#THOSE TALONS ARE SO GOOD OMG

[a-big-chicken-nerd]

WAHWHWHAGWHGWIJANWKLDJFNLAWNFKASNDFKLASN THERE SHE ISSSSSSSS MY BEAUTIFUL ELECTRICAL CHICKEN WHO IS SO IMPORTANT this has got to be the most joyous and incredible image ive ever seen

[ID in alt]

Smug Little Chicken

Drawing chickens is fun ngl

@a-big-chicken-nerd :) !!

[vyzz-undercover]

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(8,800ish words) (holy fucking kill me mate)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

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hi guys :3 guess what i got you all good im not dead,,, the gods have let me live another fateful fortnight (fortnite) also i love you all so so so much pls enjoy!!!! @moodymisty, @lemon-russ, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @egrets-not-regrets, @pluvio-tea, @kit-williams, @thevoidscreams, @mothiir, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sinistermojo, @beckyninja, @passionofthesith, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @allergymoose, @scriberye, @yestheantichrist, @ma1dmer, @cucunot!!! if anyone wants off or on taglist lmk!!! im more than happy to adjust this in post OK BYE ILY ALL AGAINNNN!!!

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There should be higher security in this wing, Cato notes.

But compared to the rest of the vessel, it's safe—as in, there's senior Admech's leaving their doors open while they buff out the scratches in their mechadendrites sort of safe. He bets seeing a mouse around here would cause a stir. Honestly, he can fully render the pict in his mind of some haughty Seneschal turning their nose up to his Primarch because of that.

Cato can imagine the exact following happening, 'eugh, why doesn't Lord Guilliman virus bomb the pipes? That's what I had done on my pissy little rowboat of a void ship!' in that nasally, all too predictable tone that every single bloody one of them seems to have bar maybe a few.

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

But it is safe. You're safe, here. He trusts his Primarch to ensure that for you. Being so cozy to Guilliman as a baseline certainly has its benefits. This place is good for you, unlike the bowels of the ship—where even Cato avoids going.

Not for any risk to his persons, of course. But simply because of the tightness of the hallways. And the stink of baseline sweat and oil that practically sticks to his senses for days afterward.

It's most certainly not because the low lumen count sends his mind wandering. And the flickering—damn those flickering lights—they make him uneasy. The impossible chance they'll flicker out and reveal a reality awash with fleshed decking is completely unrealistic. But still, down in those depths, he feels like he's stuck in a dying vessel, cracked at the bottom like a broken vase, leaking. Adrift, on a storm laden sea with the blackness pouring in—where within that black there is a barely perceptible colour in infinite abundance, like the phosphenes behind closed eyes—and there are eyes in that ocean—so, so many eyes, fixed with the glowing, molten hues of the warp itself; their shades a melted tapestry, a solvent thing, ever-changing.

Eyes and screaming. It sometimes returns to Cato like a bad case of tinnitus, ringing and shrill—but the mind crafts horror that pale reality in comparison, and in that wretched plane of existence those mental horrors bore real talons, and real hooves and real thought—and the caterwauling of its victims—his brothers—ever came from maws heaving and frothing in agony.

Cato hears himself stumble and slam a palm into the side wall to steady himself, but doesn't feel it. He feels like he's in free-fall, as if the ground has opened up and swallowed him hale and whole.

All time in that abominable realm was rendered simply nonexistent, without matter nor meaning to behold to any living creature. Naught but the notion of being practically alone and how chilling it was spiralling down the depthless lake of energy remained. No resistance of air lent to the sensation of plummeting, but he was sure he was for reason beyond any form of tongue. The distance was irrelevant and utterly unmeasurable. But the warp had no edge, no limit; and as it lacked a limit, the depth of him sinking was surely unbounded—just as it was eerily silent. A merciless wall of mute, dark unknown which swallowed all whole under it's cresting wave of solitude. Mute except the wailing, like song—song of sheer coincidence, where so many voices in unison chances harmony by mathematics beyond comprehension.

The sour taste on his tongue drags him loose of the claws about his mind.

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

Cold, unforgiving steel walling like a soothing downpour on his nerves.

Cato groans as he rights himself, shaking his head, and then rolls his tongue around his mouth; gagging a little at the bitter, acrid aftertaste of his Betcher's gland acting on instinct.

He'd thought himself largely past this now. It had been so long since it happened, and Cato tries, he tries so painfully hard not to imagine the same thing happening here, because he's okay, you're okay—nothing would try to take this ship.

The vile taste on his tongue annoys him, because he'd scrubbed his teeth raw in an effort to seem as polished as he could; and now his tongue probably stinks like an empty las cartridge.

He spits on the floor and straightens up, it's fine—at least that's what he tells himself. You're close, and you're safe and that's all the encouragement he needs to fall back into step.

Cato takes a few strides down the corridor towards your quarters before realising something rather important.

He reaches into the folds of his rest attire and practically yanks out a sheathed knife.

It'd be closer to a dagger to you, and he doubts you know how to use it, but—but—

He wants to give it to you.

It's what he'd like to receive, at least. After all, it is what he was given, once.

The smith on Talassar is long dead, from age or sickness, but it matters little. All that matters is that Cato had received it ages ago when he'd yet to make anything of himself and he wants your hands to know its weight. You never carry weapons to diplomatic ventures in the past, and you've told him as much, but he gathers it's because there's never been place for you to put them on your persons in those stupid outfits of yours.

It's a little bit brutish of a gift, yes, he's well aware. But there's no possibility of bringing any sort of cliche boon to your door, like flowers, or something of the sort. Or whatever those waifs of yore would demand as a courting gift.

He doesn't even realise he's continued walking until he's stopped and standing outside your chamber like a kicked hound.

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

He knows the universal override to all the input pads, but there's something seemingly rooting him to the spot.

The nervousness hesitation he feels regarding seeing you is a lingering problem—the longer he stays beyond the confides of your room only adds to the chances of being caught. And he's not about to wait for hours outside for a hint you're actually in there. He has right to suspect you are, but the possibility of a serf being there instead of you is unrealistic but present. Actually no, he's sure that a cleaning serf would not lock the door.

So, finally, he raps a knuckle against the door and sets his footing to a martial stance.

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

There's a clear surprise that paints across your face as he stares down at you, before it dissolves into a small, flustered smile.

His hands twitch where they hang by his sides, itching to reach for the dagger he wants to give you. He had planned how he'd do this on the way here. Thought it through and prepared, rolling it over and over in his head. And yet, actually having you before him throws any precedent out the nearest air-lock.

You're not in any sort of prim and proper way—you're in bedding clothes, more than anything: pants and a top.

The trousers are a light shade of cyan, loose around your calves but more form fitting around your thighs. Your hips seeming to be the only thing holding the pants up from showing the warm, smooth skin beneath; that, and a small thread tied in a crude bow. Your tunic is more of a inched stola, low necked enough that he can sort of see the top of your breasts.

"I didn't.. uh," you mumble. "I didn't expect you so soon."

He knows he's earlier than he promised, but he grunts in answer and looks over your shoulder.

You blink, "What?"

"Am I to wait out here all cycle, then?"

A small 'oh, right—sorry' from you is all he receives before you take a step back to allow him entrance.

When the door slides shut and locks behind him, Cato notes the lack on downlight activated. Everything is hazed in a moody, misty (hi) sort of warm, amber glow from the candles you've left burning. He thankfully wrestles down the urge to stand there scenting the air with his lip curled up like a beast. Trying not to linger on the abundant stink of you, you, you on everything, pervading every sense he has. Promising himself he won't smother into your pillows and start humping them like a rabid dog.

He distracts himself by cataloguing his surroundings. Cato has consistently focused on utilitarianism over all else, and it shows in his room. His room is accessorised in the style befitting of his many years and achievements; with walls lined with trophies and weaponry made by the best of the Imperium. It contains just the basic necessities required: a work area, a seat, a couple of lights, an agreeably Astartes-sized cot at the middle, and close to it, a dependable incense holder.

Your room is much smaller—but the ensuite appears the same, though. Which Cato doesn't know how to feel about. He surmises it was likely a converted Captain's quarters. It's not standard issue, and neither are the copious amounts of, for lack of a better word, trinkets. But he supposes being the Primarch's favourite little diplomat-bookkeeper-pet-thing is a title full of unseemly rewards. His Father has a strange, uncouth way of interacting with baselines, and he doesn't dare linger on the hypocrisy behind that thought coming from him standing in your private quarters.

Be as that may, he still feels enormous standing there in the cramped space between you, the bed, and the desk behind you, unimpressed at the amount of clothing bundled near his feet.

You stand in your own mess without any hint of shame. A silent Ambassador is typically a welcomed novelty, but a silent you makes Cato jumpy.

You near and try to urge him to lean down, clearly trying to coax a kiss from him.

"Water," he says abruptly.

You don't seem to be listening, just looking at him with a distracted sort of fascination—then the request clicks, and you stumble into the bathroom and run the tap.

He hears the glass he's to be drinking from clink with the hardware before it fills, and them you step out and close to him to hand it over.

He takes a big gulp and swishes it around his mouth before swallowing, and gladly the wretched sourness of lingering acid is gone.

With the threat of burning your little nagging trap gone—and you none the wiser to the fact he's an Ultramarine who can, in-fact, spit acid—he rears down and gives you what you'd sought.

A slow kiss, nice and sweet and gentle; and he closes his eyes this time, in preparation.

You grin against his mouth and pull back after, and he smiles a tiny bit at the way your lips are a little redder.

Cato huffs in satisfaction and straightens back up, going in for another draught of water.

"I am surprised you live in squalor, despite all the benefits of your station," he murmurs offhandedly, looking aside the rim at the room once more between sculling down the rest of the cup.

You frown, and glance about the room, "It's not that bad."

"It looks like a drop zone," Cato grumbles, holding out the empty glass—and you take it, while he's fixed on staring disapprovingly at the messy stacks of data-slates stacked and leaning like two great spires. "Have you no discipline? No self-respect?"

"Clearly not," you mumble and glare at him, eyeing him up, then down, then up again with a judgmental leer. Suddenly, something about the situation is amusing to you—and you snort.

Cato scowls, crossing his dense arms over his chest, "And what's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothing," you huff.

He glares back at you in silence as you turn and set the glass upon the desk—what little free space there is, in that shitstorm bundle of random work.

"I just think it's funny that you say that," you start again abruptly, rounding about to look at him. "Given the circumstances."

The scoff that leaves him is nigh a bark, "Exceptional circumstances."

You snort amusedly, "So where's your discipline and self-respect?"

"Somewhere between your thighs," he says, and prides in the begrudgingly fought-back smile he earns out of you with it.

He sits himself down on the side of the bed and continues priding to himself at the wit of the remark he made.

Cato relishes in the moment, simple as it is—you're oblivious to his own troubles and there's a sweet, lulling sense of comfort in that.

"You're a real class act," You pout, manoeuvring your rear up onto the desk inelegantly. Something tumbles to the floor to accommodate, but you're evidently unbothered. Your pants ride down at the change just enough that it put the part where your hip met leg on display. Just the temptation has him fiending off an insidious amount of lust.

He wonders if it'll hold up against an Astartes fucking you on it. But it's not bolted down, so he doubts that.

