#Fractional C Level

[sttoru]

‘no matter how much time the king of curses spends with you, he doesn’t think he will ever understand you or your affectionate behaviour towards him.’

☀︎｜tags. true form sukuna x female reader. heian era sukuna. fluff. bits of mentions of blood & murder. big size difference. cold-big-monster-having-a-small-soft-spot-for-a-single-human trope. reader gets called ‘little one, brat’. not proof read! let me know if you like my characterisation or not; it’s my first sukuna fic.

a kiss on the cheek is one of the most innocent - yet apparently also the most difficult - things to do. it’s a small form of intimacy; not that hard to do. it’s really as simple as planting your lips on your beloved’s cheek. then all you do is retreat — maybe get a kiss on the cheek back from him. or on the lips.

“get moving. i’m not waiting all day for you.” sukuna grumbles. you had suddenly stopped in your tracks and the king of curses was confused as to what the reason might have been. the two of you had been walking through the courtyard for a few minutes now — well, you basically had to drag him out to take a little stroll together.

and now the same you was quiet. it bothered sukuna; you were always so chatty around him when it was just the two of you. he might have called you an ‘annoying brat’ for it, but he secretly enjoyed your company and voice.

“c-coming.” you reply in a quiet mumble, eyes glancing over at the monstrous frame that stood a few steps away. his dull yet sharp gaze was focused on you — like he was sizing you up. or rather: trying to figure out what’s wrong with the change in behaviour you showed.

sukuna watches you as you hurry over to his side again. he resumes walking, hands folded over each other under the material of his kimono.

though, he couldn’t yet let go of the fact that you were acting different around him. the king of curses’ suspicion only grew once he noticed how your fingers fiddled with your obi. you were anxious about something.

sukuna shakes his head slightly. some humans sure are difficult to understand, he thinks to himself. your happy yet reserved personality when you usually interacted with him had disappeared and made place for a nervous wreck. trying to figure out why made sukuna’s head hurt.

were you finally scared of him? like all other humans and curses were?

he doesn’t know why, but it felt like he would hate for such thing to happen. sukuna usually wouldn’t care if someone resents, fears or somehow even admires him. only you could make him think and care about such difficult and maybe even trivial things.

“uhm,” you break off his train of thoughts and his eyes are instantly on yours again, “may i do something really quickly?”

sukuna’s face doesn’t show any change in expression, but a small nod tells you everything you need to know. you clear your throat, “can you please lower your head towards me?”

lowering his head? oh, you got some guts. if anyone else had said that to him, sukuna would have obliterated them; there wouldn’t have been anything but red bloody dust left of their body.

but then again: it’s you. all exceptions the king of curses makes are for you.

sukuna slightly lowers his head to your level so you could do whatever you needed to. he’d be lying if he said that his curiosity wasn’t piqued. it always was when he was around you.

you gulp. it was time to do what you’ve longed to do ever since the beginning of your stroll: give the ryomen sukuna a kiss on the cheek. you don’t think he’d be mad—at least he never seriously gets mad at you. only to get a reaction out of you since your responses are always ‘intensely amusing’—as he says.

“go on.” sukuna’s breath hits your cheeks. he was so close—too close that it made you even more nervous in a way. as if you hadn’t even had your first kiss yet.

you swallow your fears and just go for it. your lips attach to his cheek in the fraction of a second—the speed of light—before they leave. it was right under his right set of eyes.

you take a step back and clear your throat. you try to escape the embarrassment of sukuna’s possible reaction by continuing your stroll, though were stopped by a strong hand firmly grabbing your forearm.

“where’d you think you’re going?”

sukuna’s deep voice echoes through your ears. you were surprised to hear the tone of it; almost soft. a tone sukuna uses on rare occasions: in your presence.

you turn your head around and smile sheepishly at the king of curses before you. he doesn’t return the same (not that you expected him to), however he does unexpectedly ruffle your hair for a split second. or at least he attempts to.

his large and warm palm lands on top of your head and he gives it a little and subtle shake. sukuna had seen you do a similar action to someone else before, thus he concluded that he could do it to you. maybe as a form of endearment or. . whatever you used it as.

he did find the way you tried to scurry away after giving him a kiss very adorable. even if he wouldn’t say so out loud.

“now, come along. we don’t have all day.” sukuna nonchalantly mutters after retracting his hand. it left as fast as it came, though you were still stunned at the slight show of affection the king of curses returned.

you instantly catch up to sukuna again—walking next to him as fast as your legs could take you. you were a bit more at ease after you got a positive reaction to your little kiss. it was a pity that he didn’t smirk or laugh at you—maybe mocked you like he usually would. but that head pat made up for it.

even if it did leave your hair a little disheveled.

you couldn’t properly see sukuna’s face, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips was undeniably there. even if it was for just a split second.

“how very interesting.” sukuna mutters under his breath so you wouldn’t catch on. he sighs and shakes his head, unable to keep out that memory of you looking so cute—standing on the tip of your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek with your comically small hand on his jaw line. he doesn’t know why he found that to be so thrilling.

you flutter your eyelashes. you were curious about what he might have commented on, “may i ask what you had just said? i didn’t quite hear it.”

a short second of silence hangs before sukuna tilts his head to the right to look down at you again; his face expressionless, but still having a hint of a grin on his lips.

“i said you better hurry before i gobble you up right this instant.” he replies, (playfully) intimidating you with his sharp red eyes that glinted with a form of danger.

you shiver (though knew the threat was an empty one) and instantly pick up your pace. you even get ahead of him, walking as fast as your legs could. you answer with a curt ‘my apologies’ and walk like you actually have somewhere to be.

sukuna’s grin only grows as he sees you get ahead of him. if you had turned around, maybe you could have caught onto that light flicker of affection in his expression.

“i’m coming for you, little one.” sukuna adds just to ignite some more fear into you and you react as expected, “you’re not escaping me today.”

it was a funny sight; your reactions always make him enjoy his time with you even more than he already (secretly) was.

the way his body reacts in mysterious ways when you’re around, is still very much an unsolved riddle to the king of curses. and the reasons as to why you aren’t scared of him and can easily give him all your ‘love’ are also still yet to be discovered.

until then, sukuna will continue to enjoy teasing you.

[findmeinthefallair]

Part 2: Therapy. (Part 1 here)

Spending many months in therapy, Hunter has a series of breakthroughs over time: such as being able to face his worst memories without being overwhelmed, coping with crazy levels of survivor's guilt, and asserting a newfound sense of autonomy whenever his inner critic - in the forms of either monster!Belos or possessed Hunter - threatens to overpower him with shame.

One notable breakthrough would have processing the grief over the deaths of the past grimwalkers and what he thought was Belos's love for him. That grief would never entirely go away, but therapy would've helped him integrate it, release a significant fraction of Belos's hold over him (represented here by Hunter finding a small carving knife to cut the blue string, then letting the ocean current take the Golden Guard mask away).

My h/c is that the only way he can even be open to the possibility of carving his own new palisman, making room in his heart for Waffles after what happened to Flapjack, is by reaching this particular breakthrough.

I'll probably reblog this repeatedly over time and add trivia and notes since these ideas definitely have parallels to scenes in the show.

Anyway, that's it for my rambling for this year's Watching and Dreaming anniversary!

[daily-sifloop]

I have an insane request. Impossible even. It’s ok if you can’t draw this due to the sheer level of effort it would take to make a minuscule fraction of this request but…

c-can they maybe kisss ?

Day 73: my lips sticking to yours!

[sweetromanova]

High Risk, Higher Maintenance🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: relationship abuse, emotional/verbal (not physical), stalking, manipulation/gaslighting, intent to hurt, minor character death, mentions of trauma, general emotional distress

Chapter One

The SHIELD conference room smelled like recycled air and consequence. Natasha sat in the centre chair like she’d been dropped there from a great height and told not to move. Arms crossed, leg bouncing once every few seconds. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack molars.

Across from her, Fury paced.

Not the kind of pacing that meant strategy. This was the kind that meant disappointment. The kind you earned.

“You compromised classified intel.” He said finally, without looking at her.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes followed him but her mouth stayed shut.

“You let Yelena into Tier Three access.”

“She needed it.”

“She didn’t have clearance.”

“She had need. There’s a difference.”

Fury stopped pacing, turned and looked her dead in the eye.

“You don’t get to redefine clearance based on gut feelings.”

“She was running point. I made a call.”

“You made a mess.”

His voice wasn’t raised, it never had to be but the silence that followed was loud enough to press against her ribs.

He dropped a file on the table. Thin. Civilian-grade. Not even stamped.

“You’re benched. Immediate suspension from fieldwork. No missions. No exceptions.”

Natasha didn’t move.

The words didn’t surprise her. But they hit anyway.

“You’re sidelining me for three months?” She asked, voice flat. “You want me filing drone logs with the kids?”

“I want you to feel the weight of crossing a line.”

“I’ve crossed plenty of lines.”

“Not this one.”

Fury leaned on the table now, hands braced. Every inch of him radiating the authority of someone who’d already decided.

“You want to stay useful? There’s one option.”

“I don’t do babysitting.”

“You do now.”

She scoffed but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m not a handler, Fury. I’m not a suit.”

“It’s not a suit gig. It’s a threat detail.”

That stopped her, just a fraction. Just enough for him to open the file and slide it toward her.

