightest movement echoes through his awareness. He turns around before you reach him, his long hair sticking out from under the bandana.

“Princessa”, - his deep voice greets you.

“John”, - you playfully reply, watching his eyes wash over your silhouette, while you take one more step.

“Skuchala po mne [missed me]?”, - his calloused palm makes contact with the exposed skin below your silk bralette, hiding under unbuttoned oversized linen dress shirt. His fingers snake around your waist, urging you to move closer, slightly dipping under the waistband of your linen shorts. A shiver across your skin doesn’t escape his attentive gaze, a smirk quirking the corners of his mouth up. You look into his eyes, as you feel his hand brush against your back gently, the same fingers that were just holding a weapon, now playing a dirty game against you.

“Vsegda [always]”, - you tease back, your irises catching the way John smiles when you stand on your tippy toes to kiss him, as he melts into your lips, meeting you half way. The scales of gentle and sweet is something you’re unable to control anymore, for the tender anxiety in your heart flutters away with the wings of passionate fire that is the reflection of him.

One of your hands finds its place at the back of his neck, pulling him into you, which he eagerly complies to, as if pouring all the adrenaline of the practice shooting onto your tongue. You gently trail your fingers down his spine, as you break away from his devilish lips, a sly smirk that is a mirror of his, appearing on your features when he lifts you up, walking to the tent, and puts you at the edge of a poolside bed that actually looks like it belongs in a bedroom.

You calmly stare into the abyss of his dark eyes, your chest filled with the scent of excitement and your own game that quickly escalates to something entirely else the longer you hold eye contact. A different kind of heat knocks on your heart, opening doors to a more subliminal feeling. The type of warmth produced not by the midday sunlight, but by the golden hour sun, its muted colors appearing the brightest only for a slight sight, before its remnants reveal their beauty along the way of one’s attention.

His eyebrows twitch, while his eyes search yours.

“Opasnaya igra, malyshka [it’s a dangerous game, babygirl]”, - John says in a raspy voice, seeing the way you let him read you, akin to an open book with no secrets.

“Rasve ya dolzhna boyatsa [why, should I be afraid?” - your hand grazes his cheek, as a feeling that is bigger than your heart settles down in your chest, upon relishing the way he’s sitting in front of you on his knees, looking up at you, as if you’re God’s greatest creation. The fear and sense of uncertainty long forsaken in the tangled forest of what’s left behind.

“No”, - he tells you, his hands on your thighs, “if that’s what you wish for”. A moment passes in between the eternity that stretches across your souls.

“I don’t think I’ve ever hugged you, have I?”, you tell him, suddenly, his fingers freeze in their place. John’s eyes go blank for a split second, before another emotion replaces it, something deep and so raw, your heart almost explodes. An emotion that is swept away by the ever flowing current when his irises go back to that same deep shade of darkness that is the palette of his whirlpool.

“Come here”, you tell him, your hand gently tugging at him. A shallow breath of his doesn’t dissolve away unnoticed, as you get up and switch positions, him - sitting on the bed, you - standing in between his legs, holding his face and stroking his sharp cheekbones. There’s no sense of reality anymore, just his black chocolate eyes, looking up with the devotion of a man found. Time stood still, its heartbeat paving the way just for you two.

You feel him slowly moving closer, as if testing the limits of his own game of chess, before he nuzzles into you. You wrap your arms around him, patting him with all the gentle love you can master, as if not to break a wounded child. Gradually, you sense his calmness unravel itself when his body melts into yours, drinking every bit of peace that you generously get to offer.

A tear rolls down your cheek, the space around you collapsing on itself and blossoming into an eternal tangible softness that revolves around you and John.

John sighs, pulling you closer, letting every piece of your ethereal gentleness and love that is the reflection of you seep into him, beyond the subliminal, into the deepest infinity of his oblivion that is the code of his own sense of self.

Treedaddymcpuffpuff:

You wake up with a startled gasp, giving Killy the same little fright. She runs away, bells dangling at her neck, the sound fading underneath the bed where she hides from you.