The bed will hold, though. And even if it doesn't, he'll still manage—he's sure he'll take every bit of you he can, on every surface he can manage. It's just a matter of time before he goes down the checklist, really.

Cato, understandably, groans long and low at the thought.

"Something the matter, Commander?" You intone with an annoyingly obvious faux-stupidity, crossing your legs and tilting your head a little.

"No," he rasps, and tears his gaze from your hip.

You eye him, "You look a little stiff."

He grumbles, and reaches into the breast of his robes.

The sheathed dagger looks flimsy in his muscle and callous laced palm, and when he holds it out to you, you look bemused.

Your brow arches up and you scowl a little, "What's that for?"

"You," he harrumphs, and turns away. Then Cato cannot, for the life of him, look back at your eyes—so he fixes his stare at your sandals set by one another at the door frame.

A little giddy huff leaves you as he watches you scoot off the desk top and reach for the weapon in his peripheral vision.

"You didn't have to," you coo, wrapping your small fingers around the hilt and freeing the blade from its casing. A little kiss hits his cheek and then he hears the gleam of it being loosed—he'd polished the time-dulled filigree to a mirror finish in preparation for gifting you, and even sharpened it back to a killing edge.

Your sweet hum of fascination as he sees the reflected candlelight dancing off the steel has him finally look back at you.

There's a big smile on your face, and your cheeks are a little red—and it's exactly the reaction he was after.

Cato tips his chin up, noble in his smugness, and smiles back.

"It's lovely, but—" you say, "I remember having told you before I can't wear weapons."

He pouts, and then he's sour again, "There's a belt loop on this one so that you can."

"I don't wear them for a reason," you digress.

"What reason?"

"Because it looks bad for a diplomat to do so."

Cato huffs petulantly, "That's not good enough."

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

"It's just one knife," He grunts, and gestures at you vaguely. "Why not put it on the inside of your thigh?"

And for some reason a few neurones misfire in his head at the thought of his dagger being so, so close to your—

"Do me a favour, Sicarius," you simper abruptly, as if there's a hidden punchline to the entire conversation he's yet to discover, "Look under the bed."

Cato scowls, but ultimately allows the request, putting one big palm on the duvet to leer down.

Oh, that's—that's a small fortune of ceremonial weaponry.

"Throne, woman," he starts, still looking and a bit stunned. "Why? Do you just collect all these? You don't hang them up, or anything?"

"I don't collect them willingly," you mumble, "They're just... handed to me, most of the time. Sometimes by dignitaries, a few by other Astartes. I don't understand it much, either."

Cato arches lower and reaches his free hand out to the gilded sheath of a curved sword, blue and gold and embossed with jewels. It's crusade-era levels of ancient—and Cato swears he'd seen it upon the lobby wall before the broad doors of Guilliman's chambers. That, and the hundreds of other favoured tools of war his Primarch so loved to display. Some hadn't been touched since the heresy, but still. Their nostalgic sentiments held strong. He supposes age does that to someone. Even for someone as noble and mindful as his Father.

Cato purses his lips as he lays a hand on the sword and tugs it free from the pile with ease.

He holds it up as he rights himself back on the bed and scowls, "This is—"

"I know," you sigh, and your hand braces against the side of your neck as you tut, "He insisted."

"He insisted?"

"He insisted," you grumble, and Cato tries hard not to find the embarrassed colour on your cheeks painfully endearing. "I said I wouldn't wear it, but he said it'd be a good thing to keep 'incase of emergencies', or something."

"Guilliman is right," Cato says sourly, placing the sword back on the ground and using his heel to shuck it backwards back under the bed. "You're easily assailable."

"You're the fifth Astartes to say that to me," Your face scrunches up, "I feel like it's an insult at this point."

"It's a valid observation," he shoots back. "You may as well be held together with silk and ribbons—like some spoilt little princess. You should expect the fanfare with that behaviour."

You leave his dagger on the desk behind you and take a few bold steps closer to him, crossing your arms over your chest; scowling as you say, "Oh, so you're the knight in shining armour here, then?"

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

He raises a brow and straightens up a bit, "Yes—yes, it is."

He likes the haughty attitude you get when you're subtly seething, he likes the little scowl you wear, and the tiny crease that forms on your nose. It gets his blood up, and warp damn him if he doesn't thrill at the slightest chance to have you gratifying his antics.

"Well, you got a pretty good reward for your troubles."

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

Your brow quirks sourly, and you cross your arms over your chest.

"Groxshit," you grumble.

Ah, so it's time for lying now. You weren't desperate, no—you haven't ever raised your ass to let him mount you, you haven't groped his cock—you most certainly haven't ridden him like an unruly beast, taking your pleasure—letting him fuck your tight cunt full, time and time again.

He ought to remind you, he ought to get you flushed with the words—because he knows you'll squirm, dithering, bright red in the face and aching between the thighs.

Instead, he snorts loudly, "Shut up and come here."

"I don't think so," you laugh.

Cato growls and rolls his eyes, "Suit yourself."

Still sitting, he lifts the folds of his robes aside and works his arms out of the sleeves, baring himself aside from the underclothes hanging on his hips.

With another huff, Cato shuffles himself back up against the headboard, settling into the pillows. He locks his fingers together, raising them above his head, stretching tall and taut; huge chest bulging as a strained groan slips free from his throat, earning a chain of muted cracks from his back in reward of his efforts.

Your eyes trace his torso where you stand aside the bed. Studying the ports and ancient scars that draw up from his hips in mirrored pathways, linear and geometrically precise—utterly surgical. Their routes turned up the sides of his ribs, stopping high on his serratus anterior, dodging his pectorals and wrapping around to his deltoids; where your gaze stayed—eyeing the tattoo of an inverted omega he had gotten so very, very long ago. It's faded a little, but the upside down Ω is still well defined.

He's got your attention now.

You shuffle forward, half on the edge of the bed; and lean close, flickering your eyes up to his—as if seeking some sort of allowance.

"Disgustingly predictable," He scoffs, cocking his head and relaxing a bit.

Seeing an Astartes out of their armour always was something to behold for baselines. Ever eye-catching even to those who'd seen it a thousand times over. It garnered awe and fear; but that was the reason the Emperor made them so large in the first place. Aside from the practical benefits of throwing their weight around, their presence alone was intended to be physically intimidating as a means to dissuade the uncooperative from resisting and to scare off contest.

To you though, his bared form is a source of lust. The stink of it in the air has him toey and eager.

But it is, afterall, the first time you've had a good, close look at him in his entirety.

Cato preens at the flush he earns when he smirks at you.

"I won't stop you, you know."

"I hope not," You muse and lay a hand on his sternum, kneeling onto the bed and scooting close as your fingers graze over the dark spread of hair dusting across his chest.

You scan from the tops of his broad shoulders down the definition of muscle to the interfaces on his fused ribs; your eyes trailing for a brief second to his dense abdomen where the hair went even lower. Arrowing down his under-cloth. His entire body was marked with brutal scars of every kind. Some raised and old, others raw and sunken.

He'd indulge a question or two about their origins if asked—or well, if asked nicely.

Oh, that meagre cicatrix below his left pectoral? That was a Carnifex he had fought. It was five of them all at once single handedly, actually—and he only had his great Talassarian Tempest blade. It was a lucky mark from the beast. It died seconds later. He's just that good—he's Cato Sicarius, afterall. You made the right choice letting him have you, please tell him that he's the right choice.

Instead, you sink down against him and lie against his side, tracing the ports on his chest.

Arguably, this is just as satisfying to Cato as gloating waxing on and on about his many successes. Your warm little body tucked against his like a perfect fit, and the feel of your fingers around the thinner skin rimming his interfacing ports isn't bad, either. It feels strange, yes, but it's a different sort of sensation. It's acutely sensitive. He almost feels like he's about to shiver at it.

But then your attention shifts to raking against the grain of the hair on his chest.

"I usually have it burned away," he says abruptly, because he's somewhat bemused by your fascination. Still, he puffs his chest out a little. "To allow greater synergy with my body-glove."

"Really?" You laugh, and it's a prettier sound than carillon bells to Cato's ears—all the while pawing at a thick hunk of his pectoral, "They toast you?"

"Only a single passing," Cato admits, "It doesn't hurt—stinks though. And then it's all hosed off."

You hum in acknowledgement and let your hand wander down his middle, following the trail of fluffy, coarse hair.

"Interesting," you hum, fingers tracing the path, stopping only when you're grazing just shy of the top wrap of his undercloth. "You feel a bit like a fur rug here."

Cato breathes in slowly, "Don't test your luck."

"It's an entirely valid statement, how am I testing my luck?" You grumble, glowering at him as you pull away.

"You ought to be reprimanded for insubordination," He says with a steely, disciplinary intonation, but the threat's hollow and you're seemingly well aware of that. He leans in and pulls you close again as his touch sweeps down your legs. His nose buries into your hair, big hands appraising groping.

You set about kissing his cheek, smothering yourself against him.

The airy gasp that leaves you when he squeezes your ass makes you bold, apparently, because the next words you choose to say are; "Do you accept bribes?"

Cato's immediate theoretical response is a snarky 'No,' but then the heel of your palm is sliding up the side of his cock through the wrapped linen.

So, pointedly, he eagerly groans out, "Yes."

You simper up at him, before fussing with the fabric. Exposing the dense plain of his hip, tugging and un-pleating a little more until he's bared from the navel down.

His cock's so hard it nearly bats you across the cheek as it springs free. To which Cato snorts, not even trying to hide his amusement.

You flinch a little in surprise, a hint flustered, and eye the hard length of him as if it's personally affronted you.

He sits a little more upright, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Offering his big, sturdy quads as a cushion to lean on as you slowly pump him in a steady motion.

"Well?" Cato snarks, "Get on with the bribery then."

You pout at him, glancing back—and huff, "You smell like an apothecarium."

Cato grumbles to himself, slow to gather his words as he watches you ogle him, "If I had... known that you wanted to get that damn snout of yours so close, I wouldn't've used such harsh soaps."

You raise an eyebrow and pout, "Wonder if they're toxic to ingest."

"I doubt it," he starts, "But I guess there's only one way to find out."

Your fingers glide over his big thighs, dodging his ports and smoothing upwards to trace the old paths of his surgeries.

And even with all his stoic, anally neurotic merit, Cato can't stifle the small subvocal hum that escapes him as you flatten your tongue, licking a warm stripe up the side of his cock.

The feeling of it is staggeringly new, and he's absolutely elated at the view. It's half the appeal, even if there's no way you're getting anywhere near as much cock in you as your cunt allows.

You wrap your lips around the fat tip, keeping it in your mouth as you stroke the thick base of him with a grip that can't even meet around the width; balancing yourself better on your knees by putting the other hand on his thigh—the sleeve of your top slipping down your arm.

"This may be a better use for your mouth than diplomacy," He says as he lets out a low sigh, hips jerking forward with shallow movements in time to the bobbing of your mouth.

When you pull off to swipe away the glaze of spit and pre-cum accumulating on your chin, you lap your bottom lip and huff, "You are a prick, you know that?"

Despite being enamoured by the sight of you disheveled, he grumbles petulantly and says, "And you had to take your tongue off mine to say that."

You frown at him, then acquiesce with a petulant little grunt.