She didn’t reach for it but her eyes scanned the front page.

“I said threat detail, not glorified security for someone’s insecure C-list husband.”

“She’s not C-list. And it’s not a husband.”

At that, Natasha leaned forward, more intrigued than she wanted to be and finally looked down at the file properly.

Your photo met her gaze.

Soft lighting. Something formal, a charity event, probably. Your hair done, your smile poised. But there was a hollow edge to it. A stiffness. The smile never made it to your eyes.

Congresswoman Evelyn Prescott’s wife.

Her brow lifted.

“Prescott…” She repeated slowly. “The Evelyn Prescott?”

Fury nodded. “And she’s too busy shaking hands on the Hill to pay attention to her wife getting stalked.”

Natasha’s lip curled. “And Secret Service?”

“Stretched thin. They gave us jurisdictional clearance.”

She flipped the page. There were typed threats, low-level tracking. Nothing solid but it was growing. Something just beneath the surface.

“Why not send a junior agent?” She asked, still reading.

Fury didn’t blink. “Because I need someone who doesn’t blink when things go sideways. And I need someone whose instincts override bureaucracy.”

She looked up at him. “So suddenly I’m your ideal choice?”

“You’re the only one who knows how to deal with a problem before it becomes a headline.”

He left that there, like a slap disguised as praise.

She stared at your face one more second, then shut the file.

“Fine.” She said. Her voice was rougher now, somewhere between bitter and resolved. “Where is she?”

Fury didn’t smile but he stepped back.

“She’s waiting.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was glass and shadows and the kind of money that got things silenced.

Perched on a hill just outside the city, it looked more like a showroom than a home, all clean lines and careful distance. Not a single light on. Not a single plant or bush out of place.

Natasha had barely stepped out of the SUV when a staff member appeared at the door.

“Upstairs. Probably.” The woman mumbled, not quite making eye contact before vanishing back into whatever wing she’d emerged from.

Probably. Looks like everyone took this stalker seriously.

Natasha stepped into the foyer and let the silence breathe.

She didn’t call out nor did she go looking.

Just stood still, counted the seconds and let the house show itself.

It took twelve minutes. Exactly.

Then the soft pad of bare feet on polished wood.

You descended like you were walking into your own stage lighting. Not rushed. Not apologetic. Silk pyjama pants, hanging low on your hips. A barely-there tank top that looked like it belonged to the evening before. One hand resting lazily on the bannister. The other delicately holding a half-empty glass of white wine between your fingers. 

At four in the afternoon.

You looked at her like someone might look at a painting they’d forgotten they owned, curious, detached, not exactly impressed.

“So.” You said, voice warm and wry. “You’re the solution.”

Natasha didn’t blink. “You’re the problem.”

You grinned slowly, not girlish or innocent but dangerous.

“God, they really didn’t send a suit this time.”

“Disappointed?”

“Surprised.”

“I’m not here to impress you.”

“Shame. You’re doing it anyway.”

Natasha ignored that. Eyes already sweeping the room behind you, every angle, every shadow, cataloging entry points, blind spots, weakness.

You sipped your wine, watching her with open interest.

“Where’s your wife?”

“D.C. Fundraiser. Or an press conference disguised as one. I lose track.”

“You live here alone?”

You twirled your wine glass. “Alone enough.”

Natasha moved once, slow, deliberate. She didn’t like standing still when someone like you was circling.

“Secret Service too busy?” You asked, cocking your head. “Or am I the lucky prize in SHIELD’s punishment rotation?”

Natasha tilted her head just slightly, like you were a problem that she was already solving.

“Are you always like this?”

You blinked, mock-innocent. “Like what?”

“Performative. Mouthy. Spoiled. Bored enough to make people regret showing up.”

You smiled, wider this time but it cracked just a little at the edges.

“I’m lonely.” You mock pouted, lips almost to the rim of your glass. “Not spoiled. There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“No.” You murmured, stepping past her. “But you’re still looking.”

That made her stop, just for a second.

You were close now, too close, standing with your wine like it was a shield, like your bare feet gave you power.

“I read your file, you act like a brat.” Natasha said, voice cold steel. “You act like that with me? And you’re going to get treated like one.”

Something flickered across your face.

You tilted your head, mouth parted. “Promise?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even flirtation. It was a wound, wrapped in silk.

Natasha didn’t respond. 

You turned before she could, walking slowly back up the stairs, back arching just enough in that stupid tank top, wine glass trailing, feet silent.

At the landing, you looked back once, eyes unreadable.

“Let me know if you get bored. Most people do.”

Then you were gone.

And Natasha stood in the entryway, pulse unsteady, jaw tight.

She hated these kinds of jobs. She hated the politics. She hated the silence you carried like perfume.

The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut behind you, soft as a secret.

Natasha stared after you for a beat too long, long enough for her composure to fray at the edges.

She exhaled once, sharp, like it might chase away the air you’d left heavy in the room.

She moved, finally habit taking over. A sweep of the space, a practiced look for exits, surveillance, traps. But this wasn’t that kind of danger. This was personal. And personal was messier.

She turned toward the bar cart in the corner, the one you hadn’t touched, despite the glass you carried like a prop.

Empty.

Of course it was.

The ice in her stomach cracked a little as she leaned against the wall, palms flat against the cool plaster. Her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard. A victim stood in someone else’s war.

Yours, maybe.

She closed her eyes. Don’t get involved.

That was the rule. The unspoken one.

But rules were harder to follow when someone looked at you like they were daring you to break them. Or begging you to.

Natasha pushed off the wall and started for the stairs. She wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t ask but she would look.

Because beneath all the bravado and silk-wrapped wounds, there was something else she’d seen. Something real.

And Natasha Romanoff had always been terrible at walking away from that.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was silent when Natasha woke.

Early morning sunlight slanted through the kitchen windows as she moved barefoot across the marble floor. She’d already been up for an hour, her body too trained, too wired, to allow for sleep-ins or comfort.

She’d cleared the perimeter. Twice. Done a full workout in the gym downstairs, mostly cardio and bodyweight drills. Something to shut her brain up. The silence in the house had weight to it, like it had grown used to being empty or ignored.

Natasha threw a towel over her shoulder and wandered into the kitchen.

The housekeeper was already there, folding napkins for a breakfast that wouldn’t be eaten.

“Morning.” She said, offering Natasha a small nod. “You don’t look like a coffee person but I’m guessing you’re going to need it.”

“I look like I need something to punch to which I probably do.” Natasha replied, with a friendly smirk.

That earned a small smile. The housekeeper, mid-fifties, tidy in the way people from the old world always were, gestured toward the absurdly expensive espresso machine on the counter.

“Machine’s Italian. More sensitive than my last husband. Hold this button until it blinks, twist here, pray to God and it should give you something dark enough to stomach.”

Natasha leaned in, eyebrows raised.

“That’s a lot of steps.”

“Nothing in this house is simple. Especially not her.”

Natasha turned slightly. “She’s still asleep?”

The housekeeper nodded.

“Didn’t come down for dinner last night either. Had a party a few days ago. Didn’t attend. She’s supposed to be with her wife today. Fundraiser at The Newbury. 10:30am arrival, press already booked. Evelyn is expecting her.”

“And she won’t go?”

The housekeeper shrugged one shoulder, continued folding cloth napkins with mechanical precision.

“She might. She won’t. Depends how much she wants to be seen pretending she’s happy.”

Natasha didn’t respond. The coffee machine sputtered to life and the smell filled the room, bitter, grounding. 

“She always like this?” Natasha questioned.

The housekeeper didn’t answer right away.

“She used to try.” She said, quietly. “Now she doesn’t.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Ten minutes later, Natasha stood at the foot of the grand staircase, coffee in hand and made the deliberate choice to stomp up each step like it owed her money.

She didn’t bother knocking.

The bedroom door creaked open under her hand, the lock disengaged, of course. No one in this house locked anything surprisingly for a household with death threats and stalkers circling it.

You were a mess of tangled sheets and rumpled silk. One arm thrown across your face, hair spilled over the pillows, the duvet kicked off one leg like you’d been at war with it.

Natasha stepped into the room with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

You groaned from under your arm.

“Jesus Christ, what time is it?”

“Time to stop hiding.”

You moved just enough to peer at her through one eye, still heavy with sleep and pure venom. “Are you seriously waking me up like this?”

“You’ve got an event in two hours.”

You didn’t move.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Fundraiser. Press will be there. Your wife expects a photo op and a smile.”

You sighed like you’d aged twenty years in ten seconds.

“I’m not going.”

“She thinks you are.”

“She thinks a lot of things.” You muttered, pulling the blanket back over your head.

Natasha was not a patient woman.

She crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the duvet and ripped it back in one motion. You yelped, twisting away from the sudden chill.

“Are you insane?”

“You’ve got forty-five minutes to shower and look like you haven’t been avoiding your entire life.”

You sat up sharply, sheets pooling in your lap, eyes blazing.

“Let me guess… SHIELD trained you in ‘Emotional Support and Manners,’ too?”

“They trained me to get the job done.” Natasha said. “And right now, you’re the job.”

“So you wanna ‘do’ me? Well, why didn’t you just say?” You smirk, eyes raking up the redhead’s body where you were met with an eye roll. 