“Killy,” you groan, “I’m sorry, come back.” You wish you could actually tell her in some way you didn’t mean to scare the shit out of her, but it’s too late. And Constantine is gone, too. There’s a little note on the stand. Something about having to run out for a while on a job.

It’s around noon. Your black out curtains can’t contain all of the leaking sunshine, so you decide to follow that biological clock that runs deep and get up. John isn’t here, either, and Tex is snoring on the couch.

“Tex,” you whisper, nudging him a little bit.

His groggy voice sends a pang of reminiscent longing through you. “Hey, honeypie.” He fades out a little bit, and you have to tug on his arm. “You’re snoring,” you tell him, trying to get another pillow under his head to elevate him. “You don’t snore. Sit up a little bit.” You’re worried that he’s not getting proper oxygen while he’s sleeping because of his recent brush with death, so you use most of your weight and a little bit of his to sit him up and lessen the deep rattle of his throat.

“C’mon,” he lays a big arm around your shoulders, tugging your upper torso down against him. “Lay with daddy, huh?”

You push against him. “Tex, you freaking weirdo, lemme go.” The temptation is definitely there, to crawl on top of him and snuggle in, but you’ve already committed to waking up and doing something on this lazy weekend day, so you squirm out of his heavy grip.

He goes back to sleep with a big, satisfied smile on his face. You resist, with all your might, leaning down to kiss his cheek. Adorable fucking idiot.

You make scrambled eggs, plate some for Tex, and leave them in the fridge for when he wakes up. Then, you get a piece of paper, write SCRAMBLED EGGS on it in big letters, and set it on his now peacefully rising chest.

It’s beautiful out here today, sunny with a tropic, warm breeze that reminds you of beachy days with John and Tex. Although the beach is about 30 minutes away by bus, you hop on with a little bag in tow, sporting cute cotton capris and a flowy tank top over your swim suit.

You spend a few hours at the beach, walking up and down the sand, looking at shells, playing in waves and watching the surfers board out past the break. There’s a little food and drink stand nearby, and you packed plenty of sunscreen, so you can stay out as long as you like.

You enjoy this as long as you can, because you have classes coming up and know you won’t get the free time again until next weekend.

You feel free-untethered. Able to go anywhere and do anything without anyone holding you down. There was such a long time, where you didn’t have that freedom. Over half your life, probably, between childhood and witness protection, where you were trapped. And, now that you have a taste of independence, you’ll never stop injecting it. Of course, with this freedom comes a little emptiness, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You’ve been lonely before, you’ll be lonely again.

Maybe that’s an absurd thought, when three men are waiting for you at home, and for a minute you feel terribly, achingly guilty about wanting freedom and love, protection, shelter-all at the same time. Sometimes women don’t get any of that let alone one. But then, that’s bullshit, isn’t it? The notion that you have to settle and compromise just because you’re a girl. Maybe you want all three of them-no, not maybe. You do want all three, and your independence. And maybe if testosterone wasn’t such a heavy drug, you could mention that to them. But you can already just see John strangling Constantine with his bare hands and Constantine burning John alive if you even dare to mention them sharing you.

Plus, would you even be able to handle all three of them? John and Constantine themselves are insatiable; Constantine, fueled by ancient magic. John, fueled with physical endurance. Tex would be simpler to please, but he’s a wild card of his own.

A group of surfers ride a wave in to shore, and you watch curiously-maybe even a little bit enviously-as they laugh and joke and splash each other in the pink sinking dawn of the day. One of them-tall, broad shouldered, bronze, the god Poseidon himself rising from the frothy ocean bank-makes eye contact with you and you look away quickly, a hot flush that’s not from the late sun flooding your skin.

“Y/n?” You look to the sound, and see a familiar face among the group of ocean dwellers.

Katrina gives you a little wave while she climbs out of one. You tip your chin at her. “Hey, Trine.” She’s one of your classmates, a good friend and study partner. You had no idea that she surfed.

She introduces you to her little group of friends, and one in particular’s name you know you haven’t forgotten. His grin is stark white against beautiful, salt crusted skin when he takes your hand in his bigger one, warm despite the cool water he just rose from, and shakes it. “We meet again.”