Then your mouth descends on him once more, rocking back and forth, letting gravity angle him in. All Cato can do is relish in the sensation, finding no room in his brain for anything else. Just the feeling of the wet heat of your mouth swallowing around him, and the swirling counterpoint of your tongue—eagerness in your gaze as it flicks up to find his again—Throne, that makes him groan straight away.

You hum around his length in response, the vibrations ricocheting through his nerves and up his spine blindingly. His other palm is suddenly against his forehead, a bit stunned from the bombardment of new pleasure.

Your little fingers dig fruitlessly into his thigh, making him hyperaware, sending him grinding forward a bit only to be rewarded with another lurching buzz of ecstasy. The hand pumping the base of him shifts away, and then small nails rake across his navel, then his hip, tracing a port; and he buries his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a heavy moan. They're only meagre claws, yet the pressure is strangely comforting as you lap at the blood flushed underside of his glans.

Cato's aware his voice catches as he keens aloud, pulling his arm away from his face to rest his forearm on his hairline. He's simply just enjoying the soft, hot drag your mouth around his tip again.

But a reedy little whine snags his attention, catching him unaware that he had even closed his eyes in the first place.

When he finally opens them, he swoons. Hard. Your cheeks are a stunning maroon, and your previously focused gaze now looks hazy and desperate, utterly lost in the act. He hadn't been cognisant he'd put his hand on your head, either. But watching you sink down around him again and again is intoxicating. How your pink tongue peeks out to lathe over a raised vein when you pull off for air has him dizzy. Your other hand's drifted down your pants and between your thighs at some point when he'd been lost in his own pleasure, fingers curling inside yourself. A deep inhale makes it clear you're absolutely soaking. And he's well aware that it is a meagre substitute—still, the eagerness of you is adorable lurid.

Distantly, he wonders just how many times you've had that hand there in this bed. It's the scene of the crime, really. You'd already admitted to it—and he ought to make sure you're full of his fingers to keep yours where there should be. That is, if he could move. He can't find the will to even sit up higher, let alone move the hand he's been using to keep your head steady. But, he does have the mind to comb his fingers through your tresses, at least.

You seem to realise he's realised what you're doing and you whine again, forcing yourself to take his cock further.

Cato lets out an approving moan and hisses out a feckless string of curses, thighs tensing sharply as his senses stagger at the heat that suffuses his belly.

The sick temptation to spend himself in your sweet vile maw is nigh all consuming, but it's nothing compared to the fact he's far more convinced on dumping it in your womb. Anywhere else feels like an injustice to the fact he's able to fill you—because just like some fang-toothed warp-spawn abomination, you've opened the door and invited him in, so he can make as much of a wreck of you as he likes, or as much as you like.

He yanks you off him by the reigns he's made of your hair and you choke a little.

The small groan at the messy handling of the situation is a testament to how badly you're after his end, "Wh-why...?" you rasp, the efforts having made your voice a little rough; the mix of your drool and his precum giving your chin and lips a wet, glossy sheen.

"Because—" he starts, and he's surprised by how ragged he sounds to his own ears. "Because, there's better holes to empty it in."

The little disappointed sigh that escapes you as you lick your slick bottom lip makes him immediately change his mind.

"Have it your way then," he heaves, and shoves your head back down—instinctively chasing the rising tide and rocking forward into your quickly opening mouth.

His hand is tight in your hair now, fist tangling the strands in his grip as you let him thrust freely. Your own hand grabs the side of his hip as his tempo stutters. By the Emperor, his father would kill him if he could see this. But, damn—the sight of you like this is sin. He's so much bigger than you it looks obscene with you servicing him like this. You're a mess, gagging and tearing up, but making no attempt to pull away. It's depraved, but if you're so desperate for a load down your throat, who's Cato to say no? He's more than happy to give you exactly that—and just on time, he feels his balls tighten up—static rising out up his spine as a groan tears from his throat. Caught daft not a millisecond later by a bodily shudder blinding him in a hot rush.

Cato pants as the shivers subside in heavy throbs, filling your mouth. He pets your head as you swallow, at first—and then the pockets of your cheeks puff out. And suddenly you're cringing and scrambling off of him and into the ensuite. The tap starts up, then you do, and all he hears spitting and sputtering.

You stumble out looking like you'd eaten something sour, swiping your hand across your lips before saying, "That tasted horrible."

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

A bright, wry smile plasters itself on your features, "And?"

"And, if you want more," he begins, eyeing you. "You'll have to lose the rags, woman."

You straighten, eager—and promptly start to wrestle your top over your head, just to throw it at his face.

Cato grumbles at the rudeness periodically, before he starts sniffing the article. Vomeronasal organ having a momentary frenzy. It smells of warm you, and a little bit of sleep. Like an embrace, and—fuck, his spent cock twitches back to life. He really shouldn't behave like this. It makes him assume he looks savage. Even he feels strange. So he wretches your top off himself and tosses it somewhere to the left.

Watching you suddenly appear on the bed, fighting your way out of your pants is much more entertaining.

He likes the way you shimmy onto your back and fuss yourself free; and the way you practically lunge back close to him when you're finally bare.

You lean over him and grin, and Cato appreciatively drags a hand down your back, palming your ass.

Promptly, he rolls himself and drags you along. He groans theatrically as if you're fifty times the effort to move than you are, simply because he can. And the shifting of his bulk makes the bed shake enough that the stack of slates on the table across the room falter, and tumble to the floor in a loud clatter of sound.

On your back under him, he preens at the flushed surprise on your face.

"That was too loud—you're too loud," you heave.

"I'm too loud?" He grumbles, pinning your far smaller shape down. "Says you."

That stirs a groan out of you, at least, squirming while Cato drags his tongue up the side of your neck.

"Someone can still pass by and hear," you whine, "We shouldn't make that much—"

"I doubt it," he grunts, cutting you off as he slides off the mattress and drags you to the lip of it. "We have a bed all to ourselves. Your bed—in your quarters, with six inches of steel in the way, might I add. They'd have to stand at the door to listen."

He flips you over, pressing you front down—slumping against you on his knees to grant a rough grind or two to make sure you're hyperaware of his thick erection plastered against your ass. Your legs kick out and you wriggle, a series of ragged gasps leaving you as you endure the onslaught. A small lick here, a small lick there—huffing and panting to stir an empathic response. Winding you up to writhe and flush as he groans next to your ear, only to start chuffing out mean spirited laughter when you moan back.

"See, you don't really care about anyone hearing, do you?" He rasps out against your throat before sucking the skin over a thudding little artery. "You're not sworn to chastity. They might just think, 'oh, the Ambassador's found another poor soul to suck the semen out of, shame,' or the likes."

"I don't know how you do it," You scoff, breathing hard into the covers as he pulls away and grabs you by the hips to hoist your rear up into that perfect taunting arch he remembers so well from the cabin. Aptly presenting yourself on your knees at mounting-height while he stands.

"Do what?"

You laugh, "Manage to find the worst possible thing to say every time."

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

Taking himself in hand, he angles the tip of his cock to kiss the soft rim of your entrance. And Throne, Cato's ecstatic. He finally gets to fill in the gaps of what he should've seen back in the cabin the first time. The theatrics you'd hidden under rags and your own embarrassment.

He hears the cartilage in your gullet click when you swallow dryly and grumble, "Fine then, but don't say I didn't—"

You're rudely interrupted by your own shuddering moan when he starts sliding into you, and Cato's never been happier to shut you up.

He bottoms out in you in one smooth thrust, and the sound you make next is a stellar thing. An eager, warbling 'Sicarius–' as his cockhead jars right up against your cervix. Warm, fluttering muscles around his length and the mewling of a whorish little Ambassador are ever a perfect combination.

But he wants to be closer—so, so much closer; he wants you pressed to his front, so he can absolutely smother himself against you. He wants to burn the feeling of you and him into his edict memory, so nothing can untangle it from him.

Cato has to bend himself at an awkward angle to manage it, but he's well aware of the fact he can manage a free hand to draw lethargic circles on your belly.

"And if they can hear, it's not like anyone will believe them," he pants, a little chuff of laughter chasing his words, looking down at your face buried in the sheets. "They'll think you're a busted piston, or maybe a whining pipe."

"You're such a—" you start as his hand slides slowly down your navel, and your voice tapers off, "You're a-ah..." he dips his fingers between your thighs, and you moan, "Thro—oh—ne..."

His pointer and ring finger spread the hooded peak of your folds, then the middle moves in and rolls over your clit again and again and again. Your smaller, folded body strains back from the new attention. Mewling at the stretch, and the hot, heavy press of trans-human dick inside you. It's just how he likes it. He's got you all to himself, his bulky hips flush to your ass, and his pleased rumbling beside your head. He's genuinely content, if not for the constant paranoia—but content is a feeling he never really appreciated before the warp everything went to shit. But that paranoia is inconsequential compared to the sheer amount of joy he feels with you near and receptive to his affections marauding.

"That's it," he rasps, and he has to swallow down how much he's raring to just blindly rut into you like a savage. "Now, be a good little whore—and say 'Cato, harder please,' for me."

The request falls on deaf... or rather, cock-drunk ears. You simply moan in answer and squeeze, over-eager for him to keep practically putting a dent your womb. It catches Cato by surprise when you climax all too suddenly, high-strung, and fuck, everything in that moment is absolutely perfect—Cato would gladly suffer for an eternity to stay, just like this, for as long as the accursed galaxy will allow. Your body reduced to a juddering wreck, arching forwards and suffering even more touch to your abused clit; your insides twitching in time around him with each passing graze of his finger over that sensitive nerve.

Rearing back isn't a safe choice either, because you end up getting even more of him in your cunt—unable to escape his efforts to hound you over the edge as soon as possible again.

"I c-can't, I-I—" you whine, and in response, like any reasonable Astartes, he keeps pounding until you're compliant.

"Say it," he pants.

"Ca—ah–Cato, h-harder, please—" you start crying as you shake underneath him.

His ears practically perk up at you finally using his first name; it was only quick and garbled, but he's so glad to hear it—he's already addicted to it, impropriety damned, because fuck does it sound good. It's always been Commander, and only recently had it been Sicarius—but now you're finally giving him the validation of crying out for Cato—for him, just him.

You can be louder, and clearer than smothered against the covers. So Cato acts on the brilliant idea to hoist you upright on your knees while he slams into you.

You're struggling erratically against the big hands holding you up, making the sound of a dying animal, now.

He fucks you right through your struggles, one hand keeping your head up under your jaw so he can arch down to tuck his chin on your shoulder. The mixed sound of your little rear making contact with his hips is a rushed, degenerate beat—Throne, the poor headboard of your cot against the wall too, it's almost like sabatons on steel, a rhythmic clank clank clank. And oh, then you make the sweetest little overstuffed sob, isn't that cute. Aren't you adorable.

He's only just started again and he's already liable to empty himself in you.

Suddenly, there's a scream of his name—and a quick, warm-wet splash from you that drips down his balls. Then you've apparently been struck daft and limp in his hold, sniffling out a wrecked little cry as you slacken. It's an entirely new phenomenon. It seems to be a good thing, seeing as you're squeezing on him like it's another orgasm—so he takes it at face value.

He keeps you upright and lets you cinch down around him, staying still—riding out the aftershocks of your finish and keeping his cock nice and warm and snug.