“Oh please I’ve looked after kids with a better attitude.” Natasha scoffed but she couldn’t ignore what was in-front of her. You might have been a pain in the ass but you were a hot one.

You stood, barefoot on the hardwood, silk slipping off one shoulder. Everything about you was infuriatingly perfect and profoundly out of place. Like a painting hung in the wrong museum.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Your voice had an edge to it now, like you’d stopped teasing and she’d got you where it hurt.

“Too bad. You’ve got one.”

“And I don’t need to be dragged to a fucking fundraiser to play happy housewife for a woman who hasn’t touched me in a year.”

Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You can hate your wife on your own time. But this is public-facing. You don’t show up, you make headlines.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

There was a pause, a long one. The air between you stretched thin, tight like a wire about to snap.

Then you said, low and vicious. “She didn’t ask you to wake me up like this, did she? You just liked the power play.”

Natasha stared you down, her expression blank but her jaw tight. “I’m not here to play.”

You stepped closer, close enough for the words to sting when you dropped them, honey sweet and full of poison.

“No.” You said. “You’re here to be obeyed, right? Alpha dog on a leash. You want me dressed and smiling by ten? Better tell me nicely.”

Natasha blinked once.

“I don’t do nice.”

Your breath caught just slightly but you didn’t back down.

“I noticed.”

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Not until Natasha leaned forward, just enough.

“You keep bratting out like this, I’ll stop treating you like a job.”

You blinked and your throat bobbed. Then you said, quieter now. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Natasha turned away before she could answer that. Before she could say what she wanted. Before she could do something worse.

“Be ready in thirty.” She said, over her shoulder. “Or I’ll pick the damn dress myself.”

You didn’t call her back.

You waited until she was gone before sitting back down on the bed, hands shaking, chest tight.

Because god help you, she’d touched something you’d tried very hard to bury.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The espresso was too hot and the mimosa was too cold, so you alternated between the two like they were medicine.

You stood at the kitchen island in a half-zipped dress and no shoes, hair still pinned up messily from your shower, sipping like it was brunch and not an emotional ambush.

The housekeeper, June, barely looked up from setting out your earrings on a velvet tray.

“Toast?” She asked.

“God, no.” You said. “Just feed me something I can won’t throw up dramatically in front of cameras later. Maybe a strawberry.”

June rolled her eyes and passed you one without comment. You plucked it from the plate with a lazy smile, voice softening as you spoke again.

“Thank you, by the way. You always know what I don’t want, which is honestly more useful than anything.”

That got a real smile out of her, small but real. She reached out and lightly adjusted the strap of your dress.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Natasha stood in the doorway watching all of it, the way your voice changed, the way you thanked the woman like it meant something, like she wasn’t just staff. The way June looked at you with something like pity, or maybe protectiveness.

It made Natasha pause.

Maybe you weren’t just a brat. Maybe you were also lonely in a thousand different directions.

But she still had a job to do.

“You ready?” She asked.

You didn’t answer. Just took another sip, this time from the mimosa.

“Dress is half done. Hair’s a disaster. Emotionally I’m a seven out of ten.”

“That’s generous.” Natasha muttered.

You turned to her with a sharp smile. “Don’t get testy. You’ll wrinkle your jacket and that would let terrible in the background of my pictures.”

“You said you weren’t going.”

“Changed my mind.” You replied. “Gotta give them the illusion that I’m still trying.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just motioned to the door with a clipped gesture.

“Car’s waiting.” 

You downed the rest of the mimosa like it was a shot and followed her out barefoot.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was silent until your phone buzzed on the seat beside you.

You stared at the screen. Natasha did too.

Evelyn🤍

You let it ring out.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to answer?”

“No.”

“She’s your wife.”

“And that means she’s entitled to my time but not my patience.”

Natasha didn’t let up. “If you don’t take the call, it’ll be worse later.”

“I’m used to worse.”

The phone buzzed again. This time, Natasha picked it up and held it toward you.

You glared at her.

“Answer it.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t feel like spending the next two hours babysitting a pouting debutante in the middle of a charity circus.”

You grabbed the phone and answered it, speaker on before she could object.

“Hello?”

“Finally!” Evelyn’s voice came through, crisp, cool, direct. No affection or warmth. “Are you en-route? I have a schedule to keep.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was now watching you, arms folded tightly, jaw clenched.

“Yes.” You said. “I’m on my way.”

“Your dress is steamed?”

“It’s fine.”

“Hair?”

“I’ll fix it in the car.”

“You need to be more camera ready than you were last week. You looked tired.”

You blinked, slow and sharp.

“Thanks for the feedback.”

“I’m just saying-“

“I heard you.”

Silence stretched for a moment then Evelyn cleared her throat.

“Okay. I’ll see you at the entrance. Try not to be late.”

The line went dead before you could even pretend to answer back.

You put the phone down gently.

Natasha didn’t say anything.

But you saw it, the subtle shift. The way her expression changed. She wasn’t smug. Not even vindicated.

She was quiet and curious.

“She always like that?” She asked after a beat.

You shrugged, eyes on the road.

“She used to be less… clinical.”

Natasha waited. You knew she would.

“She hasn’t been home in a week.” You added, voice quieter now. “Hasn’t said she loves me in longer.”

Then, after a pause. “And sex is… off the table. She stays out her townhouse in the city most of the time.”

“You don’t stay with her?”

“She said I would distract her from work...”

The car filled with silence again, thicker this time. Natasha didn’t offer comfort. That wasn’t her style but you saw her fists unclench.

You laughed once, not bitter, just tired.

“Guess now I’m just the perfectly dressed political accessory who sleeps on the right side of an empty bed.”

“You don’t have to be.” Natasha said.

You looked at her. “And what-“ You asked. “-would I be instead?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t.

But she turned to face forward again, her voice low.

“Fix your hair.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The green room smelled like hairspray and citrus scented hand sanitizer. Light jazz murmured from speakers overhead, a polite buffer for egos and nerves. You were ushered in ahead of Natasha, still adjusting an earring, dress fully zipped now, posture immaculate.

She trailed you like a shadow, always six feet behind, always watching.

Evelyn Prescott entered five minutes later, like she’d been waiting for a cue. Press-perfect. Blue suit dress. American flag pin glinting under the soft lighting. A smile built for cameras already in place.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Evelyn said lightly, crossing the room with open arms. “You look beautiful.”

You lit up. Natasha saw it, the small inhale, the straighten of your spine, the desperate flash of hope.

She also saw what happened next.

Evelyn kissed the air beside your cheek, not even pretending to touch your skin. Then she turned to shake the event coordinator’s hand without missing a beat.

Natasha watched your shoulders drop by a millimeter. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Except her.

Politeness flowed like wine. Evelyn was warm to everyone. Her laugh was practiced, low and pleasant. She thanked every volunteer, complimented floral arrangements, mentioned donor names with impressive recall.

But when she looked at you, she didn’t touch, didn’t soften, didn’t call you anything but your first name.

It was like watching a politician thank their intern, a pat on the head dressed in pearls.

You didn’t seem surprised. You just drifted back into position beside her, folding your arms behind you like someone used to standing quietly.

Natasha looked away for a second, just one second.

And when she looked back, the transformation had happened.

You and Evelyn were standing under camera lights in the ballroom foyer, picture-perfect. Your face was made for this, Natasha realised. You knew exactly how to tilt your chin, when to laugh softly, when to squeeze Evelyn’s arm in a way that made it seem like you belonged there.

You looked happy.

No one would guess that you’d begged to stay in bed this morning.

Natasha kept near through dinner. Not too close. Not too far. A private table had been arranged, Evelyn flanked by donors and other congressional heavyweights. You sat to her right, silent unless spoken to, nodding along, sipping champagne like it was water.

Except… Natasha noticed you didn’t sip. You drank. Gulped. Fast.

You kept your fingers curled around your wife’s arm when she stood to toast. Held her hand under the table, even when she didn’t hold yours back. You laughed a second too loud at an anecdote, eyes glassy with exhaustion or champagne, probably both.

Natasha folded her arms and leaned back against a pillar, scanning the room like she wasn’t quietly dying inside.

When Evelyn finally stood and spoke. “Excuse us for a moment.” She took you by the wrist, not the hand. Her smile never faded and neither did yours.

Natasha didn’t follow.

But she didn’t stay behind either.

She stopped just short of the hallway. One door slightly ajar. No one looking.

Inside, your voice broke the silence first.

“Can we just… can we go home together? Just tonight?”

A pause.

“I’m exhausted and you haven’t been home and- god, Evie, I miss you.”

Nothing for a moment. 

Then Evelyn’s voice, calm, practiced. “I told you this week was full.”

“I’m not asking for everything.” You said. “I’m just asking for something. Stay. Just stay. You don’t even have to-“ Your voice cracked. “-you don’t even have to pretend. Just be there.”

There was a long silence.

Then the thump of heels on tile. Most likely you advancing on your older wife, who you begged to just see you once.

“I’m not doing this here.” Evelyn said, this time quieter and more controlled. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” You snapped. “I’m desperate.”

Natasha held her breath. Then came the sound. A shove. Not loud but unmistakable. Fabric brushing against the wall. A gasp.

“You’re needy.” Evelyn hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself. I have a job. I have responsibilities. I don’t have time to coddle your every insecurity just because you don’t know how to be alone.”

Silence again.

Evelyn exhaled, sharp and rehearsed.