“Hey, we were just gonna go to Bodhi’s house for a party. Wanna come?” Trina pulls you from Johnny, giving you a strange, knowing look. You were absolutely entranced by him, staring way too much, still holding onto his hand, so you understand why she’s a little suspicious.

“You alright?” Johnny asks, bringing you back to him.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling like you’re absolutely dying.

Now everyone absolutely notices this strange tension between the two of you, and they seem delighted by it. Bodhi, you think his name is, grabs Johnny’s shoulder and shakes him a little. “Utah, you dog. Close your jaw.”

“Seriously, Johnny, stare a little longer,” Trine grumbles.

“Sorry,” he tells you sheepishly.

“Same,” you reply.

“So, you wanna come?” He asks, motioning to the group. “To the party?”

“I would, but I have to take care of something.”

You propel yourself through the darkening LA streets, the bus system, the crowds of people, the bustle of the city. Keep your eyes ahead, focused, goal driven. The big Bouncer in front of Midnite’s is the only thing that stands in your way to the inner club.

He holds up a card, prompting you. Fuck. You have never come here without John. Probably because he forbid it, but that’s beside the point. You have no idea what to say, so you just do what you’re best at and guess. “Rabbit?”

His facial expression reads “are you fucking kidding me?” All he says is “no.”

“Please. I need to see Midnite. It’s about John Constantine.”

He eyes you for a long while, and then motions for you to sit on the bench in the lobby.

•

“How’s my favorite girl?” Midnite takes a seat beside you. “What kinda shit did Constantine get into this time?”

“it’s actually my shit.”

He laughs. “Tell me about it.”

“No, I mean, really, I think there’s something strange happening, Papa. Everywhere I go, doesn’t matter how far, I see this… guy.”

“You have a spirit following you?” He asks, scanning your body with an open palm, tilting your chin this and that way.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it is-what he is, but there’s many of them. They all look the same.”

“The same? I’m confused, y/n.”

“They all look like… John Constantine.”

•

“Tex, wake up.” John kicks the couch lightly, alerting the snoring Tex.

“What the fuck.” Tex groans.

“Where’s y/n?”

Constantine has tried to call you ten times, texted you at least twice as much, and still no answer. He’s pacing through the kitchen, hand in his hair, debating on whether or not he should tear down LA to find you. You’re never gone this long, you always keep him updated. This isn’t like you.

He walks into the living room, where Tex and John are looking at the note you left alerting Tex to breakfast.

“You just let her go?” Wick demands of Tex, snatching the slice of paper and tearing it in the process. “When did she leave?”

“Fuck, I didn’t think we were dictating her life anymore,” Tex replies, “she came out here once… I think. It was daylight. I was sleepin. Fuck.”

“She always comes home,” Constantine says, more to himself than the two other men. “It’s almost one AM. We have to find her.”

“Tex, are you able to drive?” Wick asks.

“Yeah.. yeah. I’m good,” Tex nods.

“Take the car, go to her school, her bank, her favorite restaurant. Constantine?” Wick turns to address the still pacing man. “Are you able to try and locate her with some kind of magic?”

“The fuck you think I’m trying to do?” Constantine mumbles, eyes on the floor, hand in his hair, damp sweat gathering on his tshirt.

“Keep doing it. I’m going to look on foot.”

•

Maybe it was a bad idea, to drink with Midnite. Not because of him. The morally grey, powerful voodoo master has never been anything but good to you despite his wavering tolerance for Constantine, and he stays by your side diligently while you both sip on steaming, sweetened cocktails.

No, it’s a bad idea because of the shady characters lurking around you and making you feel a little like you just stepped into Mickey’s House of Villians. The lady with purple, slithery tentacles attached to her just seals the deal on that.

Midnite flips over your other divination card, the gold foils of it catching a rogue neon light and flashing bright in your eyes, before you see what it holds; 10 of spiders. “Something is tightly attached to you, something that draws dark energy. I could see it when we first met, you know. Just like the curse on Texs’ chest made him vulnerable to the wicked dark, you have naturally.”

“I’m so confused. Why?” Your words come out a little slurred, and you realize you’ve been hitting the tap too hard. This is your fifth… fourth cocktail? You’re not sure anymore. “Am I in danger?”