Cato is honestly surprised when you regain enough sense to weakly buck backwards and fuck yourself on him.

"Please... p-please," you slur, and it seems like all you needed was the incitement to be reduced to begging now; "Cato, in me, i-in me..."

Cato's completely enthralled, and he's never been more willing to follow an order faster. He'd walk right into an orbital barrage if you asked, right now.

He shifts his weight into the next thrust and meets your meagre attempts to get him to rut into you.

The loud, wet plap of him bucking forward is almost deafening.

His eyes roll back at the searing burr of pleasure that chases up his spine, panting through a clenched jaw, "So eager to be f-full of Astartes cum, huh?"

"Please, C-Cato—" You can barely even get the sentence around the pace of him practically rearranging your uterus into your stomach.

Fuck, he knows he's so beyond defective it's not even arguable, because he's practically feral for any hint of validation you'll give. And if you want to have your insides painted so badly, why should he deny you?

"I know," he pants, "I-I know."

You whine, well beyond words.

He's about as robbed of verbal sense as you are now, and he groans, your cries becoming hiccups.

He swears he almost blacks out for a moment when he actually finishes. His arrhythmic, choppy sighs chase each thrust. So suddenly seized by his end he slumps forward, pushing you with him, feeling half-dead and gritting his teeth as shudder after shudder wracks him. Persisting, his hips still keep pumping without a hint of respite, pinning you with his bulk while emptying himself inside you, just how you wanted. The subsequent leaking of his spend from you turns the pace of him still rutting into an even stickier cacophony of lewd wet sound. Hand splayed out beside your head supporting his weight, huffing and puffing to himself like a pissed-off bull as he works himself into overstimulation.

He stops at last with a long, trying sigh and pulls his slick and spent-wet fingers out from between your legs; dragging them across the sheets somewhere to the right before letting his palm splay on your hip, dry.

You're bent ass up under him, with your cunt still full of his cock, plus a thick load; moaning so lowly and continuously it's almost a purr.

Cato groans tiredly, rocking his hips a little for good measure despite the ache of it. "Does having me finish inside you feel that good to your little animal brain?"

Your voice is a fucked-out mumble as you say, "Well... 's not like... y'going to get me pregnant or anything."

Cato stays quiet, considering.

And that quiet seemingly sends you asking, "Are—are A-Astartes... sterile?"

"I'm actually not too sure," Cato huffs, and finally grows the spine to pull himself out.

Your gasp at his exit and subsequent little exhuasted 'hmm' is curiously without any hint of fear-smell.

He scowls, "And you're not at all concerned by that?"

A soft groan from you answers, "Got an i-implant... after the first t-time, just incase."

He doesn't have the balls energy to even begin to comment on the fact you'd correctly anticipated him trying after you again. Is he that predictable?

Cato rears back and makes an affirmative sound, groping at your ass, big thumb pulling one of your labia aside to ogle the fat pearls of cum dripping from you. You'd take another load, too. And if you ask him nicely enough, he might do just that right now—or have your mouth again. But he likes spending himself in your warm cunt far more. The way you squirm and squeeze on him when he's in you is intoxicating. Maybe later, given your exhaustion. You both have all cycle—or at least, whatever remains of his rest hours. Regardless, it's a genuine wonder the device hasn't succumbed to the stress of stonewalling an Astartes' draining his balls in you so many times these last few months.

He makes a soft tutting sound as his big palm smooths down your sides; his warm breath dancing across your inner thighs.

No better than some slavering beast, Cato gives into the urge sent by his hindbrain and licks a wide band from clit to taint in one smooth motion, and pulls away, seemingly briefly appeased.

Your squeal is priceless, but—eugh, his cum does taste foul. Nutrient gruel be damned, he needs to fix that somehow.

Sputtering as quietly as he can to avoid dignifying your similar reaction earlier, he grumbles to himself—still pawing and groping at your ass.

"You've ruined m-my sheets," you manage to say.

Cato grunts, "You're the one who decided to piss on them."

He says that, but knows it wasn't. It didn't smell like it—it smelt like satisfaction, and slick, and 'harder, please—please, Cato, harder.'

The sudden shiver that runs up his spine thinking about it surely isn't born of a vaguely possessive thrill.

Abruptly you roll onto your back and sit up, grimacing at him.

"That's n-not what that was," you hiss, flustered enough that you're stammering. "T-That was..."

Cato raises an eyebrow, "What was it, hm?"

Hook, line, sinker—

You dither, red in the face as you mumble, "It–it was nothing."

—and ta-da, he reels in an Ambassador.

"Oh, that's right," he grins and leans over you, "It was you finishing so hard you screamed my name."

Something bold rears it's head in you then, eyeing him petulantly; because you start swatting at him—and Cato's never had you actively physically retaliate for any jabs—so he just freezes, bemused.

They're barely even pats to his sturdy form, and it amuses him to no end that you're so small but still trying to annoy him.

So, he acquiesces; and starts using his own strength on you. He keeps it in check, of course; because you're still a twig of a baseline, even as grating as you are. He's practically tossing you around on the bed with minimal actual effort. Big hands stroking and kneading, rolling you around, pinning you beneath him and trying to annoy you back.

The efforts yield an entirely different result. You're laughing, hyperventilating, and every rough grope earns him a shrill little keen of excitement.

"Throne, you're a degenerate," Cato hums, giving you a wry look before reeling you back under him. "Getting off on being tossed around, are you?"

And with a yelp, you're made to watch him maraud his way up your body again.

You start grinning then, and it's not the typical sweet, coy smile of you luring him in; rather, it's one of a mad thing, feral and giddy.

You snigger sharply, a little breathless from struggling. "You say that like t-there's any downsides."

Cato scoffs, and rolls onto his back, pouting. "So anything that can rough you up will do, then?"

"I, unfortunately, have a very singular preference," you chuff, and snuggle up against him; tucking your chin against his neck, humming softly to yourself.

"Is that so?" He grunts, "And what would that be?"

The kiss to his jaw is heartachingly soft, and you snort a little when he turns to look down at you and your cheek is grated by his stubble.

Your big eyes are locked on his, half-lidded and lazy, and there's that familiar, honeyed look in them again. The soft, heady fixation of focused affection.

Cato feels like he's about to start weeping out of sheer joy. You're all his, your time, your gaze, your adoration—everything.

He's practically vibrating from elation.

"Despite your profession, you are terrible at hiding your emotions," he snarls, despite himself.

"Look at the time—aren't you expected somewhere, Commander Sicarius?" You ask sourly, but the warmth in your eyes stays the same.

Cato wonders if his expression betrays any of that sort of softness. If there's any residual capacity to show affection left in his face after all he's been through. He's sure there's something going on there that's got you looking at him with that sweet gaze. Or maybe you've gotten a good read on what's going on in his head now. He certainly feels as if he's been figured out. As if you've got him pried and nailed open like a xenos corpse in some creaking admech's lair. The prospect isn't anywhere near as daunting as it should be.

Still, he plays along.

"Probably, but you don't seem to really be complaining, Lady Ambassador," Cato quips low in his throat as he leans in close, only to pull away and sneer. Your lips part slightly as you swallow your words instead of speaking, clearly captivated. That said, he is also still a little breathless from teasing you so it was no surprise you seem dazed at his own attempt.

"No, I am—you've just more muscle than brain," you bite out with a flash of snark a second late, taunting him further by sticking your tongue out.

Retaliating immediately, he snares your mouth against his own; sliding his own tongue with yours and drinking in the soft moan that slips free. You nip his bottom lip vengefully, making him stifle a growl and lean away as he hisses, "Don't tempt me for a third."

It's no lie, because fuck, he probably could go for one more. Especially with the treatment he's receiving now.

"Why not?" you say in a tone that's so sweet one of his hearts aches.

"You want more already?" He drawls as he licks your jaw, your throat, everywhere and anywhere his mouth can reach. Tasting the salt of your sweat, and practically suffocating himself in the smell of you. Basking in his victory—Cato makes a sound like a great big feline, somewhere between a chuff and a growl against your neck; lazily entertaining himself by mouthing a bevy of bruises there. You almost immediately let him do as he pleases, your mouth hanging open, eyes half lidded and face flushed. Cato tries—and fails—to restrain the sudden amusement edging his tone at how easily you fall to your lusts. "You're going to overload that implant and end up gravid, woman."

"Throne, yes—" You slur, wriggling against him as he lathes his tongue across the top of one of your tits.

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

Cato glares at you, and raises a brow. You're pretending you hadn't said anything and he's stunned you think he's stupid enough to miss it, "Baseline ducal protocol likely dictates... I would have to carry you off to be wed if that happened," he says, rushed. "Or... something of the likes, I suppose."

"R-Right," You fake a cough and avert your eyes, and you're breathing a little heavy.

"Within the context, of..." Cato backpedals, suddenly hyperaware of himself. "Of... that theoretical scenario."

You harrumph meekly, and then mumble, "Oh, of course... I agree, in that hypothetical situation."

He blinks, flabbergasted, "...really?"

You clear your throat and nod stuffily, only to tuck closer against him.

There's an entire subsector's worth of unpacking those statements need; you agree, but is that you saying it's a distant assurance? That you'd let him, one day, or is it merely conjecture? The primitive satisfaction of that base biological imperative is a heady one. Dangerous, too. If there is a chance of knocking you up, it would require significant subterfuge to keep hidden. Astartes can smell that sort of thing—and fuck, a Primarch could probably tell who's it was when given a source sample. He's got no litmus test for how easy you both would be caught. Maybe if you're suddenly on leave, for say, nine-months? That's one solution.

But where would you go—oh, Throne, he's thinking about Talassar again, and you in a pretty little slip, or in his rest robes, lying next to him notating; maybe resting against his chest in the crook of his arm—the fantasy is mundane, and domestic, and anathema to his status as High Suzerain of Ultramar, but still his cock throbs and his cheeks heat at the idea of calling you Lady Sicarius.

Your hands card through his hair abruptly, combing and petting him, and hm... that's nice, why are you looking at him like that—

"What do you think you've doing?" He growls, ever the hypocrite—his face doesn't feel hot at all, shut up.

You harrumph, "Stop pretending you don't like it."

"Whatever," Cato scoffs, and leans into your touch—not before mumbling; "Cunt."

Self-admittedly, he entirely deserves the feisty little smack he cops to the snout the very next second.

"Don't call me that," you pout.

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

He's having you a third time just because of that, for sure.

[emelinstriker]

Knockout ♤ Your New Car

Y'all be gettin a gif for him cuz I couldn't find a good jpg. Also I hate how rushed my old TFP one-shots feel omg-

[TL;DR] Knockout decides to personally take up the job of driving you after an encounter with some bullies.

♤ ~ Comfort ~ ♤

Knockout was driving towards your school, just like any other day. His alt mode's radio was playing one of your favorite songs as he hummed to the tune. He wasn't thinking about much, other than having some fun time hanging out with you later. His day was also pretty good, considering he didn't have to deal with Megatron's orders or even Starscream's nagging. He was pretty happy and content as he sped down the road, seeing the school building from afar.

However, that happiness was short lived once he noticed you talking to some other humans. They were laughing while you seemed like you were about to cry. As he got closer, he was finally able to hear what was being said.