“I’m sending your babysitter in. She can take you home.”

Footsteps. 

A door creaked.

Natasha moved fast, ducking back into position before Evelyn appeared. The congresswoman swept past her like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just bruised a woman’s heart in a soundproof hallway.

“She’s ready to go…” was all she said.

Natasha didn’t respond to the woman, watching her waltz back into the room like she was running the show. And if Natasha knew anything about politics the she probably was. She waited five beats then went in.

You were still standing by the wall. Makeup pristine. Eyes red. Holding the pieces together with the same strength you used to carry the whole damn marriage on your back.

You didn’t look up.

Natasha walked over slowly. She didn’t say anything but she just slipped her coat off and held it out.

You took it without a word.

Only when she opened the side door and led you out toward the car did you finally speak.

“She used to love me, you know.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since she arrived, she saw you, not the brat, not the wife, not the public figure.

Just a woman breaking quietly in the backseat of a black car, clutching someone else’s coat like it could keep her warm.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet for a whole two blocks.

Then your voice floated from the back seat, a slur of silk and spite.

“Hey, Benji?” You called up to the driver.

Benji, a greying man with a kind voice and the patience of a saint, glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take us to that place on Charles. The one with the blinking ‘OPEN’ sign that’s been out since 2009.”

“The… liquor store?”

“God, yes. The trashiest one. The one with the lollipops next to the condoms at checkout.”

Benji didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

Natasha, seated beside you, gave a slow exhale through her nose.

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.” You said. “Unless you have a minibar hidden in that jacket, Soldier.”

Benji gave a dry chuckle. Natasha did not.

Ten minutes later, you came stumbling back to the car with a brown paper bag and zero shame. You didn’t wait. Just twisted the cap off the tequila, threw it back like it was water.

Natasha flinched.

“That’s not how you sip tequila.”

“I’m not sipping.” You grinned. “I’m coping.”

She reached for the bottle fast but you pulled it back faster.

“Don’t, Natasha. Please. Not tonight.”

There was no fire in it or flirtation. Just exhaustion in silk and eyeliner.

She let her hand fall back to her lap.

You drank again. Harder.

When the car pulled up to the house, Natasha got out first. Opened your door. You stared at the steps like they were Everest.

“Come on.” She said gently, eyeing the half drink bottle of tequila in your hand that had clearly done its number on the drive over.

“I can do it.” You mumbled.

“You can’t even stand.”

You tried. You failed.

She caught you before you hit the doorframe.

Somehow, she got you inside, one arm around your waist, one hand gripping your wrist to keep you steady. You smelled like vanilla and heartbreak and cheap liquor.

Your head lolled against her shoulder as she guided you up the stairs.

“I don’t do this.” You murmured.

“Get drunk?”

“Fall apart.”

“You were already falling.” You didn’t reply.

By the time she got you to your bedroom, you were quiet. Not passed out or asleep, just quiet in a way that honestly scared her a little.

She sat you down on the edge of the bed and started to pull your heels off.

“You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.” She shut you down.

You blinked at her. Then smiled, weakly. “There’s that bedside manner again.”

When she looked up, you were staring at her. Like you were trying to memorise something you didn’t think you’d get to see again.

“Can I ask you something?” You said.

“Depends.”

“Am I ugly?”

Natasha froze.

“Because she doesn’t look at me.” You continued. “Not anymore. Not when I’m dressed up. Not when I’m naked. I don’t even think she notices when I leave the room.”

Your voice cracked.

“I used to be worth looking at.”

Natasha knelt in front of you, slowly.

You were flushed, eyes glassy, hands twisting in your lap.

“You’re not ugly.” She said, quietly.

You scoffed. “Then what’s wrong with me?”

She wanted to lie, to distract you, to offer some clean, packaged comfort but you looked too honest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” She said instead. “But if I had you-“

You blinked. She kept going.

“-I wouldn’t stop touching you. Looking at you. I wouldn’t let you fall asleep without knowing you were wanted.”

Your mouth trembled.

Something in your face cracked wide open.

You looked so young like this. Not in age but in pain. Like someone who still believed love was supposed to be safe.

“Don’t lie to me.” You whispered.

“I’m not.”

You stared at her for a moment longer, then nodded. Slowly. Like you were accepting a kindness you didn’t believe you deserved.

She eased you into the pillows. You clutched the blanket like it might disappear.

“Stay?” You murmured.

Natasha brushed hair from your forehead.

“I’ll be right outside.”

You were asleep before she made it to the door. She stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the floor, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.

Because somewhere in the mess of tequila, heartbreak and half-whispered confessions… she’d started to feel something she wasn’t supposed to.

[thewertsearch]

There are still a few characters I haven't killed yet. I almost forgot about them.

Homestuck's an awfully trigger-happy webcomic, it has to be said. Even the damn frog got whacked.

Most of these characters have the status you'd expect them to have, but there's still plenty of interesting information here - some of it rather unexpected.

First of all, it seems as if the introduction of Dad Crocker qualifies as a 'resurrection' of Dad Egbert. As far as the comic is concerned, these two are, in fact, the same person - and thus, they share a symbol.

Next, Sollux is apparently half-dead.

The last time we saw him, he was overexerting his psionics like crazy to accelerate the trolls' meteor towards the Green Sun. My theory is that he tapped into his Doom Aspect to achieve this feat - and that doing so has permanently reduced his lifespan, as if he made a deal for the Shinigami's Eyes.

Sollux isn't dead, but he's less alive than he used to be.

Clover's far too lucky to die, so I'm pretty confident that a question mark indicates that a character is still alive; they just haven't yet been revealed as such.

Therefore, the same is probably true for Spades Slick.

I don't know how he could have survived the destruction of a universe, but I'm not complaining.

Jane's confirmed dead, but there's a question mark appended to that death - so I think she did die, but it's not going to stick. Her Life powers are about to kick in.

And WV is the same!!

Fuck yeah! Give us our Mayor back, Hussie!

I was planning on totally messing with them in the short window of time they're in the same universe as me!

Right, right - because right now, John and Jade are in the weird, pseudocanonical dimension that Hussie's writing the comic in.

I wonder if that'll have any effect on their reality, or their awareness of the Fourth Wall? Are they currently 'non-canonical' versions of themselves? Since they're outside the comic, has everyone inside the comic forgotten that they exist?

Hopefully it isn't too late.

Let's see. They should be traveling near the speed of light across a distance of one yard, giving them about three nanoseconds before they crash through the other wall.

Wait, they're moving relativistically?

In that case, their trip should only last three nanoseconds from an observer's perspective. From their perspective, the trip's length should be different. Potentially very different, although it's impossible to estimate the degree of time dilation in effect without knowing the exact fraction of c that they're travelling at.

Anyway, Jade's powers now apparently include relativistic acceleration - which stretches time, as well as space. These two Aspects are joined at the hip, and to control one is to control the other.

Maybe I'll just level up these kids before they go, and that's it. They've earned it after all, don't you think?

And with some rare generosity from Hussie, it's time for John and Jade to experience Elder God Tier.

[larapeachsstuff]

"A needed Relief "

Silcoxf!reader oneshot

Warnings: smut (MDNI), 18+, sex scenes, consensual sex, established relationship.

Summary: After a shitty day and a failed experiment, Silco returns to his office to find a way to release his tension.

3k words

Silco's Pov

Shit, shit, shit. Just mere shit.

That is how Silco would have described the day that's just passed. Nothing went accordingly to the plan and the results left him with a bunch of dead bodies and more problems. The security check of the newest invention of Singed was supposed to go smoothly, the doctor did say to him that the new creature would have been mentally stable, not like the last time. As soon as the beast was released from its cage, it attacked the two guards around the doctor, killing them almost instantly and went straight to Silco. The minimal brutal force of the beast was enough to throw the man on the other side of the room, causing his back to collide with the solid rock wall. The air left his lungs after the impact, his good eye went black for a few seconds and his eyesight was totally compromised.

Silco was used to violence and finding himself in difficult situations has always been part of the routine, since he worked as a miner. His body reacted with automatic and calculated moves, grabbing the gun tied to his thigh and firing at the creature. The bullet went right trought its left eye, but the monster did stop for just a fraction of second before continuing his charge against the man. Silco grabbed the knife as a final decision, if he was going down, he wouldn't have gone without a fight. Moments before the impact, a flash passed before his eyes and an hurting memory was enough to take his feet off the floor and attack the creature with an enormous adrenaline rush. The memory was something distant but beared in his mind in an indelible way, like a large scar inside his heart. Two pair of hands suffocating him, keeping his head under velenous waters, which were already eating alive his damaged left eye. The sight of a friend's face, once so close and so brotherly loved, now transformed into something horrendous and atrocious.

The rush of adrenaline caused by the hurtful memory was the last thing needed by the man to assault the beast with the knife in one hand and the gun in the other, with a scream that contained all his hate and a primal attachment to life, Silco jumped.

The landing was unexpected, given the fact that the man found himself on the floor on the other side of the room. Looking at his left, a surprising yet appreciated vision caused a little satisfied smile to form on his face, glad to see his second in charge doing her job. "And in a wonderful way", he thought.

Sevika was on the beast and her mechanical arm was buzzing, busy with the amputation of the monster's head.

"Thank Janna, she was there..." thought Silco, before turning to Singed.