He looks at you with a bit of pity in his fathomless dark eyes, like he doesn’t know what to do for you. Like you’re fucked. “Always.”

Before he can elaborate, give you a warning or message, something, a heavy commotion picks up at the front entrance. Glass smashing, screaming, pounding on something metal and floppy. Midnite sighs and puts his hand on your shoulder. “Stay here. I have to deal with this.”

You ask the bartender for a glass of water to help nurse and coat the alcohol sloshing inside of you and making you pleasantly numb and prickly, and try to ignore the other patrons of the club. Kind of hard when one of them, one you very well recognize, takes the stool beside you.

“Where’s your tall friend?” The succubus asks, those bleach pink eyes doing strange, unearthly things in their sockets; changing shape, reflecting colors that usually don’t exist, sliding from side to side rapidly.

“He’s taken,” you tell her, not bothering to hide the scowl on your face.

“Really?” She asks, voice unnaturally low and seductive, titling her head. “Because I could feel the desperation on him from a league away. Most taken men with that kind of need aren’t satisfied at all.”

“I’m not entertaining this conversation,” you tell her. You remember all the anger you felt toward her after she tried to pull Tex away, and wonder where it is now that you need it. Instead, there is a dull, needy, perplexing throb beginning in your lower belly. It’s a strange way to feel arousal, but unmistakable nonetheless. Usually, all libidinous feelings begin in your brain and trickle downward, but this feeling is severed from your mind, spreading through only your lower body and making you twitch and writhe in the seat.

She grins with sharp little bone white teeth. “Interesting.”

You try and open your mouth, tell her to fuck off, but she reaches over and touches your cheek, and any words you could have said die in your throat.

Replacing speech and sense and sight, is a burly heat that rips through you. A desire like you’ve never felt. A claw-your-skin-off, teeth clenching need to be fucked. Debauched. Ruined.

An inner beast guides your way, now, and she’s hungry for cock. Luckily, there’s some place you can get it. Unluckily, it’s a few bus rides away. And you can’t fucking last that long, that’s for sure.

gif from pinterest

You stand up, make for the door, and run into something solid and familiar and warm. Just seeing his angled face make your clit tighten painfully, your cunt flutter around nothing. You jump him. He can fucking take it, and he does, handling you like a champ while you claw up his body and latch onto his mouth with your own.

John Wick doesn’t stop you. Maybe it’s the vicious arousal leaking off you that infects him, too. Or maybe it’s because he missed you, needed you that bad. Either way, he’s kissing you back, picking you up, walking you toward the nearest private place to fuck in, hopefully….

[lolabearwrites]

Basically the premise is the same as the beginning of Voltron; Krolia left when he was a baby, Tex died when Keith was 9 and now Keith lives alone in the shack.

I'm gonna say the reason Krolia didn't take Keith with her was (1) her ship only had one seat and she couldn't fly and hold him at the same time (2) she was returning to an ongoing war and didn't want Keith to be a part of it (3) babies don't do well in space travel

- Keith never went to school for obvious reasons but I'd like to think Tex still tried to educate Keith on as much as he could.

- Keith does not have any adult clothes that fit him. So he wears his dad's old stuff. (He doesn't wear pants cuz that damn tail gets in the way)

- I'm gonna say the reason Keith hasn't starved is because Tex had an underground bunker for rations n stuff. Plus Galra can go long periods w/ out eating. Sooner or later tho those rations would have ran out.

- the only real form of entertainment that Keith has ever since he outgrew the children's books and his toys is that blade his mom left him so he's pretty decent with the blade.

-in this au, he knows about the Galra, his heritage, Voltron and stuff obviously lmao

[fishfingersalad]

Rvb skating hcs, bc I miss skating but I can’t figure out how to put the brake back on my blades, and where I live is rlly hilly so I need it or else I'm trapped in the cul-de-sac.