"...And your car is an absolute waste, honestly. I mean, where did you grab it from? The scrapyard?" The boy laughed again, making his goons laugh.

Furious, the mech decided to step in. Knockout slowly drove up next to where you parked your car. You looked up at the sound of an approaching car. Recognizing your lover's alt mode, you were a little bit more relieved with him now here. The bullies stopped laughing as a rather handsome man got out of the driver's seat.

"Sorry for the wait, doll. Driving your car was just too much fun. It's so fast and you did such a great job buffing it!" He complimented you with a smirk... It was mainly just his ego taking over as he described how great his actual looks were, but you didn't mind. You usually buffed him in his alt mode after all, so at least you could take part of the credit.

He walked over to you. "Thanks for letting me use it. And thanks for taking care of my own." The mech in disguise turned towards your car, the one the bullies were making fun of. Honestly, your car wasn't all too shabby. Maybe buff it here and there, but it looked decent enough. But it clearly wasn't made for speed, unlike his alt mode. The group of bullies was silent. They couldn't believe you owned an Aston Martin. They thought you were the owner of the cheaper-looking car!

"May I still use it till we get home? I just enjoy the thrill." You looked at your bullies, then back at your Decepticon guardian with a small smile. Once you nodded, Knockout leaned in to kiss your forehead, not bothering to go lower in front of those other filthy humans. They don't deserve to see the amount of affection he usually gave you.

Knockout finally looked at your bullies in the eye, faking a confused look, pretending he didn't know why they were picking on you, before nudging you to get into your car. "I'll meet you later, okay, doll? Now get going- I still need to show you something at home." He said before he smugly walked back to his alt mode, entering and closing the door before ultimately letting his holoform disappear behind the tainted windows. He slowly drove in reverse, making sure to see you get into your own vehicle safely and driving out onto the street as he left. He drove ahead of you, but didn't speed to show off like he would usually do, instead he drove at around your own pace.

Once you drove through the groundbridge, Knockout transformed and simply walked next to your car as you went to your little parking area. You rolled down your window to listen to whatever he wanted to rant about. "Who were those humans?! Why were they making fun of you and your possessions like that?!"

Suddenly, tears started to roll down your cheeks and you sniffed, trying to hide your eyes by looking down.

Knockout instantly felt bad and decided to drag you out of your car. So he kneeled down and used his talons to open the door, gently picking you up. No one on the war ship would bother touching your car anyway, so it didn't matter if the door was left open. There was nothing of value in it for any cybertronian.

He put you close enough to his faceplate so he could examine you closely. Just in case they physically harmed you in any way.

"Why are you crying, doll? Was it my outburst?" He asked with a softer tone. You shook your head.

"They always make fun of me- Always finding something to belittle me over..." You wiped away some tears. "A-And ever since I got my mom's old car, they've been harrassing me over it..." There was a moment of silence. Only your little sniffles could be heard. You were a little worried about your boyfriend's lack of response, so you looked up at him.

But then you felt his faceplate press up against your body. More specifically, you felt his dermas kissing your lips. Your face heated up as you kissed back, putting your tiny hands on his faceplate. Once he pulled back, his red optics looked into your red and puffy eyes. They were beautiful to him regardless. "Leave your car here. I'll be your personal vehicle from now on. Just tell me when and where to drive and I'll get you there", he stated. The medic wasn't joking either.

You had a bit of a perplexed look on your face as you considered the possible outcomes. "But I don't want to bother you! You're already doing so much for me! And what if Megatron refuses to let you drive me for more than just school?"

The mech huffed as he slowly put you down on his shoulder pad. "Then he would have to deal with more injured vehicons alone. If he refuses to let me drive you, then I refuse to fix up his soldiers. Simple as that. I'm already your guardian and sparkmate, so why can't I just be your personal ride too?"

You giggled a little at his stubborn attitude, making him smirk. Knockout started slowly making his way over to your home-corner. But before he could offer you to step on his servo to place you on the ground, you kissed the side of his helm. "Thanks, Knockout. You're such a sweetheart and I love you for it." You said, then you stepped onto his servo to be lowered into your corner. The mech gave you a loving smile.

"Love you too, doll."

[ Masterlist ]

[sea-lanterns]

If Cloudy is an adeptus and therefore able to change appearance… What if she just got rid of her nails but kept her fingers like that? Omg the opportunities… Like her hands, they’re so pretty— and long— and texture— Ok I’m stopping now 😭 Sorry

Okay…maybe her finger game would be good. Not because she’s skilled or anything, but by default her fingers are pretty pleasurable looking so it should be fine 🤤

Get rid of those talons and she can shove those in my pussy any way she wants. I bet she only needs two of her fingers to fill you up completely before you feel like you’re being stuffed full 🥵

[hyperch1ptune]

it’s 1am for me so it’s technically the 7th day….ykw yeah here’s my really rushed gadget week summer thingy

(complete w captioning!! confetti confetti)

yk that one moment where gadget just shoots fireworks out of his head in “Great Wall Of Obliva”,,,,yeagh I like 2 think he dose little one-off shows in general

oc content!! this prompt was just a good excuse 2 draw them interacting overall,,in addition 2 testing out & experiment with the different outfits they’ll have

this is one of those rare moments where I actually acknowledge the 2015 adaptation,,,legit I had 2 recharacterize & redesign Talon where he’s actually a bit standable omg

don’t mind the random one-off oc that’s inspired by that one jackbox water machine character BUUUT i’m really proud of all the shape experimenting I did on this one,,,,

fyi: Issac & Percila probs invited the twins over for a bombfire session. buncha common tropes could be seen in this I think: stories, wood collecting, s’mores,,hell yeah

this one is a lot more character focused but I sWear all of them are at some nearby fair,,,a lot more character testing & whatnot. buncha agents spending some quality for once omg

family photoooo!! I was planning on drawing the whole W.O.M.P. lineup tbh,,,,but that just seemed cooler for a illustration all in itself, at least brains here god bLess 🫡

I drew all of these in 1 day ur welcome gadget nation

[alexanderlightweight]

Omg could we get another part of maybe I’m the villain ? I love your writing!!

This is named ‘maybe I’m the villain’ because saeth said that magnus is delighted by the idea of being one of those villains with a pretty, soft cat on his lap.

thank you! ^_^ i hpe you enjoy!

lumine

— Alexander is shaking under his touch and he’s betrayed his own nature just by his response to Magnus’ own testing rumble.

Perhaps someone without the right knowledge would see Alexander’s large, silken ears and lush, thick tail and think his other form to be nothing other than to be a well-bred, competent housecat, but Magnus knows better.

Alexander is a born predator.

It’s just too bad that compared to Magnus, he is still only prey.

“These hunters the clave sent to me, do you know them personally?” Magnus asks and his voice is casual even as he releases Alec’s ears and summons a drink, his free hand falling to Alexander’s thigh.

“No.”

Magnus rewards the instant honesty with his talons kneading Alexander’s leather clad muscles.

“Do you trust them to listen to you in the field, little shadowhunter?”

Alexander hesitates and then shakes his head.

“If you can’t trust them to follow your orders in the field, then why should I trust them to obey my laws?” Magnus asks and Alexander bites his own lip, using pain to force away the instant answer that undoubtedly would have set him against the clave, verbally at least. Magnus decides to be generous, feeling content with the weight of Alexander on his lap and how soft his ears were under Magnus’ fingertips and claws.

“I will allow them entry—” Magnus decides finally, “but their presence will be tolerated only for so long as you remain where you are. The moment you leave my lap, Alexander, their permission is rescinded and their presence will be a deceleration of war. While I may allow you some leeway in regards to the rest of demands, this one matter is non-negotiable or our deal ends here.”

“The clave expects me to lead them.”

“The clave expected you to negotiate with me.” Magnus cuts in, not about to play these little games when they both know better. “If they can’t be guaranteed to follow your orders then there is no guarantee they will protect you. If you die, kitten, then what is to stop them from claiming ignorance to whatever you and I agree on?”

— Alec knows Bane isn’t wrong.

That’s the thing.

He’s completely accurate in a way that would horrify the clave, simply because it means that Bane is much smart and better informed than they give him credit for. Which, in Alec’s opinion, is stupidity, hubris and hypocrisy at the finest.

If warlocks are the biggest threat as the clave says — and out of all downworlders and even more so than seelies, they are — then they should be taken seriously at all times and respected as the actual threat they are.

However Bane isn’t aware of all of the information — first, that this is being used more as a scare tactic and less of a warning and second, that the clave wants him alive to breed — and Alec is loath to share that information with anyone, but especially Bane.

“I agree.”

Alec’s murmured vow seals between them like a barbed arrow hooking into his heart.

“Are these shadowhunters as competent as yours?” Bane asks and Alec can barely understand him through the strength of the vow, but even he can hear the compliment in Bane’s tone. “Even I’ve noticed the difference in efficiency and talent in New York since you’ve taken charge.”

The praise is nearly too much with the vow still open and pulsing between them and Alec has to do something.

His hands reach out without permission and tangle in Bane’s open shirt and his thoughts swim as he tries to answer, to be honest, to be good, to earn more of the thick, honeyed words that slide down his spine like molten heat.

“No.”

—

Alexander scoffs the word, listless as he blinks and tries to contain himself.

His ears are twitching languidly and his tail has slowly been curling closer as he himself settles more comfortably and heavily into Magnus’ lap. His fingers are long and calloused as they brush Magnus’ chest, seemingly unaware that he’s broken free the last three buttons of Magnus’ shirt.

“They’re Idris hunters.”

Magnus is told quietly, but no less judgmentally and that, Alexander seems to think, is enough of an explanation and perhaps it is.

“Then I can’t trust them not to die on my territory.” Magnus says with a sigh, “and that is a tedious amount of paperwork, kitten. Even as charming as you are.”

It’s not the truth, not really, but Magnus is ever hungry for more and he will take every bit that he can from Alexander. The praise — little as it was — seems to drape itself across Alexander and his tail curls around Magnus’ wrist delicately.

“A little death, in return for each that I have to deal with because of incompetence.”

Charmingly, Alexander seems to have no understanding of what Magnus means and Magnus is met with confusion.

“You want me to kill for you?” He asks, cautiously but not upset by the idea and Magnus wants to know who taught Alexander to so readily step into the role of a weapon.

“I want a far different pleasure than true death, kitten.” Magnus murmurs and he spreads his thighs just enough that Alexander falls closer to him and Magnus can shift his hips up to make his point clear. “For each death I suffer the tedium of paperwork for, you’ll pay me back with my pleasure.”

Pure shock followed by want and hesitation pour across Alexander’s face and Magnus croons deep in his chest even as he viciously yanks on the open vow between them.

“Agreed.”

It’s more of a whisper than anything but Magnus lets it go because Alexander is breathless from the weight of the vow as six promises ties themselves to him, waiting to be called.

“Good boy,” Magnus murmurs absently, pretending he wasn’t waiting to see the way Alexander reacted. To catalog how he shakes at the praise and surrenders more to Magnus.

“Allowing so many nephilim through my wards while still keeping them up is not how I intended on expending my energy tonight. Especially when there is no time frame for how long they'll take.” Magnus makes it an idle remark, instead of carefully calculated and he takes a sip of his drink and enjoys the feeling of Alexander’s tail unconsciously tightening on his wrist.