While in the background some horrendous noises were still going on, Silco kneeled down at the same level of the doctor.

"Next time, make its goddam brain at least a bit normal and manageable... or you'll end up as that mass of shimmer and shit". Singed turned his head to see Sevika, busy getting the violaceus blood off her arm. With a grin, the woman looked at the doctor and pointed her knife at him.

"Let's return to the Last Drop, Sevika. We'll see each other the next week, doctor, and I'll be waiting for better results". Slamming the door behind her, Sevika and Silco left the place.

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

Finding himself outside his office, the man esitates a bit before opening the door, hearing some noise inside the room. Silco grabs the gun with his free hand one more time today, rethinking his life choices for once. With a big sigh, the man opens the door with a kick and points the gun ahead of him, moving his head from left to right to find the intruder.

And then, behind his desk, enlightened by the big greenish window on one side of the room, the chair turns to reveal a sight that immediately relaxes his sore shoulders and makes him drop his arms.

"Hi, why are you here?" Silco says with a tired voice, letting the gun down.

Silco leaves the spot at the door to go near the figure and, as he approach, his lungs fills with her perfume, causing his body to relax as he set his eyes on the girl sitting on the chair. He cannot resist but think how his life has changed since the two of you encountered during his research for the creation of shimmer. Singed was definitely the main author of the project and the drug, but also her contribution had been essential in the creation of the empire of Zaun.

Silco's nights were not anymore hours of interminable pain and regret, or planification for the next attack, the next drug deal, the next money exchange. During the nights in which he let himslef rest for more than a few hours, her company was like fresh air compared to the filthy and toxic one of Zaun. She was his rock, his safe harbour were he could let himself being vulnerable, even though Silco was not used to let himself go off completely, being always alert of every possible problem and danger.

"Is that the way to say that you have missed me, for not having seen me in days?" The girl say with a frown on her face and a slightly hirritated tone. "Thank you so much, Sil".

Hearing her tone and the nickname, a bit of guilt starts to hug the man's heart and with a sigh he places his arms around her chest, leaving the gun on the desk and resting his face in between her head and shoulder.

"Sorry, darling, my day was shitty as hell, and I am not in a good mood. But I am sorry for the way I talked to you." Silco was still learning to control his anger and was trying not to target it against his loved one, being her not responsible for any of his trouble. It was just the hard work of every day and the lack of sleep, probably. "How was your day? Better than mine indeed" says the man, plopping himself on the couch, finding a comfortable position for his sore back.

"Mhhh, I didn't do much today, rest day. But I helped the little Jinx with her project. She goes around and paints everything that comes in her sight. Look what she did for you!" the girl says, handing over to him his ashtray, now coloured in bright pink with blue lines.

"Looks good, darling. Come here, sit with me, please. " Doing as he asks, the obedient girl sits herself near him on the old couch of the office, letting one arm resting on her legs, while with the other one, she starts strocking his hair. "I am so grateful when you help me with the little one, a hand is always useful and I am trying to be the best for her and to teach her the way of the world, but it is not always so easy. This world is a cruel place, and if she doesn't understand her place and gains power, she'll be devoured by the city itself. The meeting today with Singed was shit and everything went wrong. I have to find a solution if the old man doesn't find one." Silco speaks with a low groan in his voice, letting his hand rest on his forehead, sensing the approaching headache that will keep him up all night.

Thanks Janna, there was Sevika saving my ass, but it was something he would never admit to anyone.

"I am sorry, Sil. Do you want me to alleviate the pain a bit?" The girl says, lifting a bit up her figure from the couch. "You know my methods always works with you".

Being in a relatively long relationship, Silco knows what the girl is up to and the mischievous look in her eyes can mean just one thing. Anchoring his multicolored eyes to her face and watching deeply into hers, Silco answers:

"Daddy would be so proud if the little darling would help with the pain"

Without esitation, the girl lifts herself from the couch, sitting right into his lap, legs spread apart and hands on his chest to let an illusion of space between them. Silco is not surprised by the sudden action, his growing desire starts to burn into his chest and without any hesitation, one of his hands goes to rest on the lower back of the girl, while the other one goes for her hair, strocking gently the back of her head.

"Nice initiative, darling. What are you gonna do now that you find yourself in this position?" Silco wasn't so acquainted with being submissive, and the position he was in wasn't helping his frustration and will to have control over something, having just experienced a very shitty day. "I'll let you have five minutes of control, little one, just 'cause I feel generous today. Do your best with the time I give you".

The girl doesn't wait another second and starts to kiss Silco. The encounter of his mouth with hers is the final need of the man before letting it all go, allowing the relax to enter his body and with a deep sigh, he finally feels safe, with tha arms of his darling all around him. The taste of her lips is like liquid honey to him, something one would like to taste all day and all night, but the empire of Zaun won't be build in just one day and the city needs to be guarded and guided by the man. A little sense of what can be similar to sadness starts to arise from his chest, sensing some guilt for the numerous nights in which Silco must work and isn't able to fulfill his duty of boyfriend. The eternal sleepless nights, lived behind piles of papers and letters, while the girl sleeps alone in his bed, is something that hunts him in moments like that, when he can relax.

But Silco is not used to let such emotions take control of his heart, mind and body and the reaction is not late to arrive.

Wanting more from the simple kisses he is giving to her, Silco opens his mouth to let his toungue explore the insides of her mounth, without wasting time asking for the permission. The simple and intimate atmosphere of before suddenly changes and a new wave of heat flows into his body, starting from a much lower place than the chest, this time.

With the new sudden need for more contact, Silco finds a more confortable position on the couch and lets his body get in contact with the one of her, deleting all of the left space between them. The sudden contact of the centre of her spread legs with his crotch, makes him leave out a rough sigh, wanting more than just a simple contact. Without stopping from kissing her, Silco lifts the girl's shirt up, reveling her bare chest without any type of support. Interrupting the kiss just to admire what was already his, throwing her shirt on the floor, the man says:

"Your time is up darling, now Daddy decided what to do with you".

"As you want, Sil. You know I am yours." the girl responds.

Silco doesn't waste any more time and, taking off his shirt, he breaks again the distance between their bodies, melting into the feel of her body's heat against his bare chest. After that, another session of passionate kisses starts and the urging need growing in his pants becomes every minute more and more demanding. He cannot resist to her touch, he cannot resist to her body, he cannot resist to her soul. Silco arises his legs and meets the intimate part of the girl, wanting to provoke her and release a bit of his frustation at the same time. Her reaction his repentine and as soon as he comes in contact with her, the girl starts to mimic his movements, a wetness spreading onto her underwear.

"Sil, please... I can't resist for long". Silco understand the urge of the girl and with a smirk on his face, suddenly the man gets up and, lifting his loved one, goes to the other room. The bedroom is clean, tied up and doesn't seem to be used very much. Silco was using the room as a spare storage for the Last Drop, but things changed once the relationship started to become more serious, and he transformed the room into a bedroom for the girl, if ever she wanted to sleep there.

With one feet, the man opens the door and lays down the girl on the bed, big enough for the both of them. Silco senses the urging need in his pants, so, without waste of time, unbottoms his pants and throws them on the floor, before starting to undress the girl. After having taken her pants and underwear, the vision of her naked body on the bed is something that Silco has missed so much since the last time they have seen each other. Every curve of her body is in the right place, he knows every mark, every scar, every mole on that sweet and delicate skin.

"I have missed this, darling. Remind me to fuck you more often, please". Laughing at his words, the girl opens her arms to embrace him into an intimate hug, resulting in both of them on the bed. Silco embraces her into the hug and kisses her on the cheek, but for just one second before the contact of his lenght encounters her wet spot, sending a rush trought his nervous system.

"Now, let me fuck you, pretty one"

Aligning his tip with her entrance, Silco lets himself inside with a low groan, sending shivers through his spine and a hot pleasure spreads from his member. Feeling her wet, hot spot and the tight pressure on his lenght is something that drives him crazy and, bending down, he bites the girl's shoulder, leaving a visible red mark.

"Now, you are mine"

Starting with a slow piece, the man rises in order to have a complete vision of the mess his lovers is, with her hair spread all over the pillow and a redness on her face that makes her even more beautiful, ready to give all of her to the man. Ready to fulfill all of his desires. Speeding up the peace of his movements, the struggle of Silco starts to rise, looking down at his pleased darling and seeing her in such a position.

"Daddy will make you cum, little one. Don't worry, I got you"

Letting the girl moan in pleasure, Silco trusts himself into her one last time, before exiting without any warning, leaving the girl into a struggling position. Everything in the body of the man is screaming, every bone wants more, every cell wants to let out and his trobbing member reminds him of his pressing needs.

"On top now, darling" , asks the man with a demanding tone.

The girl leaves out a sigh and changes position, finding herself on the top of Silco. Admiring her from above is one of his favourite activities, but the sight of her on top of him is even better. Despite being under, Silco knows he still has the control in the situation and, with one hand on her back and the other one guiding his length, he enters just one more time. The wetness of her insides is enough to let him almost arrive at the end, but with a strong will, Silco imposes to himself and his instincts to let her cum first, being the gentleman that he is.

With a fast pace, Silco starts thrusting into her with his full length, reaching the soft spot at the top of her insides. The girl aches and the sensation given by the sudden change in her position doesn't help Silco with his mission. Feeling her wetness and tightness around him, he thrusts again, lifting his hips from the bed. One, two, three times, while the girl follows his movements.