Putting a break cause its a real long list lol

Skateboards:

Alpha Church (Can’t actually skateboard, swears he can but he's sooo wobbly) Tex (Can actually skateboard, makes fun of church) Tucker (Between Church and Tex’s levels, hes decent at it) Wash (Don’t think I need to explain this one) Niner (I’ve seen a lot of wheelchair niner hcs, shed totally do wheelchair skateboarding) Palomo (Falls over a lot, but hey he just keeps on going.) Bitters (Absolutely holds it over Palomos head that he’s better at skateboarding) Theta (canon)

Rollerskates:

Kai (Dunno if this one needs an explanation, she might like derby ngl) Donut (He seems like he’d use them as transportation, just skatin around) South (She’d do roller derby and get so competitive about it) CT (Seen some videos of people doing sweet flips and tricks w skates) Ohio (She gives me the vibe of someone who’s got cool iridescent pink roller skates) Andersmith (Picked up skating cause the younger lieutenants were into it) Matthews (He’s a bit unbalanced, but he’s determined)

Rollerblades:

Carolina (Speed, blades are faster than skates) Simmons (He is shaky as hell, but he is trying. Won’t skate anywhere that’s not flat.) Kimball (Lina taught her, they race) Dr Grey (Dunno, just vibes) Jensen (Much like Simmons but with more uneven terrain) Epsilon Church (Picked blades so he could skate w Lina, and to be different from Wash n Alpha) Omega/O’malley (I'm just picturing him chasing people around at high speeds, cackling) Eta (Wanted to try something new, and to spend time w Theta)

Iceskates:

Florida (Specifically figure skating) Felix (Honestly idk, he’s cold and sharp like an ice skate) Delta (He’d ramble about why it’s an intellectual sport, but actually just thinks its fun) Sigma (He’d be rlly pretentious about it)

Scooter:

York (Guy has no balance but still wants to be included) Iota (Cheers on Eta and Theta, does sick scooter tricks)

Other:

Grif (I think he’d have a longboard that he rides around) Sarge (Quad bike) Doc (Also a longboarder) Idaho (I think he’d prefer dirt bike racing) Iowa (Quad bike, it’s like a mongoose) Caboose (Mountain bike, no real explanation, just vibes)

Doesn’t skate (or bike or anything):

Lopez (He prefers cars, might've made an electric skateboard at some point but doesn't rlly use it) Wyoming (Can’t see him skating at all ngl) North (Cheers everyone else on and records videos) Maine (First aid) Locus (Tried to skate once and fell over. Now he just broods from the benches.) Doyle (Too nervous, prefers to just watch) Gamma (I don’t think he’d go outside much ngl)

[annieqattheperipheral]

I WANNA HEAR FROM THIS DUDE. Give him an entire hour of anonymity, let's hear it all

⬇️ ⬇️ ⬇️

TW: skate blade injury, medical, emergency, blood, bruise

Ok this is an EXCELLENT article about neck guards and cut-resistant turtleneck undershirts.

please read to the end. Dr Hayley Wickenheiser provides incredible insight about freak accidents and the medical emergency process that shifts the article a couple of times.

$wall: After Adam Johnson's death, will 'stubborn' NHL players embrace neck-protective gear?

A little more than a year ago, T.J. Oshie read a story about a young boy who was cut in the neck by a skate blade during a youth hockey game. Almost instinctively, Oshie reached for his phone and contacted his partners at Warroad, the hockey apparel company he helped found six years ago. What started as a way to create undershirts that weren’t itchy and irritating had developed into a safety-conscious business that helped develop new, cut-resistant fabrics to protect players’ wrists and Achilles tendons.

Now, Oshie wanted turtlenecks to protect the most dangerously exposed part of a hockey player’s body — their neck, and the carotid artery within. Sure enough, Warroad came up with a sleek turtleneck with its “tilo” design, which includes cut-resistant panels built into the fabric.

It worked.

And Oshie still didn’t wear them.

In fact, he doesn’t believe a single player in the NHL wears anything of the sort. None of the bulky neck guards that are mandatory in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League and Ontario Hockey League (but not the Western Hockey League). None of the Kevlar-style fabric turtlenecks that are becoming more readily available all the time, from companies such as Warroad, AYCANE, and Cut-Tex Pro.