“Do you need my energy?” Alexander is quiet, sides still shaking even as his brow furrows and he tries to figure out how to get ahead of Magnus this time.

As absolutely tempting of an offer as it is, that will be saved for another time.

Tonight, Magnus wants to play.

[quinloki]

Alright

I couldn’t sleep well for other reasons so I channeled it into thinking about the bird and then I continued not being able to sleep

….. okay but medical exam Marco like

Maybe he notices how you look at him when he has the scrubs on, or his little doctor coat

But you don’t wanna distract him from his work of course, so you just never bring it up

But Marco’s a smart man and picks up on it, and tries to see if he can get you to actually voice it out loud, wearing scrubs or the coat where you can see him

Which just makes all your thoughts worse and flusters you to all holy hell but you hold strong, maybe y’all haven’t gotten that deep yet

And he’s like fine. Come by my office for your yearly check up, it’s due anyways

Thinking of him snapping on the gloves…. I just…. Omg

I can imagine just being like ok it’s just an exam. Totally normal. It’s fine. His hands aren’t lingering more than they should be and he just used his fingers to hold your tongue down rather than a tongue depressor. But it’s fine.

Fuck he’d be so smug seeing how flustered you get with his hot little doctor outfit on.

And then idk my brain kind of short circuits in the middle there and then you’re bent over the exam table and he makes you call him doctor.

…..

I can’t I have to go to work and I just…. Where did this come from!!

Pls suffer with the visual of doctor Marco with me, Quin

I was trying to find that pic of him in the doctor’s coat and I cannot find a good one!! The official one why is it hiding from me 😭😭

Ah you mean this?

Doctor coat on AND TALONS OUT.

Hnfh.

Marco teasing you like that. Gods.

Imagining him getting you to confess accidentally in the middle of the exam, or just before it, and he tells you what to say if you need him to stop, holding onto your tongue with those gloves, giving you a look that promises he’s in charge.

He does the exam properly, but maybe his fingers do linger a little, maybe he leans in a little close, teasing you about your heart rate - and you’ve certainly pulled your shirt up so he can put that cold stethoscope against your back.

A few soft kisses against your back, the soft hum of pleasure that escapes you. Quiet words telling you how good you’re doing, how he wants you.

Fingers tighten a little and his voice sinks into your skin. He asks if he can kiss your lips, and you nod, the kiss is soft and sweet and just a little forceful.

He wants to examine you more, but maybe now isn’t the best time. You’re both adults but you literally just confessed, he doesn’t want to push you too hard.

Gods, please, push you. You’ve been dealing with what felt like a one sided crush for weeks if not months.

>.>

By the time your “exam” is over you’re coming out of the room in borrowed scrubs and it took you both almost an hour to clean the mess you made.

[dukeoftheblackstar]

I need Plo to choke me with that belt like...Yesterday. Like he can leave little scratches and cuts when he spanks me with those hands of his. OMG those hands. He can leave marks on my throat while he dicks me down into whatever surface.

Hello there, new-found bestie cakes ♥ ~

I see you speak my language ♥. So let me just introduce you to my Dom!Plo ♥ @mild-disorganization

Dom!Plo would have no qualms walking up to you without any reason or trigger only to grab you firmly by the throat and back you up against the wall, a temple pillar, or a glass window overlooking Coruscant's bustling streets.

He'd dig what I love to call 'love burrows' along that slender neck of yours with those might-sharp talons just enough to puncture your skin a teeny, tiny, little bit so itty, bitty, round pools of rubies leave marks.

He'd then utter something about, "What an exhilarating feat to add to that delicate neck of yours, my little pet."

Dom!Plo would retract his hand in a way that he'd leave a few cuts, angling it enough not to strike a nerve and kill you, but enough to leave long, red trails down past the dip of your clavicles ♥.

Because of your dirty thoughts of him bestiecakes, Dom!Plo needs to set you straight >:[ Can't have little naughties mucking about the temple now, can we?

Bad for the temple. Bad for his rep too since he's your charge.

And so, Dom!Plo sighs in an exasperated fashion while unbuckling a very luxurious leather belt that he had procured from his recent home visit to Dorin ♥ — a fine, rust-toned, leather belt that smacked deliciously with a swift pull from his waist.

Dom!Plo motions for for you to come with his index and babe, you best not keep the General waiting. He's got meetings to go to ♥ Babes to punish (I'm in line ♥) for being improper and unruly.

Fortunate to be one of them, Dom!Plo will heedlessly grab you by the back of your neck to be at a close proximity before lacing that fine, opulent, Dorin-made leather belt and lock that buckle tight enough for you to wince when you swallow.

Dom!Plo would then incautiously grab you by the jaw, talons prodding your cheek while he looks at you with so much disdain because he's supposed to be meditating, but no — he's here with your cute, bratty ass ♥

"Hm. Cute little tart and yet — with such a pretty, filthy mouth." Another 'Hm' of dismay before probing your lips to part with his thumb, shoving it so forcefully that your teeth and lips graze along his hide/skin.

You can feel the tip of his spur poke at your tongue, moving seamlessly past your protest and further down your throat as if to inspect your depth capacity.

Because, babe. My Plo packs a whopping 13-inch alien dick, so you best be primmed.

"Good enough." You'll hear him say, retracting his finger with so much candor, it'll leave you abandoned with want.

And so, the same hand rests on that beautiful crown of yours, guiding you to descend to yours knees — of which you comply so dutifully, like a good girl indeed ♥

Seeing as this man is on a fucking schedule, Dom!Plo whips out the disco stick and gives himself a couple of strokes here and there; from the hilt to every ridged inch of his cock, Dom!Plo would trace each curve as he forces you to look down at what's about to cum — see what I did there bestie? I cannot be taken serious, tbh. ♥ — what's about to come.

Dom!Plo, however, has jealousy issues 😩😩😩

He doesn't like it when you pay more attention to his cock than him; it's mind over matter, baby — but by the stars, does his cock matter ♥

Remember that belt around your neck, bestie? How it connects to his other hand with that leather belt coiled for control? He'll tug it, babe — tug it hard so it'll knot you right up and leave you breathless for a hot minute. Literally.

"Up here, little love." You'll hear him coo, quite darkly.

And just when those magnetic eyes of yours had welled up with enough tears to stain your smooth, soft cheeks, Dom!Plo would take the Blade of Dorin (yes, we're calling his dick that, don't argue) and rub it all over your mouth making you chase that dick like the cock-starved whore you are ♥, respectfully.

And once he's quite happy with the lower chambers of your face glistening with precum and your own saliva, he'd pry your mouth open with his dick and slide that bad boy so slow you'd thank him for it ♥ Why, you ask?

Because you're not the Force, babe. Nothing in this chaotic galaxy will ever stop Dom!Plo from giving you the dicking of your life because you've stolen precious moments of his respite with your foolishness.

And so, you feel it, right? You feel every inch stuff your mouth that no only but a fraction of your breath seeps through. You feel every inch and ridge; the dip and curve of this Kel Dor's cock through the cavernous walls of your mouth until it begins knocking down your throat.

Naturally, protesting ensues. Your grip at his thigh, either pulling him more with your impatient, cute ass or you're pushing him to calm TF down because bestie, death by dick is a real thing.

Dom!Plo doesn't like unruly baby girls or boys. That said, he'll pull on that belt again while he shoves his girthy-thicc cock down your throat it actually bulges down your neck.

I don't know about you hun, but I'm sure that'll make you gag and if you do and go urk urk urk urk on that dick, Dom!Plo would sweetly wipe that tear off your cheek only to slap you gently with two of his fingers.

"Louder." You'll hear him say.

He's old, babe. 384 years of age means you gotta speak tf up.

Dom!Plo would lean his hips back enough to keep half of it in and half of it out. So you know, you don't die and practice safe sex.

But since you took that regal slide of his dick like a champ, you'd notice his tusk move and the exposed portion of his cheek compress in what you can make off as a smile — a smirk, really.

"Now, make your master cum like the good little tart you are, my sweet." Comes that reverberating voice of his that sounds so decadently dark and sultry, cupping your cheek and caressing your face with his thumb jamming his cock back in your mouth while the same hand that held your leash of a belt would occasionally pull at random patterns, meriting stifled groans and grunts from your Kel Dor General.

His pace would quicken eventually, claws nestled over your crown while fingers laced with a handful of your groomed locks.

It'd be such a delight and honor to see his head reel back as he mouth fucks the soul out of you, truly a spectacular sight. Seeing him against the evil forces that burn within his soul to say things like 'Fuck, you're so good' or the likes because bestie, that's very un-Jedi of him >:[

So in turn, he just continues to ram his cock so far down your throat at such a paced speed that you feel him thicken inside your mouth, only to cum fucking buckets down your throat, pull mid-way so he can creampie those charming lips of yours and watch as hot, white ropes of Kel Dor essence drip past your chin, trickle down your throat and some on those tantalizing anti-stress tits that happens to be a Kel Dor fave.

Satiated, Dom!Plo would have you lick the cum off his own cock because he wouldn't want to feel all sticky underneath those slacks of his. He also won't forget yanking that belt around your neck so you get to lick the parts that needs cleaning.

With all said and done, Dom!Plo would unbuckle the belt off your neck and tilt your head left to right with but the tip of his talon. Pleased to see scratch marks, dots, and lightly smeared bloodlets over your skin, not to mention the welts left by the leather belt around your neck, he'd give you an approving nod.

Dom!Plo however does not do aftercare. That would be Plo Koon's job or Regular!Plo. Dom!Plo would merely give your head a pat, a ruffle of the hair, and if he's feeling extra generous, would press his rebreather onto your forehead in a kiss of sorts before leaving you with instructions to "... Mediate on your unrighteous desires, little one. The path of the dark side looms within those sinful thoughts."

THE END.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[asmoshoebox]

you know i love those dash simulator posts but it would be silly to make one for bvm haha

0 notes

🤖 hellzbelz reblogged blasphem-baby-one-more-time

💿 gerard-streets-thighs Follow

cashier at hot topic yesterday said he liked my shoelaces but he seemed really genuine and i was wearing my boots with the gay laces so i just fistbumped him and walked away. do i deserve to be drawn and quartered over this minor social faux pas yes or no

#prev LMFAO #keep doing it

423 notes

🌈 becks-lox-rebagels

the only thing worse than applying for jobs is interviewing for jobs what the fuck was that phone call ??????? i swear the guy (?) sounded like they were literally dying. prolly just a smoker though 💀 i hope this gig works out man i dont feel great about it

#the good news is my bubbe is coming to see us next week :) #becks personal log

1 note

🤖 hellzbelz reblogged

🚬 maiale-e-fagioli

WHY THE FUCK IS GAS SO FUCKING EXPENSIVE IM GOING TO EXPLODE EVERYONE ON THIS DAMN PLANET

🚬 maiale-e-fagioli

they don't know this post is about the hearse running out of gas on the turnpike last week. with. you know. things. inside of it

#wtf misnis

327 notes

🎸 blasphem-baby-one-more-time reblogged

🤖 hellzbelz

dude qhat if there was a way to make like. so so you knwo how money s madeup right .well wht if it was worse

🤖 hellzbelz

like if isnteadof it being materials we assign arbitrsry value ot based on manufactres scarcity wht if it was digital adn the value was based onlike uniqhe digital signaturess and algorthims qnd all the value came fromn specualotye invensitmetn instea d of anything REMTOELY real lmfaooooooo

doctorsexy-deactivated20210504

🌐 worldheritageposts Follow

Date of Origin: March 3, 2009

#who keeps bringing this back lmao cryptocurrency is already dead

93,672 notes

🕸 inthefogofmyowndarkinnermind reblogged

👻 beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeejeezus Follow

girl help there's a cosplayer on the bus rn in FULL monster mode it's SO FUCKING COOL and also HOT

👻 beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeejeezus

they did like an eldritch double face thing and the makeup is impeccable, it looks so real that i just. i just wanna lick it. "i saw you from across the bus and think you're super intimidating, can i bite you?" but genuinely !!!!!!!!! also they're like suuuper gnc which makes it one morbillion times sexier. god. definitely drawing them when i get home

#woagh that sounds rad as hell. and soooo valid op #like. i just want to eat a demon out and die with its talons inside me #and frankly i dont think thats too much to ask

315 notes

🔥 vintagefaggotry reblogged starry-cocked-adonis

wetnwilde-secondedition

"oh, i don't think you're ready yet," he says, pressing a broad, calloused finger against your dripping cunt. "i wouldn't want to hurt you, after all.....