"Sil, fuck, I cannot resist much more"

"Cum for me, darling, please" asks Silco with the little voice he can retrieve from all the moaning that was going on.

"Fuck, I am gonna cum..." the girl quickens her pace and movements of up and down, back and forth, allowing Silco to feel the rubbing of her clitoris against his lower belly. With a low moan and trembling legs, the girl orgasms and her walls reduce the already small distance with his member, causing an involontary spasm from the man.

"Little one" says Silco with a very demanding voice "resists a bit more, I cannot let you rest now" and, withous waiting for her reply, Silco grabs her hips and thrusts his waist even harder than before inside her, causing the girl to arch again. Every fibre of the man is screaming in pleasure and his throbbing member guides his mind, hastening the pace and drowning into the vision of his darling in such a position.

Feeling a growing urge arising from his lower parts, Silco lifts himself up and creates again a contact between their bodies. At the slightly touch of his chest with her bare breasts and her arms around his body, Silco cums with a low grown, sinking his hands into her hips, feeling his liquid building up and releasing inside of her.

Reducing his movements, Silco lets himself drown in the pillow, while with one hand guides the girl towards his chest, silently asking for contact, once more. Without taking his still pulsing member off, Silco feels the girl laying herself on his chest, while their irregular breathings try to find a shared rhythm.

Everything is peace now, the problems and struggles of the day seems to be something so far away in Silco's mind. The weight of his lover on the chest is a calming sensation, a feeling that the man knows to be a rare treasure he must protect with all of his strength. He is ready to do anything to protect what is under his legacy.

Releasing a sign of relief, gently strocking her hair, the man finally finds peace and, letting himself out and spooning her from behind, Silco falls asleep for once.

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

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

———————————————————————————————————

im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[eros-fixx]

scaramouche + “drenched” 

for @scaranya​. thanks for the request!

tw/cw: 18+, cunnilingus, scaramouche is kind of a mean dom, but not as mean as he usually is

The slick sound of slurping between your thighs, paired with the exquisite feel of his lips suckling your clit sets your nerves afire. You plant your hands on either side of you, attempting to raise your hips--to get away from him? to push yourself closer to his mouth? You’re not sure yourself. But your efforts prove futile. His grip is iron, his lithe frame betraying the sheer strength in his hands as they pin you down to the bed.

“This...” You swallow hard, your toes curling into the sheets, as you grind into his mouth hopelessly. With a shaky moan, you feel yourself come undone beneath him, bit by bit. “This isn’t exactly what I meant by--c-cooling down, you know..!”

There’s a challenge in his violet gaze. A sharp pinch to your inner thigh has you jolting, but then he kisses your clit soothingly. His mouth releases you with a pop before he licks his lips clean of your juices. His tone is level, conversational even. 

“I said we would test it, right? Your theory that I ran cooler than you. Heh... seems like it’s a moot point now though.” He eyes your glistening, drooling slit with barely-concealed arrogance. “You’re burning up down here. You’re practically soaked.”

You squirm under his scrutiny. The way he looks at you, as if you’re a fledgling creation of his. “You’re such a jerk,” you mutter, curling your leg back, aiming to kick his shoulder. But he blocks it easily, the fingers of one hand curling around your ankles as he yanks. You yelp as the movement smacks his nose right up against your clit. He takes advantage of your surprise to spread your legs even wider. 

“Relax,” he says, glancing up at you through his lashes. The way it makes him look even more beautiful than before is downright criminal. You throw a few choice words at him, his gaze narrows dangerously. His grip tightens a fraction. 

“I said relax.” Reluctantly, you do so, and he hums his approval. “Good girl. Isn’t this better than your incessant complaints about the weather?”

You purse your lips. “Incessant--”

He rolls his eyes at your indignation. You’ll forgive him for his comments, and even if you don’t, it’s of no consequence to him. You won’t even remember what you’re up in arms about when he’s done with you. His long fingers reach out, stroking a stripe down your clit, watching with half-lidded eyes as your folds part for him. Your hips jerk upwards, a soft mewl escaping your lips. So obedient. So receptive to his touch. 

And all his. A sight only for him. 

Gaze trained on your heaving chest, he brings his fingers to his lips, tongue darting out to taste you once more. 

His eyes flutter shut, a soft exhale leaving his lips. 

“…Good. You taste really good.” 

[hellsite-proteins]

Article Review

Okay, I know this isn't what I usually do on here, but I found this amazing article that fits with the theme of this blog so well, and I just had to share and talk about it! it's free to read here:

if you don't want to read the whole thing, i did my best to summarize it here. if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and i'll fix them!

researchers created random protein sequences to study. these were 100 residues long (or 109 with the inclusion of an N-terminal Met and a C-terminal 6His tag) and were made by either sampling different fragments of natural proteins from databases or by combining letters at random. this is not the same as using words, since in this study each letter was chosen independently, and the likelihood of choosing a letter matched the amino acid's relative frequency, but its still a neat comparison to this blog. they elaborate on this more in the methods section for anyone interested!

proteins in their generated library were analyzed using various algorithms to predict the occurrence of alpha helices and beta sheets. they were then sorted by relative disorder and secondary structure content. interestingly, the amount of secondary structure formation was not much lower for random proteins compared to those taken from pieces of databases. the three groups going forward were ordered, disordered, and a random sample.

next, they recombinantly expressed the selected proteins in E. coli and purified them for further analysis. I won't get into the specific assays, but overall they found that the more ordered proteins were more prone to aggregation and oligomerization, while the disordered protein were more likely to be expressed and soluble! following sequence analysis, they also determined that the disordered proteins did tend to deviate from the expected amino acid frequencies, which likely explains their increased level of disorder. because of all this, the less ordered random proteins are likely better suited for future evolution towards some function.

tldr: random proteins can form secondary structures and be expressed in vivo. interestingly, while the more structured newly created proteins were shown to clump together (which is Not Good!) in cells, disordered proteins did not and were actually well tolerated.

given all of that, i think i may have been a bit harsh towards some of the uglier looking structures on here. apparently, we can either have things that look like proteins but cause problems, or we can have ugly messes that are pretty chill for the most part. it still feels incredibly unintuitive to have more trust in the low confidence unstructured sequences, but this new information is still good and interesting to have!

[sunnylovescats]

It’s twisted and so, so sick, but c!Dream being the only one who will never leave c!Tommy behind is nothing but the truth. Tommy could drop everything and run back to him, and Dream would welcome him with open arms.

And Tommy knows this.

Everyone Tommy loves leaves in the end, no matter what the circumstances. After they’re done using him, they throw him to the wolves. Or if he ends up ‘betraying’ them they don’t stop and listen to his side of the story. He has to earn their love, and even then it’s only a fraction of what he deserves.

Dream’s ‘love’ doesn’t have to be earned, Dream cares about Tommy no matter what. The man who hurts you, taunts you, and manipulates you, is also the man who comforts you, holds you, and sticks by your side (even though you don’t want him to). The man who drags you down until you’re gasping for breath, but also pulls you up into his arms breathing life back into you.

Tommy knows that Dream is just manipulating these feelings that he has, he’s not stupid and he knows he can never trust that man. But on the other hand, didn’t Dream save him from his loneliness on some level?

“We’ll be immortals together” is nothing but the truth. People leave, and Tommy will be alone again. Except now he has Dream, and it’ll only be them, always and forever.

Together with his friend, his enemy, his abuser, his savior.

[lexosaurus]

I worked as a substitute teacher for a few years and one day I helped sub in an 8th grade science class. They were doing math like speed=distance/time. But they had a...really odd method for it. That I commented on because I'd never heard of it before.

And the teacher was straight up like "Oh yeah, this makes it really easy for them to do it for the tests. But its going to really fuck them up next year when they are in high school because they won't understand how to reverse the division. But that's not my problem."

And that comment has lived in my head so much. Like, she just did NOT care that the method was bad in the long run. She just needed them to pass the state test that year.

Also, it's literally a very basic formula, what do you MEAN?

Ohhhhh yeah. That's not exactly the issue in my district, as funding for us isn't directly tied to our state exam scores (thank god). Mine is dealing with both grade inflation and no grades below high school. So kids don't want to learn things if they're not graded on the material. Which is fair, honestly, as I also would not have wanted to learn things I didn't like if I wasn't given a grade or any consequences for not knowing it either. Mine's also dealing with a lot of the "memorization bad" thing that's going around, hence why the kids are entering high school not knowing any of their times tables. They just used a calculator their entire lives. They have NO concept of what numbers mean.

Like, at the start of the year, I asked one of my classes what 2 + 0 was and I got about thirty seconds of 15 kids shouting every number except 2. Which was sort of wild to witness.

At the start of the year, we did a week of review and then we had all the freshmen take a quiz of 7th and 8th grade level easy math problems as a sort of wake up call for them. No quiz corrections either, which they've never not been allowed to retake a test before...

The class average was a C-. Unsurprisingly.

Content Teacher warned me right before she posted the grades, and I spent a LOT of time that afternoon talking the kids down from a metaphorical ledge.

Lots of angry parent phone calls, too, but the math department held firm. The students HAVE to know how to solve this stuff. They NEED to know their basic times tables, they NEED to know how basic fractions work, they NEED to know how to rearrange one-step equations.