Players have their reasons. Oshie said NHL rinks are “hotter” than ever, with guys sweating through several undershirts a game, and the thought of wearing a turtleneck in such a warm environment is unappealing. Players are superstitious, wearing the same shoulder pads they used in juniors, using the same brand of skate they’ve worn since they were kids, using the same tape job and knob style they’ve used forever. And, well, turtlenecks and neck guards don’t look cool. Heck, only Wayne Gretzky and Tomas Plekanec ever really pulled off the look.

“It’s not a cool look having neck guards on,” Oshie said. “For whatever reason, it’s just not something that’s sleek and looks great.”

But then Oshie learned about Adam Johnson’s death on Saturday night. Johnson, a former player for the Pittsburgh Penguins, was cut in the neck by a skate blade during a game in England and died, shaking the hockey community to its core. Players and coaches from around the league expressed their heartbreak over the tragedy. But Oshie did more than that.

He ordered five Tilo turtlenecks from his company. One for him and four for some of his teammates to try. They’ll arrive on Monday. And he’s going to try playing in them. Because Johnson’s death did more than devastate the hockey world. It opened the hockey world’s eyes to an inherent — and possibly preventable — life-threatening risk that comes with playing the game.

At any level.

“I just wish these things never had to be made, and injuries like this would never happen, because it’s so sad,” Oshie said on his way to the Capitals’ game against the Sharks on Sunday evening. “It hits me pretty hard, just thinking about my kids. I could take one to the neck tonight. And for them to not have a father — it’s just so sad and it makes me think twice about protecting myself and my neck out there. Whether it looks cool or not.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jason Dickinson didn’t know what had happened to Boston’s Jakub Lauko last Tuesday at the United Center, he only knew that it looked gruesome. One of Dickinson’s Chicago teammates asked him what had happened and Dickinson speculated that Lauko had hit his head on the boards and “split open.”

After the game, Lauko’s bloodied face was still a topic of conversation in the Blackhawks dressing room. Dickinson heard someone say that it was a skate blade that caught Lauko in the area of his left eye.

“A skate?” Dickinson said. “How did that happen?”

“It was your skate!” a teammate told him.

“Are you kidding me?” Dickinson responded. “When?”

It had happened when Dickinson was falling into the boards after a push from Boston’s John Beecher. Lauko was already down on all fours, and Dickinson’s skate caught him in the face. As mangled as his face was in the aftermath, Lauko was extraordinarily lucky the skate missed his eye. Dickinson never even felt the contact.

Dickinson, after learning it was his skate, immediately checked in with the team’s medical staff to find out if Lauko was OK, and was indescribably relieved to find out he was. Dickinson’s heart went out to Johnson’s family on Sunday, but he also spared a thought for the player whose skate caught Johnson in the neck.

“I feel for (him) as well,” Dickinson said. “He’s on the other end of that and he’s going to have some stuff to work through, because that’s heavy stuff. I guarantee he feels guilty right now, even though it’s a freak accident.”

That’s a word you hear a lot when it comes to skate-cut injuries, whether it’s Pat Maroon’s skate slicing through Evander Kane’s wrist last season or Matt Cooke’s skate tearing Erik Karlsson’s Achilles tendon 10 years ago. A “freak” accident. A “freak” play.

But is it? After all, this is a game played by people moving at exceptional speeds with exceptional force wearing exceptionally dangerous weapons on their feet. If anything, it’s shocking that skate cuts don’t happen more often.

Hayley Wickenheiser, a Team Canada legend, assistant general manager for the Toronto Maple Leafs and emergency physician, bristled at the depiction of such incidents as “freak” occurrences.

“I don’t think this is a freak thing, I think it happens quite a lot,” she said. “It’s just the injuries are superficial, or the players are lucky. This isn’t something that doesn’t happen; it happens a lot in hockey. Sticks come up, skates come up, and the neck is very susceptible. So whatever we can do to make (neck protection) more mainstream and just part of the equipment, the better for the future of the game. It just makes sense to me.”

Indeed, while terrifying incidents like the cuts suffered by Johnson and former Sabres goaltender Clint Malarchuk are thankfully very rare, it seems like every player has a story to tell of a close call, a near miss, a Lauko-style bit of “luck.” Dickinson took a skate on the collarbone during a game against Vegas last season and “immediately panicked,” wondering if a major artery was nicked.