Keep reading

🍷 starry-cocked-adonis Follow

new blog same fat wet manhole! they will never kill me in a way that matters!

#asmo originals archive #i miss my old url smh

667 notes

💀 damiens-demon-lair reblogged

🕸 inthefogofmyowndarkinnermind

rly loved the dusk over campus tonight 🦇

#omg slay #gothcore #goth #aesthetic #alt aesthetic

25 notes

🤖 hellzbelz reblogged

🎸 blasphem-baby-one-more-time

bee butts. you agree. reblog.

1,634 notes

🔥 vintagefaggotry reblogged

🚬 maiale-e-fagioli

#bestie why are you polling tumbler about this #personally id keep it #makes a great tactile stim

2 notes

💀 damiens-demon-lair

might change my name again. i like damien but it just doesnt feel like me anymore idk idk

#i dont understanddd it just feels Wrong #sometimes i feel like theres really smth wrong with me man #and not in the goth way #like im goth i know that but being a goth guy is just. blegh #goth girls just have so many more options for looks it's not fair

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🎸 blasphem-baby-one-more-time reblogged

😈 mallratgothbandofficial Follow

We're coming.....and we hope you will too...

This Saturday at the Moonbeef Cafe in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania

#BE THERE OR BE SQUARE

[atenceladusiaawfytbwb]

Just saw across the spiderverse. Aight, a year or something, I've seen plenty of stuff/spoilers, read (!!!) plenty of fanfic (The guy (Miguel) goes out there chasing in all fours, has talons and fangs... come on! It was inevitable), it still was an absolute surprise. No matter how much I've gotten through the months (and I've never avoid or tried to avoid any spoiler) it was just-

You don't get it. It's not a good movie, or excellent, there are no words. Jesus fucking christ, I witnessed a miracle. It wasn't perfect or astonishing -again, there are no words- it's more like, everything humankind has ever achieved, it was to get to this. All forms of media, of art and of creation, thorought the centuries, it all was so Across the Spiderverse was made.

I knew it was going to be good, remarkably good and amazing. And still I was struck, smacked across the face, air knocked out of my lungs. Not the best movie ever made, but the best thing in general, in the entire universe.

Also also, I knew, plenty, that punk spider/hobie was super cool. And still, amazing, omg omg omg omg, I had been so busy thirsting over Miguel (still kinda am(again, those chasing scenes with him all feral in four??? lord forgive me for w-(buuut!! i mean in general, like as a whole character,)) but Hobie is just- there are no words, just that I love him and I'd trust him and only him. No no no, not just a great character or my favourite, its- Aaaaaahhhhh he is uhhhhh- I don't know how to express it HE IS AWESOME (again, as an entire character (and every single aspect of him- God he is ahhh 'wonderful' is too short of a word)) and that's gonna have to do it. I'm happy he exists, I'm happy there's such spider, I'm happy the entire move exists, idk, it's worth being alive or something idk idk

Tldr

* smatsv is unbelievable good. Not just the best movie, but the best thing to ever happen to me and humanity in general

*(((feral Miguel (again, sorry to insist, but the chasing scenes, with him all feral in all fours scratching and digging his talons- good lord) )))

*I adored with my whole heart Hobie Brown /spider-punk. Not nearly enough of him. Nonetheless, fucking excelent, perfect, amazing. I need him as an individual, (I'll chanel him- idk! Just, ill try to make him proud (???idk idk idk???!!!! I literally just rip)

* Miles Morales is the absolute best. Like, why comparisons at this point? Sorry PP(and aaalll others), it's all gonna be Spider-punk and Miles Morales in this house.

*Sorry all other media, comics and stuff, it's gonna be smatsv and smatsv only in this house, for ever. (And the first one too, sure, but, you know)

(I'm not even exaggerating. I'll be forever chasing this, am I not? But I mean, yes!!! I deserve it, everything around me should be like this, all I see and read, watch and listen to, everithing!... this should be the expectation, not the miraculous miracle. Being alive, being a free person, it all should be like this. - Oh god, this is an absolute new side of unhinged, for me. You know, its always like this and that, 'violent' or 'big eyed' or the classic 'horny'. This is, idk, between too personal and cosmical, like truly---- I dont fucking know. Just- Bye) (((But then away, it's like this made me realize that everything should be like this, I want being alive to be exiting, goddammit)))

[yandere-fics]

All this talk of Drider Kass and Naga Pauline is making me wonder what Runa would be if she had a monster equivilent... part of me imagines her as a harpy.

So here are my thoughts (I got a bit carried away)

She can't sing for shit, so she relies on stalking and pure brutality to get her kills, this lack of a good singing voice doesn't stop her from trying to serenade you at any given moment, and if you even cringe at her screeching the slightest bit, she'll lose her mind and trash your entire place. "How could you be so... cruel?! You were laughing at me, I know you were!!"

Probably snatches you up in the dead of night, once she's spotted you and realises you're her mate she HAS to take you home. You've heard rumours of a bird woman ripping people apart in the city but you thought it was just a myth, plus you're not rich, so you don't even have to worry about it! That is until you hear a screeching followed by the flapping of wings, a dark shadow descends upon you and scoops you up into the air to deliver you to your new home. "Stop screaming!! I know heights are scary to land creatures but you're hurting my ears!! You might make me drop you!"

Your "nest" is a pile of bloodstained pillows covered in shiny trinkets she's taken from her victims, from lockets to diamond earrings with bits if ear still attached, she brings you everything you could ever want. "You're not permitted to ever leave the nest. Don't you have everything you could ever want here?? I'm only doing this so you don't get hurt out there baby bird, there are dangerous people who could do terrible things to you!"

Even if you tried to leave the nest, the door is completely boarded up, even if she was in a depressive episode you could never get out without waking her from a mini coma. The only other exit is out the window, which is an easy ticket to being splattered on the concrete 20 floord below. "Silly baby bird, you're looking out the window again! I already told you that if you want to stargaze it has to be on my lap."

The nest has no blankets, if you're cold she will drape her wings over you to keep you warm. "Am I not enough for you??? You'd rather cover yourself in rags than cuddle me?!"

Has amazing dexterity in her talons due to not having any hands. She even sews you clothes to wear out of the feathers she drops around, so that way you'll always have a piece of her!!!

Is still self conscious about her body, but is more comfortable being flat chested because bird. She also has a cloaca, and gets real weird with it.

Pins you beneath her and carves into you with her talons, one foot probably burying your face in the pillow, her wings keeping your limbs still. "Silly baby bird, it will hurt more if you squirm! I had to tear down more of those missing posters today and it just made me so worried that someone would find you and take you away from me! But this way, everyone will know that you're mine~"

Bonus gross idea: If you try to rebel against her with a hunger strike, she WILL baby bird feed you and it WILL be disgusting, but you asked for it since you were being such a monster and rejecting her love. Don't be so cruel next time.

-Girlfailure Anon

I love her so much omg.

[thegeminisage]

ok im tentatively trying to squeeze in more zelda...

the boss is NOT my boyfriend but echo ganon is almost as good!!!

its so weird to me still that he talks. im used to thinking of ganondorf as the one who talks and ganon not being capable of it, but i guess he was in alttp

damn he hits HARD. oneshots all my echoes

wait omg i recognize the alttp attack patterns :')

NOOOOO inwas so cloae but he got me :(

GOT HIS ASS!!! it took almost every smoothie i had..........

whew. this means i'm still one dungeon ahead of my brother. not bad for not having any power

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT????

OMG MY BOYFRIEND...MY REAL BOYFRIEND

NOW IT IS LINK IN THE CRYSTAL

man those definitely looked like dragon talons...what the fucj

aww saved her dad

AWW SAVED MY CAT

and it's impa!!!

new BED ECHO i love to flex

oh wow...hood off now. i hope this means i get to play dressup soon

THREE GODDESS MENTION?!?!??!?!!?! YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

i cannot WAIT to dive into the lore of this gane omg omg

i wonder if prime energy is the triforce or a new thing...

hell yeah. zelda priestess of legend

link moving around in the still world like zelda fighting the enemy all on his own 😭

hell YEAH i have to combine my power with link's

IMPA. PROVIDE THE GARMENTS why is that so funny

omgggg her little adventuring outfit!!! i want my cloak back though

okay okay i can switch okay good

now i get to decide where to go next...i think i'm picking faron because grassland dungeon first lol. ten bucks says when my brother gets here he picks faron too

NEW OVERWORLD INTRO?? ITS HER THEME WAHHHH

ok, i'm just gonna wander for awhile, i don't have time left to start something big

i mer dampe, VERY exciting

i am in awful shape. i simply muat make more smoothies

i need to go to death mountain to finish the automaton quest, but i've already committed to faron. sad!

found acorns 2 fast 2 furious. MUCH harder.

YESSSS i did mango game and got my first little outfit......

doing some desert wandering and did i just get attacked by a fucking molduga???

oh no some kind of worm.............

killed the worm, wandered north, and found the. missing horse!! unfortunately i have to go now so it will have to wait :(

[robogart]

Saw your DS3 post and strength builds are definitely more reliable if you're not committing to some kind of specialized build or challenge run. In my experience there's a wider variety of strength weapons that put out decent damage numbers and also feel good to use. Also a lot of them fit playstyles that incorporate shields or left handed magic casting better too.

The one dex weapon I've ever found to be really good though was the sellsword twinblade because you can two-hand it and hit with both blades with the left handed light attack combos, which is even better with resin buffs. It's a starting weapon for one of the classes and it's been my go-to for all my dex based runs since I figured out how to use it.

Thank you so much for sending this along!! And YES there really seems to be so many strength weapons?! They all look really fun to try out too - definitely will be doing another playthrough (already started one because I don't know when to quit)!

And LOVE the Sellsword Twinblades omg YES!! I was cycling between those, the Crow Talons (LOVE the moveset on these too, they're so fun to use!) and the Pontiff Knight Great Scythe! I think I also did a +10 on the rotten ghru sword but didn't end up using it too much, I do love poison weapons though just for the vibes.

But anyways - YES! The moveset on the twinblades is so lovely and the fact you can buff them AND they still have a pretty solid reach? Incredible! I'm glad that they are a favorite of yours too and that they are a solid option for dex runs!

I'm hoping being a little more sturdy as a strength build (also just with the whole poise system in this too being so tied to bigger weapons) will make the game a bit more fun and less frustrating, because I REALLY want to like this game but it just wasn't happening in my previous playthrough unfortunately = w =;; Regardless! Thank you for reaching out!! Your input really means a lot! 🙏💖💖💖💖

[leopardmuffinxo]

Hey, hope it's ok to send you an ask too!

First I wanna say you are SO insanely talented at character creation and making gifs, oml, whenever I see your OCs on my dash I'm like woow hello gorgeous! Love that they all have such cool stories too!

So here's my question, which of your OCs would get along, which wouldn't and if you could have one in your party as a companion, who would it be and what would their dynamic be?

Also, do you play them all simultaneously or finish one run and then start another?

Hope you'll have a great day!

slkjdflksjfklsdjf !!! Omg this legit made me tear up just a bit. Thank you so so much. You're too sweet! ♡ Asks are always welcome! I just sometimes take a second to respond lol.

Character creation has always been one of my favorite parts playing any game with a CC, and gif making is so relaxing for me when I don't feel like gaming, so that truly means a lot. ♡

Now for your questions. I'll stick to my BG3 OCs (that have current playthroughs going on), otherwise we'll be here forever lol. I've actually thought about this a lot in the past, so answering this on my blog is fun. Just be jabbing myself a bit, but I feel like I'm not the best at putting my thoughts together and I tend to ramble, so this may be a bit all over the place. Good ol' ADHD brain. Hopefully one day I'll have ALL of their backstories written in a way that makes sense lol.

Who would they would/would not get along with:

Raven: She's snarky, sarcastic, and flirty but also very closed off to deeper conversations from anyone she's not close to. (In her mind, sharing secrets to her gives someone a power over you, so she avoids things like that at all costs.) I like to compare her to Mazikeen from the show Lucifer, because they're incredibly similar with their personalities. For this reason, she would get a long with almost everyone listed, except for Ember or Talon. Her and Kyvoni would def get along the most, as they share similar humor (and pasts). Her and Iris have... physical history, so Iris is still quite hurt regarding it, so they're wouldn't be on the best of terms.

Ember: To those who don't know her, she comes off as very serious and stoic, with a very regal aura about her. Also the literal biggest bookworm. Her and Juniper are sisters, with Ember being the older one, so they get along as well as and bicker as sisters do. Raven and Kyvoni would get on her nerves with their constant snark, so she would avoid them. She, Iris, Velvet, and Khione would get along amazingly. She would def pick Khione's brain about all things magic and share their favorite books. (Khione also writes and reads smut, so I always thought about her introducing those things to Ember lol.) Ember and Talon... might just kill each other. Keep them apart.

Juniper: She's pretty much the opposite of her older sister. Very much go with the flow and completely fine with spontaneity, unlike Ember who prefers structure. While Ember loves her younger sister, they bicker a lot now that their older since Juniper took the warlock route, instead of learning magic the "old fashion way" like her sister. Her patron is a couatl, so it's not like her pact is evil, but Ember still isn't happy with the way she went about things. Her and Iris would be best friends in an instant. She'd def lock on to Khione as another older sister figure, due to her draconic sorcerer background. She's pretty indifferent about the others, although she might pick up some of Raven's lewd humor.

Iris: An absolute sweetheart of a bard. Natural flirt, of course. Who doesn't love a pretty purple tiefling? As mentioned above, she had a fling with Raven and fell hard. Raven didn't return her feelings, so there's some hard feelings on Iris' end. She would get a long great with everyone, and even get Talon to crack a smile every now and then. She loves to bring positivity to any situation, so it's hard for most people to dislike her, as hard as they might try. Her and Velvet would be best friends.

Kyvoni: He's pretty intimidating on the outside, which he prefers. It keeps most people out of his space and out of his business. He can be snarky, usually going off into asshole territory with some of his sarcasm. Ember and Juniper wouldn't dislike him, but probably wouldn't pursue a friendship with him. They're just too different in that aspect. Him and Raven get along great and have constant banter. They sometimes both have a very lewd sense of humor, which gets on the others nerves quite often lol. Him and Talon would be fine, and have a mutual respect for one another.

Talon: She's very prickly lol. She's pretty abrasive and blunt most of the time, even when it's not needed. She has tattoos over a lot of her body, mostly depicting snakes within them, so she looks intimidating to most people. (I'll figure out how to implement them in game one day.) Due to this, she doesn't get along with most of my other OCs at first, but would eventually warm up to Iris and Velvet, since they would go out of their way to get to know her softer side.

Khione: She's incredibly intelligent, and sweet... most of the time. Think Evie from The Mummy. She is a draconic sorcerer, so of course she's well versed in magic without trying, and specializes in ice magic, though she's not really much of a show-off. She prefers to let her mind impress people. As mentioned above, she's a bookworm and a writer, so her and Ember would get along great, especially after she helps mend her relationship with her sister. Khione can match Raven and Kyvoni when it comes to their wit, which will throw them both off at first, but they'll come to be good friends.

Velvet: She's very much a mix of sweet and spicy. She feels the spice is needed, as some people are put off by her being a half-drow, necromancer, and for her eyes which are black voids. (A side effect from a spell when she was younger and just getting into necromancy.) She would get a long with Talon, despite Talon's spiky nature. They have a lot in common with their backgrounds, so Velvet would be able to crack her shell. Iris constantly comments on how pretty she is, which blossoms their friendship. She would get a long fine with the rest of them, though they might not become as close as Talon and Iris.

If you have any questions about ones I maybe didn't mention together, feel free to ask!

Obviously I love all my bbys, but if I could have one in my party as a companion, it would be Kyvoni. He's an ex member of Zhentarim, and has a long, sordid past he would prefer to keep secret. He would def agree to anything that gets you paid or intimidation tactics at the beginning. He has a bit of a temper, and can be incredibly impulsive. He would be a tough nut to crack in opening up when it comes to his past or feelings about things, whether it be a friendship or romance path. A romance path would def have a scene were he intentionally pushes you away or tries to get you to hate him. He's dangerous, and already had someone close to him hurt because of it. He doesn't want to go through it again and has sworn off of matters of the heart. (Hoping to eventually dig deeper into what everyone would be like as a companion.)

I play all of them simultaneously, just depending on who's story I feel like playing at the time. Sometimes I play a certain character for days; other times, I switch characters multiple times within the hour. Just depends! I actually still haven't finished the game, but didn't really mind ending spoilers, so I have a good idea of who will do what. I'm currently working on act 3 with a lot of them.

Thank you so much for the ask! Sorry for the rambling lol. ♡

[clown-demon]

(Tbh it's nice to see this blog get better after all the angst. Not that I'm saying angst is bad, but it feels good after THOSE moments, y'now? @land-talon

((OMG yeah, I wrote Fyodor back to life so he's feeling A LOT better with his bestie still kicking. Also he has MANY cute moments with Dazai. Just two sillies being silly couple together.

[pearblossommina]

ToG Read-a-Long, Queen of Shadows, day 12

Ch77

magical hand holding GOD THIS IS LIKE AN INTENSE ANIME SAILOR MOON MOMENT

you two!!!! You are so powerful and full of friendship!!!!!

“Rowan shifted, his leg flashing in agony as he exchanged his limbs for wings and talons. He loosed a cry, shrill and raging. A white-tailed hawk soared out of the small opening, past Aedion.”

Y’know, I just realized. Now that magic is back, Aedion probably has another form, too!

I want someone to bite him on the neck and teach him how to shift

What form will he take! He was already deemed a “wolf” but since daddy is a mountain cat, perhaps he’ll be a cat, too?

Ch78

Um ok

That’s a TWIST

So do I believe it, or is this a cunning last-ditch effort to try and get mercy from the good guys?

I gave a hard time believing that the All-Powerful Dark Lord would be satisfied instilling a minion as the King of Adarlan just to be a Duke but

Duke Perrington IS a pretty despicable person so, maybe this is true?

How odd, how very odd.

I say let’s kill him anyway to be safe

“Chaol is alive,” the king murmured through his emaciated hands

(HAHA YEAH HELL YEAH)

(you can’t kill him he’s filled with the spirit of pure, totally platonic love)

(DORIAN)

(GO GET YOUR MAN)

(THE TIME HAS COME)(THE TIME TO HUG AND KISS)

Ch79

“The scent of pine and snow hit her, and she realized how they had survived the fall.” Rowan saved them! And Dorian and Chaol are together again!

LOVE

This is so utterly amazing ahhh my heart

I love this

Can we all please hug and kiss now! And roll around in the grass, and feel joy and laughter and friendship!

Please!

"If you loot, if you riot, if you cause one lick of trouble," she said, looking a few in the eye, "I will find you, and I will burn you to ash." She lifted a hand, and flames danced at her fingertips. "If you revolt against your new king, if you try to take his castle, then this wall"-she gestured with her burning hand-"will turn to molten glass and flood your streets, your homes, your throats."

Chill out, queen!

They just lost one tyrant, lol, no need to come at them with such ferocity, RELAX

“She was barely inside the oak doors before she collapsed to her knees and wept.”

Baby

Please don’t cry

I love you! Everyone loves you!

Look what you’ve DONE today. Look at all that you’ve achieved. It was a miracle, YOU are a miracle, and now!

Now!

You need to rest; so you will be ready for the shower of love and joy that’s coming your way.

Ch80

(SJM: do you feel a growing spark of hope in your heart?

Me: Yeah! Yeah, I finally do! Thank you!

SJM: *writes about Elide in eminent danger*

Me: why?)

YEAH that’s it MANON go save your GIRL

(My whole heart) (I am shipping them so hard)

(I know I’m fucking insane but in this moment it feels real)

Ch81

“And Manon’s golden eyes glowed as if they were living embers as she looked at the two guards gripping Elide. As she beheld the disheveled robe.”

I AM SO LOVE WITH MANON

GOD

SHE’S SO HOT

THE WAY SHE CAME FOR HER

THE WAY SHE BRUTALLY KILLED THOSE MEN

MANON

YOU ARE MY LESBIAN FANTASY, PLEASE

PLEASE

THIS JUST KEEPS GETTING BETTER

Ch82

Omg Kaltain. 😭

Baby!

Baby, no!

I have hated watching you suffer. I have hated every minute of it. I love you for being willing to sacrifice yourself, but you don’t deserve to end your story here. I just want to feel happiness, oh honey. I want you to come with them!

“Kaltain unleashed the last of her shadowfire, tipping her face to the ceiling, toward a sky she’d never see again.”

😭😭😭

SHE JUST WANTED TO SEE THE SKY

Ow

my heart

That was incredibly satisfying to read lol

I’m so glad most of the characters are still alive and everyone’s THEMSELVES again. I couldn’t ask for anything else.

(Except maybe Kaltain to go on living)(and become best friends with Aelin and match her, flame for flame, and maybe they could paint each others nails and gossip about boys)(and everything would finally calm down and everyone could just be happy)