After that, we had our Very Frank Class Discussion about how they felt about their education. They felt very frustrated and unprepared, which we validated as we're also frustrated that they're so unprepared. But we were honest about other things. We told them that they couldn't get by just sitting there on their phone and copying the answers off the key anymore. We aren't going to reward an A for minimal effort. Yes, you have to take notes, and yes, you have to follow along with classroom example of problems or you won't pass the class. The students are responsible for their education, we all offer extra help, all our emails are open, all they need to do is ask and we'll never turn them away. But they do need to start taking advantage of all the learning opportunities/supports they have now.

Honestly, I'm so glad we had that convo with them. Felt like they got to vent a lot of their frustrations, and they realized that we were here to push them, but we're NOT their enemy. All our students have a study hall block, and if they come to one of our rooms for even 10 minutes out of the entire hour, we will help them however they need.

A lot of my Freshmen have been really really good about coming for extra help, or emailing and asking if they can stop by for a few minutes to do a few homework problems 1-1 with me.

(And yes, for those worried, while we didn't let them retake that first quiz, two weeks later we did give them another assessment after on the same material, but with slightly harder problems and worth more points. Class average was a B!)

I tried to keep this short, but I guess I had a lot to say aksjnfksjdnkajn

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Seeking

Author's note: More of Draco in Husbandry.

Summary: Draco seeks some more answers.

Warning: Let me know if I need to add anything.

Past =-= Next

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Draco had been forced to retreat from the battle of the mixed group of supposed loyalists and chaos scum traitors. It had been quite annoying to deal with all of them, especially since more than one of them was a Psyker, no where near his power level.

But with the way the Warp was being non-responsive, it had given them enough of an edge that he'd needed to have a strategic retreat, he will need to find a different way to snag those two damned Primaris Psykers.

They need training proper training at that. He could tell from the way that the two Primaris Marines moved and acted, they both were gifted with a version of Seer-sight of the future.

Which could be extremely tactically useful, if their sight is honed, they are properly taught and report their visions to their superiors promptly

He knows that one Ancient Librarian of the Ultramarines who has managed to successfully guide his chapter for many years from what would have been ruinous defeat, to success and victory.

If either of those boys had even the fraction of that skill or power, it could be important for the good of the Imperium to have them Properly trained.

Still, he needs to know more about this planet that he's landed on. Also, how in the name of the God Emperor that he got here. After all, the last he remembers is being on his ship flying through the Warp.

After healing up he manages to hunt down an Alpha legionary- a younger one, who he'd learned his name was Keed and used persuasion to get the younger space marine to tell him what he knew was going on.

Learning that he was on Ancient Terra- and about the alliance between the various factions of Astartes, as well as the other things that are going on.

It's terribly fascinating, and the other space marine genuinely believes this information to be true. He pulls out of the other space marine's mind after ensuring that Keed won't remember their conversation.

Draco will need to go to one of the Loyalist Bases- but not the one that the Salamander Captain Ash'val was based at. Salamanders have a well-earned reputation, among mortals and Astartes alike, and he doesn't want the Dragon to try and breath fire at him.

Ash'val would lose that fight of course, but it would be a terribly messy battle- and would only make trying to retrieve Jophiel and Claude that much more difficult.

Ugh. He might have to fake apologizing for what he had done due to a lack of information. Which might be accepted, might not be accepted by the fellow First Born Space Marines.

The Primaris Marines know better than to try and deny him, a Gray Knight what he wants. Or at least they should, Jophiel had been trained by him, for a short while, at least.

That one knows the weight of his displeasure and how that is not a good thing. So, for him to not be obedient means that he's learning bad habits on Ancient Terra.

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, that can happen to impressionable youngsters, but he will remind Jophiel of how he should behave.

His little Raven friend will help keep Jophiel obedient, and he can use the mutated Blood Angel against the little Raven as well. While two on one might be a bit of a challenge, it's not for him. He's a gray knight, has the gene-seed of the god emperor, rare is an individual able to overpower him.

[eisforeidolon]

Like 90% of the show revolved around Sam/Dean or from their POV. 10% were B-C plots for Cass, Crowley, whoever, so J2 could get time off. But just because 10% of the show had focus on other characters, doesn’t mean it was an ensemble. And not to mention the whole “found family” thing, like if Sam and Dean referred to someone as “family”, it was 9x out of 10 a death sentence. It was like another version of “sleep w/ Sam and die”. Family don’t end in blood, but it ends bloody when you’re in it w/ the Winchesters.

If you watch and pay attention to the entire show as a whole, yes, it's painfully obvious.

The problem is, as is so often the case? Certain fans only pay attention to what they personally are invested in. Sure, in this particular case, that's just (their imaginative personal reinterpretations of) a fraction of the show? With a show spanning 15 years, though, even a fraction is a lot of content. Easily enough that someone who wants to deceive themselves they're properly remembering 'the whole show' can.

So it doesn't matter that Misha was in a fraction of the airtime of a fraction of the episodes compared to J2. They only cared about the episodes he was in or they could pretend were about him, so he was a lead equal to J2! It doesn't matter that the Wayward herd and Eileen were in even fewer episodes and played only minor roles (if any) in the major arcs. They wanted them to be very very important, and the characters talked about family being more than blood a couple times across the whole span of the show, so found family was the major theme! It definitely doesn't matter Sam & Dean talked about their relationship as something special above and beyond just family more times than that, because they were tuning out/actively wanted to forget those scenes. And so on.

With a source material as extensive as the show Supernatural, there's always some extent to which fans' biases are going to distort their memory of the canon. But certain people really do take it to the next level. Which doesn't even account for the ones who know they're full of shit but believe they can change (at least the perception of) reality through never-ending spam campaigns.

[scarlet-abyss]

idk why im writing this post

things haven't been gg so great as of now, so here's a yapfest.

ive been struggling a lot (?) and obviously, my bestie noticed. i was on the phone with her during a long break during school, and she wanted help with a physics qn. two minutes into the call, she asked me if i was having a rough day. i wanted to cry and say yes, but she was with our other mutual friend (they're in the same sch). let's call her a.

now ive known both girls since we cld walk, but a is the kind of girl who's happy-go-lucky and she's too innocent. i love them both to bits, but if id only cry in front of my bestie because ik that id feel terrible if i cried in front of a.

it was jarring how my bestie knew i was having a shit day within 2 minutes of the call, and she was spot on when she said "i don't like what jc has turned you into, and i don't like what it's turning me into."

shes so fucking right. every single time i stare at a qn for a concerningly long amt of time and feel the tears burning at the edge of my eyelids, i feel the truth in her words. ppl around tell me they're struggling, and yk what? they're right. the difference between me and them is that they're struggling to meet their expectations that id never dream in a million years of setting for myself, while im struggling to get enough to meet my goals. they'd EASILY meet their goals, but they're unsatisfied because it doesn't meet their EXPECTATIONS.

if i choose to talk to anyone about this shit, they're either taking a h3 which is uni standards (my 2nd deskie) or doing olympiad shit, and i get that they struggle too. but when they say they struggle, they'll never know what it is like to cry in front of qn that's GRADE level and smth you're expected to know how to do. they'll never know the gnawing sense of inadequacy because no matter how hard you try, even if you stopped sleeping, even if you stopped breathing, eating and living and stufied all the time, youd never achieve a fraction of what they cld do. my ct told us he'd be happy if no one got a C for a lvl phy. ill do him one better with a C turned 90 degrees anticlockwise. a U.

my bestie also asked what happened to the girl who joked all the time and had a mischevious sparkle in her eyes like she was plotting her next crime? i don't know. she died a long time ago. all that exists is forced smiles and jokes that make ppl take me less seriously so i won't disappoint them by taking myself less seriously.

i feel so dead and numb inside, but instead make jokes about becoming ceiling decorations specifically baubles and chandeliers.

this post might go down in 24 hours. life will go on, but ive alr lost a fraction of my soul. to what? i will never know.

[plantbasedlady]

ok so hypothetical scenario. Using roguelike games to fractionate someone. Do you? a. have them go deeper everytime they die / the run ends b. have them go deeper everytime they progress to the next level but wake up when the run ends c. idk insert option C here

This is an exceptional idea. Would you like to try it? Or anyone, for that matter?

[cyanocoraxx]

A sunset, a robot, and a Tellurian on a seafront.

"Hey, C-53. Based on your experience, is today a good day for sailing?"

"Well, the winds aren't too strong, no storms projected for this planet, there appear to be few hazards like large reefs nearby, red clouds tonight, it's not a Friday… I can see small birds flying in the distance…"

Pleck listened with interest, but couldn't help but pull a quizzical look as his friend went on. "Sorry, uh, what was the last bit?"

C perked his head up a fraction. "Hm? Which part?"

"Uhhh… the red sky, the day of the week, and uh, birds? I was following until you started talking about that stuff."

"Pirate superstitions," C-53 explained simply, but with a fondness in his voice that couldn't be denied. He seemed to realise that he had let this slip, though, and looked away.

"I didn't take you for the superstitious type. I mean, you're usually all logic and facts." Pleck commented, intrigued.

"It all sounds illogical, but when you're out there in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of insane crew members, it all just seems to make sense. It's… stupid, now that I say it aloud-"

"No, C-53, it's not stupid- it kept you safe, right? So what's the harm in a little superstition?" Pleck replied with a smile, offering understanding even if he was a little confused.

"I don't know. I just, don't talk to anyone about my Armedian ship days all that much. It's… a touchy time to revisit, but I enjoy reminiscing sometimes." C explained.

They walked on, the terrain crunching beneath their feet. As they neared the shoreline, C-53 noted that the sand became wet, sinking beneath his weight, and the increasing number of salty particulates in the air. The pair reached a dusty cliff edge.

"You want me to go down there?" C asked, leaning over the edge with his hands on his hips.

Pleck nodded. "Yeah. Sorry, I think I need to hold on to you."

C gave a small sigh. These squishy Tellurians and their lack of armour. "That's quite alright. Just, don't make it weird."

"Got it."

Pleck gingerly took hold of C's arm as the robot began the short descent. He crouched down to begin sliding, one foot out further than the other for stability. Pleck clumsily threw his free arm out for balance and grit his teeth. Sun-dried roots and bushes snagged at the two's ankles, giving Pleck a couple of scrapes here and there, and C-53 surface-level scratches in his paint. Both easily fixed, so neither one minded.

Once they reached the bottom, C stood up straight and gave Pleck an expectant, almost impatient look. Pleck sheepishly grinned and let go of C's arm.

Finally, they both looked ahead. Before them, the grand expanse of the planet's ocean laid, glimmering against the setting sun.

"Pleck, why are we here?"

The Tellurian gestured for the robot to follow him towards the sea. "Just keep following my lead, C-53. It'll be worth it, I promise."

C-53 frowned, suspicious. "Alright. If this is some prank, I'm not interested. I'd expect it from AJ, not you."

Pleck took C-53's hand and continued to lead him forward. "It's not a prank, C. You're being paranoid."

"You're acting very strange. Stranger than usual. What's going on?"

Pleck came to a stop right on the water's edge. The gentle, briny waves foamed around his feet, pulling pack slowly as if drawing them in. The sand, a gentle hue of gold, remained soft but steadfast. Around the Tellurian and machine was an abundance of driftwood that had come upon the waves as tiny earthen gifts. Seaweed was dotted all along the coastline, as deeply green as any summer sedge. All of that to say, it was a beautiful, tranquil sight, and it did ease C's concerns.

C took a step towards him, and Pleck let go of his hand.

"Turn on your waterproofing mode thingy. The one with the floaties."

C-53 halted. "No. We're- we're not swimming in the sea right now."

"Yeah, we aren't… but you are."

"What do you-"

SHOVE.

C's auditory sensors were washed out in one motion, and he squeezed his optics shut. A moment later, he cracked them open to see a blur of blue and pink above him, wobbling in the light in a disorienting dance.

Pink. Oh, he was going to slap that pink man when he was back on his feet.

And speaking of feet- Juck. His version of swimming was moving through water with a propulsion unit. The whole mechanical side of it, the one he had mocked Pleck for not too long ago, wasn't so ingrained into him. His pride kept him from trying that ineffective arm-flapping motion of a drowning Tellurian. So, a few moments later, Pleck reached down and pulled him back out. The wind swept against C's frame coolly, reducing his core temperature slightly, and he shuddered. A strand of seaweed slid down his face and plopped into the water.

The floaties installed into the Midnight Shadow finally popped out with a hiss of air. C's optics narrowed, unamused.

Pleck grimaced, feeling guilty. "Oh no- Didn't you hear me?"

C shifted his narrowed optics to the Tellurian and cocked his head aside slightly. "Water is denser than air, Pleck, so no, I didn't hear you."

Pleck's face flushed. "Right. I said, I-I thought you could swim?" (I thought you'd like it, not just sink like a brick.)

"Yes, I… can. Just, it's been a while, you know? And a little warning next time would be nice." C replied tersely. He looked away and folded his arms, defensive. Was Pleck just making a joke out of the small sliver of his past that he had revealed?

Pleck noted the defensiveness and was thus glad for his next reveal.

"Then, it's good that I brought this."

(AJ helpfully brought the object to Pleck one day, having found it in the depths of Bargie's storage rooms.)

C-53 eyed Pleck's bag. Not a black bag. Good. The Tellurian reached in and pulled out… a toy submarine? C's optics brightened involuntarily. No way. No Jucking way.

Pleck grinned at him. "Will you let me put your cube in this?"

C paused, looking at the mechanical ship in front of him. Without thinking, his hands reached out a fraction, wanting to take it in his grasp, and a strange ache in his chestplate region took hold.

"I… yes, you can. But Pleck, will this work? I…"

Pleck shrugged a shoulder. "We'll find out soon enough, right?"

C gave a nod and opened his chest plate, revealing his cube with both nervousness and excitement. His optics met Pleck's eyes and the worry-but-want was clear. Pleck patted his comrade's shoulder and gave it a small, friendly shake.

"Trust me. I think you need this. After we had to leave that pool with the pee in it at the retreat the other day, I couldn't stop thinkin' about how happy you were and-"

"Alright, alright. Do it."

Pleck took C's cube with the utmost care, being sure to support it with both hands. He took a moment to look over it, its blue hue, its subtle glow, and how the ocean waves could be seen through its translucency. He had held C's cube many times before, but this time felt much more intimate. He smiled warmly, gave it a little pat, then placed it into a slot in the submarine.

"Are you okay? How do you feel?"

"Wow. This is… Amazing. It's cramped, but it works. It works! It has SONAR, so I can see and hear everything just fine."

"That's amazing! I'm going to put you down on the shore."

"Yes, please do. And, uh, don't tell anyone in the crew about this."

"Sure thing buddy. Here we go…" Pleck gently set down the little boat and took a step back. "So, uh, go on, be free out there for a while. But be careful and come back, please?"

"Of course. Pleck, can you do me one favour before I try this?"

"Of course, anything."

"… Can you toss a kroon into the sea for me?"

"Pirate superstition?"

"Yes."

"If it keeps you safe, I'll toss two." Pleck rummaged in the pocket of his shorts, hoping his fingers would brush against metal, and thank Rodd they did. He took out two kroon, squinted against the sun, and threw them as far as he could - which wasn't very far, thanks to his noodly Tellurian arms. And with that, the small boat raced off into the ocean, propelling itself with obvious delight.

For C, it was easy to cut through the water, not like the drag of walking step-by-step on land. No feeling in the galaxy could compare to the lightness and freedom in the water. The ocean accepted him with familiarity that could not be found in the worn mud and grime of the ground. The feel of the wind sweeping over his hull, the chopping of the waves at his bow, the glint of the setting sun against his paint, and the seaspray behind him all came together with such delight that C just kept going and going.

"S.E.A-53, finest ship on the bay, none can compare with his technology… hyper proton not needed to sail fast for he, 52 down to 1 he's the king of the sea!"

C took a dive beneath the surface. The density of the water was no hindrance as he headed towards soft corals. He swam amongst the colonies of orange, yellow, pink, and blue, and the tiny fish who lived there swam alongside him, as if he was just supposed to be there. Expected there. All of it was so familiar that not a single problem in Zyxx mattered, and this unspooling came as naturally as the water's flow.

"And we'll go sailing for kroon on the high seas we'll roam, from Zyxx to Quantaris we'll never go home..."

Unbeknownst to C, Pleck could hear all of this with the little ship's radio function. He hummed along to himself as he watched his best friend soar out towards the horizon. To his side was the Midnight Shadow frame, which he kept safe with a protective arm over. He still knew nothing of the sea captain, or his best friend's time as a naval unit, for these parts of his life were too private, too intimate to let anyone in on. That was okay.

He tossed another kroon into the ocean and watched it sink, rippling golden in the amber and red light, before slowly pulling away into the depths. In doing so, the little birds on the horizon, the crimson clouds and the kroon offerings suddenly seemed to make a little more sense. He sat back into the sand and grass, the tall but soft green grass upon the dunes, and it seemed to whisper sweetly into the oceanic breeze.

Pleck drew in a deep breath, savouring the salty air, for it was a change from the usual oilslick smell of the ship, or the manure-and-hay stink of Rangus 6. He held it for a moment, glancing up to the sky to see a sprinkle of stars begin to glow from behind the clouds. He listened to the percussion of the waves, and the grass, and the little birds chattering amongst themselves, and the song coming over the radio too. Yeah, he could start to see why C-53 felt so at home in a place like this.

He let his breath out, slowly, and was glad to see C-53 reappear upon the surface in the distance. A tiny metallic dot, so infinitesimally small against the expanse of the sea, but undoubtedly the king of it all as he charged about.

"On the wide open sea, sailing for kroon with C-53, the captain and meeeeee! Juntawa juntawa juntawa, juntawa juntawa juntawa juntawa... Juck!"

Pleck sat up at the profanity. "Uh, you okay out there,C?"

"Oh- my Rodd- you heard all of that? This is... embarrassing, to say the least."

Pleck smirked to himself, holding back a small laugh. "Snrrk- it's okay, I won't tell anyone, I promise. It's your private life."

"If only all Tellurians could mind wipe themselves like AJ..."

"Not going to happen. Well, fair seas and following winds, my friend. Just, uh, please do come back at some point. It's gonna get cold soon."

"The saying is fair winds and following seas, but thank you. Give me just five more minutes."