“I remember the ref looked at me right away and said, ‘That was real close, Dickie,’” Dickinson said. “I’m like,’ Yeah, you’re telling me. I can f—ing feel it.”

Oshie was volunteering at a camp at his alma mater, North Dakota, some years ago, when he was rough-housing with the kids. They were dog-piling him on the ice, falling all over each other, laughing hysterically.

“Then one kid came in full speed and slid into the pile feet-first, and he actually hit me square in the face with his skate blade,” Oshie said. “So I had to get stitches above and below my eye. I still have a scar in my eyebrow that goes into my forehead. Luckily, it was flush with my face so it didn’t cut my eye.”

They can’t all be “freak” incidents, right?

“It’s unfortunate,” Blackhawks coach and 21-year NHL veteran Luke Richardson said. “It’s one of the fastest games on Earth, with razor blades on the bottom of your feet. It’s very scary and things happen quick. … I don’t know if there’s any way to guarantee that there’s going to be protection. Even if you do wear something. You can’t be in a tin can top to bottom out there for protection. It’s the risk that the pro players take.”

Richardson cited Oshie’s company as a valuable resource for players, and suggested that with time, neck protection will become normalized in the NHL. When he entered the league in 1987, there were still players playing without helmets. It took years after that for visors to become the norm to protect players’ eyes. Richardson hoped that with neck protection becoming more and more common — and mandatory — in lower leagues, it’s only a matter of time before it “graduates up” to the NHL.

Arizona center Nick Bjugstad, who played with Johnson in Pittsburgh and called him “just a kind human,” said he couldn’t bring himself to watch the video, so he doesn’t know exactly how the cut happened. But he thinks the answer is pretty obvious.

“There are times that your feet go out from under you and you don’t have control,” Bjugstad said. “As far as the precaution going forward, I’m sure it’ll be discussed in the league. It’s even more important on the youth side of things, with the lack of athletic trainers and whatnot. I hope we can figure something out as a hockey community that protects us from something so tragic happening.”

Scott Sandelin, who coached Johnson at Minnesota-Duluth, said making neck protection and Kevlar-style undergear mandatory has come up in conversations around the NCAA championship committee, with longtime Mercyhurst coach Rick Gotkin leading the charge.

“He was like, ‘Why do we wait?’” Sandelin recalled. “Why do we wait for something like this to happen before you mandate something?”

Dickinson said the NHL provided a video at the beginning of the season highlighting the benefits of cut-resistant sleeves to protect the wrists and Achilles tendons, and those have become quite popular around the league. But neck protection remains ignored by everyone other than goaltenders.

Johnson’s death surely opened some eyes around the hockey world to the risk of skate cuts to the neck, and it appeared that several Providence Bruins, in the AHL, wore neck guards on Sunday. That’s a start.

But why does it have to be a years-long process? Why can’t it happen sooner? Why do players have to be grandfathered in to avoid any mandates whenever a new equipment mandate is instituted?

“Because they’re stubborn,” said one NHL equipment manager, who was granted anonymity so he could speak freely. “It’s a monkey-see, monkey-do league. All it would take is one guy to wear it. Then two days to get used to it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wickenheiser has a similarly simple solution to getting players past all their superstitions and habits, to get them to embrace what seems like such an obvious solution to a terrifying problem.

“You just put one on,” she said. “I wore one for 20 years with the national team, it didn’t interfere with anything I did. … It’s just like anything else, when one player does it, everyone sees it and it becomes normal. I can’t even remember hockey without visors now, and I grew up watching the world of hockey without visors. I can’t even imagine not playing with a visor with how fast the game is.”

As an emergency physician and all-time hockey great, Wickenheiser is perhaps uniquely qualified to weigh in on the subject. She knows how well-stocked NHL arenas are in terms of medical care. She also knows it’s not nearly enough if, God forbid, a situation similar to what happened to Johnson happens in an NHL game. The thought has frequently crossed her mind that if there were an incident at a practice, she might be the most qualified person in the rink that day. She runs the scenarios in her mind constantly, and “it truly horrifies me.”

“You know how little time and resources you have to save a life in that moment,” she said. “The deck is entirely stacked against you as a physician. In the NHL buildings, there would be qualified physicians, there’s (emergency medical services) in the building. You have every resource at your fingertips. But what you don’t have is time. You need a surgeon and you need blood and you need time, and there’s none of those things in that moment. It’s just such a devastating injury. It freaks me out, for sure.”

It’s something players rarely think about. Can’t think about, really. Richardson said it was similar to a football player coming back from a knee injury — if you’re constantly wondering if the surgically repaired knee will hold up, you’ll never be playing at full strength and full speed. Hockey players have to feel invincible out there in order to take the risks they take on seemingly every shift.

But Oshie said there’s an instinctive, almost unthinking awareness of what your skates are doing at all times. Because the danger is always in the back of your mind, if not the front.

“I think you’re always very conscious of where your skates are when you’re playing,” he said. “I know I am. If someone’s on the ground in front of you, even if you get pushed from behind, you always get your feet out of the way, if that makes sense. It might look terrible if someone is about to fall on someone and goes knees-first, but that’s what you do instead of trying to land on your feet. I just assume that everyone else has that same mentality. But those very freak things happen. You get pushed from behind and you stay on one foot and the other foot comes up. I took a skate blade to my visor in our last preseason game, just this year. So I was a couple inches away from being cut somewhere.”

The game only gets more dangerous with each passing year. Players get bigger, stronger, faster. Skate blades are removable now, and they stay razor-sharp throughout the game, rather than dulling with each shift. Ignoring the risks won’t make them go away.

The introduction of the slap shot led to the goalie mask. Whippier sticks and more dangerous shooters made visors inevitable. Ten or 20 years from now, it’s easy to envision players regularly wearing full face shields. The Karlsson and Kane incidents, among others, helped spur the creation and popularization of wrist and ankle sleeves.

Neck protection will undoubtedly follow. It’s just a matter of when.

And if Johnson’s tragic and shocking death doesn’t prove to be enough to open eyes and open minds, then what will?

“There are options out there, and it’s not a bad idea at all,” Dickinson said. “It’s about awareness. And events like (Saturday) night, events like Kane’s, like Karlsson’s — those really make guys think and get them worried. It’s definitely something I’d consider now. I mean, who cares what it looks like? Looking lame and living is a lot better than the opposite.”

[maleficentmrsofallevil]

There's about to be a lot more about sewing round here

My new hyperfixation - sewing doll clothes.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by 알파멘솔 ggomulsang (@ggomulsang)

Distressing denim Instagram reel from ggomulsang.

Text explainer:

OP used a utility knife to cut partially through the denim, and then used the knife to peel off the top layer. They then removed unwanted extra thread with - looks like dental tool, honestly, and pushed the fringe to the edge of the cut lines with the knife blade. They cut extra string and fringe off, resulting in (fairly) neat distressed denim cut-outs.

Other things I've learned:

Different threads and when to use them

There's "human weight" fabric, needles, and thread, and then there's lighter and heavier weight stuff. Thread diameter gets smaller as the weight number gets bigger - well, for the old-fashioned standard, anyways.

If you're sewing for a doll, human weight stuff is going to be too thick and heavy - cuz you're sewing for a smaller scale.

Medium weight thread is around 50. This is people-sized clothes thread. Embroidery thread is shiny and a little thicker, cuz you want to see it pop on your clothes.

Fine weight thread is 60-100 (and up) and is better for doll clothes and really thin fabric like silk.

Heavy weight thread is 3-12 and for stuff like canvas and furniture coverings.

But of course, cuz we can't standardize anything in the U.S., there's the traditional thread weight, and then other retailers have this new Tex-number standard. And I don't understand that Tex number at all, so I'll need to do some more research.

Oh - I also learned that with patterns, it matters if the pattern maker uses U.S. standard or metric. Seam allowances using the U.S. standard are one-quarter inch, whereas metric system pattern makers use 5 mm - which is a little smaller. So now I apparently need a 5 mm metric sewing machine foot.

Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh