#also this isn't great writing but eh

[ahatintimepieces]

Now that everything is out on the table, Mari, the prince, and Hat all work hard to remember his name! Meanwhile, a certain queen questions her relationship and when she sees something she shouldn’t, she forces Mari to make a decision.

[dotthings]

Some spn Cas history (because yay facts!! Facts are fun!!)

Misha was a guest star in S4. Castiel was originally planned to be a 3 episode and done character, but Misha was so electrifying as Cas, had great chemistry with Jensen, and Cas turned out to be such a compelling character, the show kept him around.

Misha was promoted to regular in S5 and continued in S6.

He was dropped from the show for S7 because Gamble and Singer decided to write out Cas. The network did a lot of fans a solid for once, called up the EP's, and went "hahahaha you aren't really planning to get rid of that fan favorite pretty angel are you???? hahaha ok no really bring him back" and literally refused to let spn get rid of him.

There was for sure a listlessness factor in S7 once Cas was removed. J2 were the anchors in the early seasons. In later seasons, J2M really became the show's center supports, more than just J2. (No, this is not arguable. This is reflected in canon story, and Cas's growth as a character and plot role and emotional role and in promotion for many years. No, I don't care who is offended that I said it. It's not a point of argument).

Jeremy Carver took over as showrunner in S8 and brought Misha in for an 8 episode arc, so Misha was a guest star in S8. Carver wanted to rebuild the character and in S9 Misha was promoted back up to series regular, and he stayed at that status the rest of the series.

Originally, Misha's regular status was denoted by having him third in opening credits after Jared and Jensen, before the "guest starring" section. Eventually Misha was given an "and" credit.

The "and" credit is a contract status thing. It's for series regulars of particular note, usually for a particularly noteworthy performance. Tony Head was "and" status on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. When he stepped back to recurring, Alyson Hannigan became the "and" status.

Some have tried to paint Misha's "and" designator as a sign of his lesser importance, but it's the opposite. It's a promotion and a sign of respect.

A further note, zero fans have attempted to supplant Jared and Jensen as the "top leads" of the show, but it's abundantly fair to label Misha a 3rd lead, given the proportion of Cas's plot and emotion impact on story and Misha's longevity and status. It's semantics, really. If someone gets offended if you say he's a 3rd lead, they're aren't worth your time. Eh, okay, "main character" isn't wrong either, but I'm suspicious of people who break out in hives over calling him "3rd lead"--but main character is a descriptor for Cas's role. SPN at times had 3-4 series regulars, with J2 as the only two constants the entire run of the show, which is why we say J2 are the 2 top leads. But Cas and Misha's importance are also facts.

Misha was "guest star" in S4, 7, and 8. Eventually he got "special guest star" credit during his guest starring era on spn, another indicator of an actor/performance/character of note, but not a series regular. He was a series regular for S5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15. (No this is not arguable. These are production facts. Some people still, after all this time, try to erase his regular/main character status on spn, and they aren't working in facts).

[strwberri-milk]

Hii hii! I recently got into LND and zooms straight to Tumblr to read fics of them and have been binge reading your works to cheer myself up during a bad day at work aaa I'm loving them all so so much!

Can I request a high school AU of LND guys reaction to reader being a part of the cheerleading squad? Them adoring readers energy and enthusiasm albeit a tad bit jealous when reader cheered for a particular sports team or something ehe thank you in advance!!

!!!! im glad you like my fics that much i LOVE LOVE high school aus im writing this right before the school event for rafa is about to start and im so excited i love my little fish <33 - i also didnt really know how to incorprate all of your request so i did as much as i saw fitting <3

Zayne is the top student in the school. People were honestly surprised by the fact that he didn't skip any grades, not knowing it was because of how much he cherishes the time he spends with you, his childhood friend and partner.

You were (seemingly) the opposite of Zayne but everybody knew that the two of you were close. He'd always come meet you after practise or you'd come to his tutoring sessions to hang out with him or get help with your own course work. People didn't bother to ask out either of you because it was pretty clear that Zayne only had eyes for you and nobody wanted to incur his wrath, even if he just seems like a very nice guy.

Whenever he can make it he likes to show up to your cheer routines. He does his best to make time for it because he wants to show you his support for you. He doesn't cheer as loudly as the others but you can feel his intense stare as he watches your every movement, clapping along with the audience and smiling at you whenever your eyes meet.

At the end of the routine he always comes to find you as soon as he can, draping his jacket over you if you seem cold and putting his arm around your shoulder possessively. He just likes it when people know you're his, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

Xavier isn't really known outside of Being Hot. A lot of people fawn over him but because he generally keeps to himself and is pretty quiet with people he's not used to that means people find him a little intimidating to approach. He's never outwardly mean but he just doesn't seem approachable.

Somehow the two of you struck up your relationship. He doesn't really have any afterschool events of his own to attend unless he decides to pop into the gaming club on the odd occasion so he makes it a habit to come to your practises. He just likes to sit and watch. He'll either get schoolwork done or take a nap while he waits for you to finish so the two of you can walk home together.

He does get a little jealous that everybody gets to see you in your cheer uniform because he knows you look great in it but he also knows that he gets joy from being able to give you his sweater when you're cold. He also knows you hold his sweaters hostage whenever he gives them to you, making sure to wear them around for at least a week before he gives it to you.

Rafayel is very popular because of how pretty and talented he is. However, he's a little intimidating like Xavier because he is not very extroverted. People think that they can approach him and talk to him because they've seen him go on tangents in class and such but outside of when he feels comfortable talking he doesn't really make an effort to speak to anybody - except you.

He basically follows you around like a dog, holding your hand or hanging off of you if faculty aren't yelling at him to get off of you. Sometimes people try to hit on him and he makes sure the way he responds leaves absolutely no room for doubt that he's devoted to you and only you. Sometimes people try to hit on you but they suddenly feel this heavy presence from behind them so they stop, you knowing it's Rafayel's surprisingly terrifying death stare.

He's asked to do a lot of work for school events whenever there's a need for posters to be prepared and such so the two of you do run into each other a lot when it comes to big school events. He loves it and will always try to steal a kiss from you in passing, pouting if you don't respond in kind.

He comes to all of your routines and always makes a habit of giving you a big old smooch on the field whenever he can, holding you tightly and showing off that yes, he's the lucky sap who gets to hold you and kiss you all he wants.

Sylus is pretty popular despite being outwardly intimidating. Everybody knows not to get on his bad side - not because he'll do anything to them but the disapproving look and mocking sneer he gives is enough to scare anybody straight. He plays on the team so he sees you at practises pretty often, telling you to give him a kiss for good luck for games and practises alike.

If you cheer for another one of this teammates the others will tease him for it, telling him teasingly that they're going to steal you from him. He doesn't mind the jokes because he knows you're absolutely whipped for him. The way you look at him and hang off of him is already incredibly obvious but sometimes to really show off how much you love him he'll withhold affection from you as he walks over to take you home, letting everyone see how whiney you can get (and he loves how much it makes you squirm when he makes you ask him for attention in public).

He definitely does that thing where he carries you around the field at the end of a game, taking you as his trophy. As far as he's concerned that's all that matters to him - he doesn't care what other accolades they're going to try and give him.

[channelinglament]

Hello! If you are still open to requests, could you self aware dorm leaders reacting to seeing player holding a baby? (The baby would belong to a friend or sibling and player is just snuggling them for a bit). Up to you if the dorm leaders know that the baby does not belong to player or not. Love your writing!!

💗

It took me so long 💀

Also tysm for requesting this! It was fun to write hehe

Riddle Rosehearts

- *chokes on tea*

- Oh look, you're holding a baby.

- WHOSE BABY????

- Somehow has the "no thoughts, head empty" face despite having A LOT of thoughts.

- He looks normal on the screen, so you won't notice anything btw

- Would wait until he finds out whose baby is that. Once finds out he is calm again.

- Would wonder why are you looking after them, but overall is pretty chill

- Might even blush a bit, imagining how you two in the future could maybe have a family (adopted or birth doesn't matter)

- But until he sees that someone takes away the baby, would fr think it's yours.

- Might even sneak in one or two lines/facts about babies. Basically that he is a great babysitter and etc.

- Would be a bit angry at the parents. You had hard time playing twst because of their baby! Even if you care about this baby, Riddle would still be kinda upset about the fact that your "together" time was interrupted. And all because of some "bad" parents (his words not mine)

"It is their child, why would they make THE OVERSEER look after the said child? Unacceptable, they're bad parents 🙄"

Leona Kingscgolar

- 🧍‍♂️

- Our boy has bluescreened

- Who is this baby? Whose this baby? Why are you with this child?

- As we all know, Leona doesn't like kids (Cheka is the proof)

- I don't think he would think it's yours? I mean, I'm pretty sure you two won't visually look like each other, so Leona would be able to tell that it's not yours

- Tbh would be annoyed that your time was interrupted by the kid

- Might even growl a bit more than usual.

- Would be relieved when parents of said child would take it away. Finally some peace for both of you

-..why does he look grumpier than usual? Uhh, his sprite is normal, as alwayssssss.... It's probably just your eyes ehe 🤷🙇

"Hm? Oh the kid left. Finally some peace and quiet. Now we are finally alone, and I can watch you without anyone interrupting us"

Azul Ashengrotto

- 🧍‍♂️ 2.0

- He is flabbergasted okay?

- Another one who bluescreened.

- After getting out of shock, would wonder whose child is that, until seeing its features.

- Would consider the possibility of it being your adopted child. Doesn't mind taking it under his wing, or should I say tentacle?

- I mean, he has a step father, who took HIM under his "wing", so Azul won't mind that.

- Would blush at the thought of you two starting/being a family.

- Aww, you and the kid are so cute. You're very good at taking care of kids. You're definitely the best.

- After finding out it isn't your child, for some reason feels kinda sad????? He doesn't even know why, just strangely sad????

- Wouldn't mind making one or adopting a kid.

- His sprite seems...happier than usual? He smiles a bit more brightly at the idea of your two's future dw. If you don't have keen eyes/aren't observant, you won't even notice anything!

" Oh darling, our perfect future awaits us soon! I just need to make sure that once you're here, with us, I get to you first. Please don't be mad at me, I'm doing it for the better"

Kalim Al-Asim

- AWWWWWWW

- So cute!

- is it yours? Is it a boy or a girl???

- Another one who would think of your future family.

- This guy over here has TONS of siblings, and he loves them all

- So it's safe to assume that he knows how to play with kids (and maybe even how to take care of them!...maybe) (Kids are pobably on Jamil, Najma or other servants of Asim household).

- Overjoyed tbh

- Thinks the kid looks very cute.

- Ngl was also a bit angry like: Who did you make this child with-? And then he is like: Oh wait you could've adopted them

- However, idea of it being someone else's child never crosses his mind.

- Not until he sees it is being taken away and you talking with it's parents

- His sprite looks completely normal...but Jamil's on the other hand...why does his sprite has a shadow over his eyes..he isn't planning something isn't he?

" Let's create our own family! Huh? Why are you scared? I won't hurt you!....much unless you stop resisting me "

Vil Schoenheit

- Would be shocked a bit.

- Not because you're holding a baby, but because THIS BABY IS MESSING WITH YOUR APPEARANCE *clenches teeth*

- He doesn't care whose baby is that, but this baby is just very messy.

- I mean, if it's yours...it will be alright to make your.. lover? Husband?! Or...no let's not think about it.. fall asleep

- Magic is useful after all

- After finding out that this baby isn't your he is gonna clench his teeth even more/further.

- How dare this people make this child mess with your appearance?

- His sprite looks angry

" This potatoes...rotten potatoes don't know where their place is huh.. Well, it's nothing I can't do. But I will get them later, for now, I will give you a few lines about the importance of your appearance. "

Idia Shroud

- 💀🤷👀🧍‍♂️

- ┬─┬ノ(ಠ_ಠノ)

- *I sleep*

- Doesn't know how to react

- Bluescreens for a second and then...

- *hair turns red*

- WHOSE CHILD IS THIS????

- How dare someone make you look after some child when you could've played with him?? Or if it's your child then who made a kid with you?!!!??

- Is angry. Very

- He is gonna act as if they killed his minecraft cat.

- You're gonna be shocked to see his usually sprite turn red. Heh

- Will turn normal again soon, but would have his angry face on him still.

- Will not turn back to his neutral expression until the family of this child will leave.

" How dare this pests take away our time like this. Ah.. their child is so annoying, The overseer almost dropped their phone because of them ⸨◺_◿⸩ "

Malleus Draconia

- Huh

- The overseer has a child?

- THE OVERSEER HAS A CHILD?

- Chaos endures.

- The whole Diasomnia dorm is on fire, has tsunami and a storm inside.

- All faes are not sure what to do with this information.

- After looking at the child further, got that it wasn't yours.

- Diasomnia is finally calm

-..more like calm before storm

- AH THE OVERSEER IS SUCH A GOOD PERSON! THEY ARE LOOKING OVER RANDOM KIDS!

- You've gained even more affection from the whole Briar Valley/Valley of Thorns now.

- They worshipped and loved you a lot?

- Well, now even more.

- When the child is taken away, they are a bit sad. Fae steal children you know?

- But seeing your calm face they were fine.

- Another one who would think of starting a family with you. I mean, he wants to marry you, and would need a heir..

- And now everyone is sure you would be a great parent. They knew you were perfect, but seeing you being perfect/your perfection in action just pushes their obsession and worship even further

- His sprite looks unusually happy... he literally glows with happiness- wait isn't Azul is the only bioluminescent one?

" Ah, our happily ever after will start soon. I just need to get you here. You are so nice for looking after that child. I knew you were perfect and will be a great parent, but now I am even more sure *chuckles* "

[vyzz-undercover]

im insane have a few kilos of:

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(6,600ish words) (please fucking sedate me)

{i dont usually write in whatever perspective having a 'you' in this sort of context is, so forgive any oopsies besties!!!}

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•pisspoor cliche of 'oh no you're freezing haha body warmth eh?' trope

•mr. sicarius' insufferable ego

•tumblr's dogshit formatting from phone notes to the app

———————————————————————————————————

super special thanks to all the writers im too much of a spineless coward to actually @ because i only ever lurked on anon asks on old main for, like: moodymisty, mothiir, lemon-russ, the-raven-lady, scriberye and many others. you're all the unknowing reasons why i made an alt to post this, cheers for your amazing works and ideas!!! :3

———————————————————————————————————

It was doomed from the start, honestly.

Not to say he had any hope that an assignment would ever actually go easily for once.

It's supposed to be an apparently simple diplomatic procedure. Namely, you get to stand around, run your ambassadorial trap and bat your lashes and trollop about in front of pompous baseline fools. While he, Cato Sicarius, stands at attention in pissy formal wear; pretending like he's not a hair-breadth from an aneurysm watching it all take place.

Oh, and not to forget the brother who's a head taller than him, in full plate, and isn't being held to a standard of mock-humility.

He realises belatedly he's forgotten the Primaris' name. That shouldn't happen. He never used to forget things. Eidetic memory shouldn't let him. He shouldn't be able to—or, well—maybe his subconscious deigned it unimportant and emptied it out the proverbial airlock of his mind. It was admittedly largely inconsequential. He'd been told, surely. He remembers he was a Sergeant of some sort from his markings. He also remembers being gawked at by the Primaris, borderline felated by eyes alone. He's Cato Sicarius, afterall. Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of Ultramar—of course he'd been inspiring awe. But for some warp-damned reason, alongside all those great titles, his Father'd decided to add Master Babysitter of His Ambassador to the list. But Cato does doesn't let it bother him. He's always got better things to occupy his time. Like furiously glaring at you across the thunder-hawk, even if you'd been dead-set on counting the rivets in the floor plating.

You'd looked absolutely idiotic in an Astartes troop seat. Like a toddler in an adult-sized wheelchair, draped in furs that seemed a size too big; hiding a dress that looked a size too small.

Simply put, the entire assignment was to be an event in circle-jerking—until shit hit the fan with all the painful similarity of a Nurgling thrown headlong into a thruster engine.

To begin with, it was a trap—a trap where he's separated from brother-Sergeant 'whatever-the-fuck-riel' in the commotion and responding bolter fire. That'd left Cato pointedly responsible for evacuating you, the useless little chatterbox, by the scruff of your fuzzy coat through side halls.

On another note, of all the accursed biomes, he hates tundras the most.

Pointedly, it's exactly what seventy percent of this backwater, shit-hole planet is this time of year; whereas the other thirty percent is glacial mush.

He discovers firsthand just how much sloshy ice-water there is to be found as he kicks in a shutter door and gets doused for the first time of many to follow; only to vault from the eastern rampart. Sliding down a long, raised and sleet covered run-off canal that passed over the keep's lesser residential rooftops with you in his grasp.

Melt water soaks you both as he scrambles fights to a halt on the steep decline before the drop off. Wobbling balancing on the edge for a second before he manages to scud back up and down a side chute, worming through the raucous hellscape of filthy baselines and too-tight alleys into the scrappy frozen wilds.

There was little time to hesitate when he decides breaking into a dead-sprint with a soggy ambassador thrown over his shoulder's the modus operandi of the situation.

He didn't stop until he was at least fifteen clicks away, or rather—he only stops when he's able to recognise a spot to hide and await for emergency evacuation.

A half-standing shack. Probably some peasant's hunting hovel. Clearly in poor condition, and honestly, a cave would've been preferable—but he isn't about to pass up the opportunity.

The door doesn't even swing open when he nudges it with his elbow. No, it falls inward, because of course it does, and he grumbles belatedly when it thuds.

The inside of the structure is a damnable mess, but, at the very least, it's dry.

He moves to tug you off his shoulder and toss you onto a pile of rags in the far corner, but he hesitates periodically. Even through his own wet outer attire, he can tell very little body heat is coming off you. His hearing catches on the way your breathing labours below the incessant chatter of your teeth.

Some wretched part of him implores he let you down carefully next to the nested mess of dirty cloth; and for once, he acquiesces to granting mercy.

You curl up into a ball on the floorboards almost immediately.

In his eyes, you're the pict of some drowned rat. The fur coat you'd been wearing over your dress is just as soaked through as everything else. Your hair is full of small, frozen rivulets at the ends, mixed in with powder snow and ice; and all the while, you're whining softly and trying to coil tighter into a fetal position.

He's trying very hard not to just stand there and dumbly listen to your little noises of weakness like a salivating dog.

Instead, Cato turns and lifts the door back into place against the frame; then he activates the honing beacon on his belt.

No latency pings, no close contact.

He grumbles again, eyeing your shivering form over his shoulder begrudgingly.

He hates you.

He hates that he's the one who's responsible for you.

The fact he is also currently out of his power-armour because of this charade only makes him even more irate, impossibly.

Sure, he has his combat bodyglove on under the tacky regalia, but it's no real consolation. He'd feel a lot better if there was a couple extra hundred kilos of plasteel and ceramite on him.

He could've had his armour on, had someone else been the one to babysit you.

He would have preferred anything but sole custody of your wretched, annoying existence falling on him. But because he's the only competent Astartes around ninety percent of the time, and you're the root of all problems—it means he's the only one who's capable of handling your stupidity. He can't even imagine letting anyone else do it. You'd probably deafen Trajan with your yapping if he was in his stead. Or Prabian. And if Titus had watch of you, you two'd probably be—ugh, he won't even dignify the thought. He can't believe the man'd been Captain of Second Company before him, or how or why Agemman gave the captaincy to him. He understands why Titus'd been struck from most records aside from high clearance. To say nothing of the fact that one would think being a Blackshield for a century would humble someone. But no, it seems crossing the Rubicon Primaris gave him his balls back.

Cato had almost flown into a blind rage when he'd heard him jokingly warning about rough weather to you on the embarkation deck the last time you'd been in each others general vicinity—because oh, of course Lieutenant Titus is suddenly a subsector-renowned fucking comedian as soon as you're there. Cato ought to subpoena the dribbling Inquisition like that little snake Leandros did. See how Titus'd like a real stage to perform on again. Maybe they'll have a new rendition of the cunted Rubicon Primaris to piece his sorry fat-arse back together once more by then. But he won't. He won't because Marneus would sulk, and Cato would feel bad. Plus, Cato's infinitely more likely to kill an Inquisitor than help one. But you—you little skank—you find Titus so funny. Hiding a giggle behind your hand, pretending to look demure and professional despite your wretched nature.

Why don't you smile at him like that?

You would be the death of him.

It was always all because of you. Every single time. Because you're so useless in any situation that can't be rambled out of. Which is all of them when you're involved, in Cato's opinion. His Father should leave the talking to professionals who wouldn't break a hip from a smack on the rear.

But now you are going to die of hypothermia, like a typical, pathetic little baseline—well, unless you start following his orders.

Cato tries not to think of how you were acting when rounds started going off earlier. Of course, like a spooked animal, you'd been all ears to his commands then. Hiding against him with your hands pawing at the side of his dress uniform as bullets careened across the dining hall, looking up at him with those big, terrified, caught-in-the-crosshair eyes—and, Throne, it had been so easy to pick you up. You were so soft flimsy, he could fling you around like a rag-doll if he really wanted. Manhandling you would be a singlehanded venture. He's liable to just hoist you up whenever you think yourself bold enough to bother him next. Grab you by your uniform's scruff and just pin you against a bulkhead, you'd be bent at the perfect height to—no—no, no.

Abruptly trying to distract himself, Cato draws his blade from it's ceremonial sheath and activates the disruption core, trying to stoke some sort of heated spark as he drove it into the fireplace.

He brutishly nudges it amidst the old wood and long dim coals. It isn't his finest moment of critical thinking, but it seems to be working; seeing as a few weak embers sputter to life.

Gratingly, he's aware that even a servitor would've known starting a fire in hostile territory was a fool's surest way at getting caught—but he has no other choice. Either he acts the moron and plays his poor hand, or you die from the shock of your chill; and if that happens, he'll have to face his Father's wrath.

And Guilliman would have his left testicle as a paperweight if you died under his watch.

In conclusion, if Cato is to choose between stupidity and complete failure, he's opting for stupidity. Which aggravatingly felt like an ongoing occurrence, ever since you started existing anywhere near him.

He reaches for your soggy swaddled form, and tugs.

Even practically hypothermic, you've still got enough of a two-faced-bitch's spirit hidden away in you to hiss and swat at him blindly. So much for his Father's claims you were of 'sweet, kind temperament.'

For a moment, he genuinely wants to throttle you for the outburst; but he swallows down the urge.

"You need to get out of those," he snaps, glowering down at you. "Or you are going to die."

Your response is a poignant little groan as you glance dizzily around the room.

Cato huffs, "There are blankets beside you, fool."

He holds up a dingy plaid throw, half fraying and stinking of stale mould. It was an assault on his vomeronasal organ, but he wasn't about to let you act the typical spoiled cunt routine of an Imperial ambassador. He would have you wrapped in it sooner rather than later, wether you liked it or not. You dying reflects poorly on him, afterall.

"T-T-Turn, p-p-please—" you say, but your stammering mangles the words into a juddering mess.

He growls, almost tempted to snarl something about 'the fucking audacity in thinking you can tell him what to do—' but acquiesces out of sheer force of will and pivots on his heel, settling into a martial line stance.

Cato can hear you struggling to wriggle free of your clothes. The whines of effort and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the almost comedic slop sound one miscellaneous article makes as it hits the rotted wooden floorboards.

Even if he's taking it to his grave, he's admittedly itching to look over his shoulder.

It's a completely degenerate urge.

But he's—he's wanted this. He's wanted this exact opportunity.

He's got it, now.

You're alone with him.

Nothing and nobody to distract or detract from your attention finally being all on him.

You make a fey little groan, and he takes that as a signal you're finished.

He rounds about-face, and, for lack of a better word, ogles the shape of your covered form.

You've dragged that pile of rags closer to the meagre fireplace, lying on it with the plaid blanket strewn over the top of you.

Even completely hidden beneath, he can see you are still shaking under the ratty thing. Even moreso than before, in all actuality. He supposes that's a good sign. It proves your feeble body is still well and keen on living.

But the suffocating concept you're bare weak, soft useless and needing pathetic underneath that scrap of fabric worms its way into his brain like a cancer.

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Tearing his gaze away, he finds the embers his blade coaxed are a small flame eating away at the old timber now.

Looking back, your shivering's subsiding, but your rapid breathing is increasing; which is surely not good.

He has an idea, which definitely isn't influenced by depravity at all—shut up.

Cato tries for a moment to actually unbutton his attire. His fingers are too large, unsurprisingly. And with the body-suit, he's got no leverage of a nail or two to do away with the dainty fasteners. So, ultimately, he tears the regalia down the front, sending buttons flying—and continues to pry and rend the sopping garments off his arms and legs until they're a pile at his feet.

Then he sets about a more strenuous matter. He releases the locking mechanism at his clavicle, and promptly undoes the thick claps over his pectorals so he can pop free the catches beneath, peeling the layered material back and shucking his arms and hands loose of their constraints.

The top of his bodyglove hangs around his hips now, and he sighs. The chill is of no real annoyance to him. He's built to endure most conditions. Sure, it's cold—but Astartes run hot. And right now, he's boiling for so very many accursed reasons.

He settles on his side next to you and scuds himself to bracket the pile of fabric.

"Move closer," he bites out.

He tries not to groan when you actually do, and surprises himself when he manages to stifle the sound. Even through the blanket, he imagines his warmth is a welcome change to freezing.

"T-Thank you," you say softly, soaking in his body heat like a banal reptile under a sun's rays.

He likes hearing timidity on your lips.

He supposes it stems from his habit of humbling you. The opportunities are unsurprisingly plentiful. He often finds enjoyment hearing you back-pedal when he would cut you down for so much as genially inquiring on Astartesian discussions. Putting himself in the middle and shutting you out, even if you were welcomed in them prior to his arrival.

If you want to ask something of his Brothers, it'll be his answers.

All it ever took was a growl and a curt reminder to know your place. Then you'd fumble and take two steps back. Snipped down to size as you ought to be. Forced to suffer an ounce of the shame he feels. Oh, and then your big doe-eyes'd cast down at Cato's ceramite boots, fussing; trying to apologise to him.

In truth, it's adorable pathetic to watch.

You look so hurt.

It's an act, he's sure of it.

You play at being difficult to anger, and that makes you just that bit more grating. You've unknowingly caught him with an unfair advantage. One that his prowess as a statesman and a warrior cannot seem to scratch. He's always left feeling robbed in your presence. In a way that furiously giving in to the alien urge of palming himself afterwards doesn't ever fix. He's toey and irked to be excluded when you talk to other Astartes, but simultaneously darkly glad that you shy from such antics with him.

It's paradoxical, yes. But no, he's not a hypocrite. Though some part of him is scolding him for being one. No, he's aching to sink his proverbial claws into you—though he won't ever say it to a soul. He won't because he knows he's not supposed to have tastes such as this. A pit in his gut taunts that the stint he'd suffered in the Warp is to blame. But he's the commander of Roboute Guilliman's Victrix Guard. He is not aberrant. The sidelong, fraction-of-a-second glances Cato receives from his Primarch when you enter his office to give briefings surely mean nothing.

It's clear why you have his Father's favour, but he'll never admit that either. Aside from Guilliman's desperation to find baseline company for some strange reason. You're surely just a pet to him. Like a small rodent he pries off a little wheel and sets out in a clear sphere to roll about on the bridge, or something.

To say nothing of his brothers' behaviours.

They won't show it in a group, but he knows the Astartes beneath him preen at your every query.

It's complete lunacy.

It's heresy.

You must have somehow beguiled them all, just like you've done him.

But you're still right there—right where he wants you.

And damn it all, does he want you.

He wants—he wants you on your front, squirming underneath him. No, wait, he wants to see you—but then you'd need to be on top. He can watch, like that. Then afterwards he'll have you on your back, perhaps. Why not sideways? You're already like that, now. Or—or... who's he kidding, he'd take anything, and everything.

Throne, he's so hard he swears he is going to have a brain haemorrhage. He feels like he's already had one, honestly, for all his thoughts are hazing. It's a million leagues worse than the time you'd accidentally called him 'Lord Sicarius' by accident instead of your usual choice of 'Commander' and Throne, he'd rubbed himself raw after that.

Maybe if you weren't such a whorish little wretch, his fantasies wouldn't be running so rabid right now.

You wriggle and your half-covered back slides up against his front.

Cato's never held himself stiller in his life.

Your skin feels like fine silk to his spiralling mind; and even worse, your damnable wriggling doesn't stop. You start making little movements with your feet to try to get circulation back in them—and again, there's a fey similarity to your behaviours and some soaked rodent he recognises.

Decidedly, you've realised it's not enough and promptly jut your feet backwards between his quads. Still continuing the motions, but more furiously.

The touch is dangerously close to the cradle of his inner thighs.

He swears he actually feels the blood drain from his face in mortification. The touch is meagre, but it's real. It's more warming than any he's ever known. And of course, to add insult to injury, that blood drains straight to were he's already painfully hard—which is currently pushed against his navel, halfway jutting out of his bodyglove's zipper.

Thankfully, you withdraw yourself from between his legs and sigh again, snug.

Then, you shuffle closer.

Your rear scuds right up to the swell of his confined cock.

Cato's immediately beside himself in an instant, flying into a rainbow of emotion. First, he's disgusted. Then he's seething at the audacity—which makes him furious—and finally, he's... he's ecstatic.

He groans, raring like some rutting animal; but the sound ultimately leaves him as an angry, subvocal snarl of transhuman harmonics.

You flinch, and wriggle away sharply, and he repeats the sound again at the loss of contact. You're only a hair away from being there still, he can feel how close you are—but you remain just beyond him again.

"My—my apologies, Commander... I-I—" you blurt out, voice still a little chill stuttered, "I didn't... I didn't mean to overstep."

He inhales steadily. He notes you're doused in human stress hormones; but he's acutely aware of a honeyed smell just below the surface. It's so suffocatingly sugary it's actually hurting his nose to scent the air. It's addling his thoughts, turning his focus to mist.

He can smell you failing to juggle all the reactions and thankfully rottenly settling for the one that makes you reek of mollasses.

"Come back, shut up," he hisses. "And stay still."

Sweet-stink radiates again before you swallow sharply.

There's an eternal breath of time in which he's about to go mad with anticipation, and the instant you're slotted against him again.

Some base urgency sends him frotting forward, and the thick, leaking head of him that peaks out the top of his zip brushes against a warm cunt; all thanks to that blanket of yours having slipped loose slightly, and lo, the blessed horrid consequence.

He'd live off the way your surprised gasp makes his nerves thrill.

"Is—" you wheeze, "Is that...?"

He grimaces, unsurprised you're ever stupider than you look. Recklessly, instead of lying—instead of saying 'no, it's a combat knife,' his mouth decides he's to act the most pathologically honest town crier alive.

"It," he intones sharply, before the words "...is your fault," leave him as a rushed hiss.

A belated pause wins out for a moment, and he's mortified as he realises what he's just confessed. There's a leaden feeling at the back of his throat. One option to recover the situation is that he could just hit you on the head. What'd be a shiner of a punch to a brother would be a terminal concussion to a baseline. Then, he'd tell the Primarch, oh yes, you died. Very sad. How? To shreds. To shreds you say? Truthfully, he can't really bring any actual conviction to the plan. He wouldn't. The notion is merely a hypothetical, in a perfect world where violence solved everything. Because if you die, Guilliman will send him to an Agri-world to be some peasant's plough-puller or someshit for a few centuries—and Cato's going to kill himself before he has to suffer that indignity. Uriel would never let him live it down. He's bound to suffer the same consequences, ultimately. Even if he's got no idea what an Astartes with a sex drive would be liable to be punished for. Oh, right. Corruption. So now, there's a credible witness to his flaw and one that his Father'll believe, worst of all, and... abruptly, you reply instead of scream in revulsion, your voice a mumbled little squeak as you say, "I didn't know—I mean, I didn't think—"

"Believe me, I am well aware you lack the capacity to think," Cato cuts in, and swallows down a snort at his own mean spirited joke. He's fucked, and for some reason he's suddenly further struck by the hilarity of the bastard, warp-spawn wiles of fate and chance. May as well be hung for the sheep as for a lamb, he decides.

Your breathing gains a shallow edge, and he feels you make as if to inch away again.

"I said not to move," He growls, and keeps you flush against him—holding you there by way of folding an arm across you.

"I just... uh," you reply, "I'm just..."

Your ass grinds back against him.

There's contact, your skin against the flushed, drooling head of him that feels painfully tender—and then you ruin it by speaking again.

"Curious, I suppose...? I was of the belief the Adeptus Astartes didn't..." your voice is soft, at least; slow and distracted, "Have an appetite for... this sort of thing?"

Cato momentarily stays fixated on the breathiness of your tone, and has to remind himself he's supposed to be angry at being robbed of silence—so he grumbles, "I told you to shut your trap," and promptly smothers a palm over your mouth.

You make a noise that sounds vaguely like a mumbled curse and settle, breathing hard through your nose to compensate.

Still, your rear presses back against him.

Cato takes the gesture at face value and fusses, roughly wrenching his bodyglove down to his thighs with his free hand.

Unconfined, his cock slaps the small of your back, and he manhandles you to readjust so it glides between your thighs instead.

Everything in place, he skews his hips forward, and his eyes roll back at the smooth, sublime drag of skin against skin. It's genuine perfection, wet and soft and molten.

The little hitched breaths you steal through your nose with each roll of his hips make him grind faster. Pressing closer with each, until the abhorrent, sticky sound of him steadily fucking against you is nigh deafening.

"I go in or I stay out," he says, and he can feel his molars grate against each other as he adds, "...or I can stop."

You shake your head furiously, or at least as much as the huge mitt on your chin, maw and jaw allows.

"Then decide," he snaps. "In?"

Cato hears the cartilage in your gullet move as you swallow dryly and nod.

Chuffed with your allowance compliance, he hums—and then it's his turn to hesitate.

When he draws his hand from your mouth, he curtly says, "Stay silent," and starts as if to tell you to arrange one way, then decides against it; dithering uncharacteristically. Then, rarer yet, Cato stumbles his words as he adds, "Move on to y-your front, then."

He doesn't know why he asked for the least preferred option when he'd been deliberating over the hypothetical for so long previously but nonetheless you, miraculously, comply without complaint. And despite himself he frustrates as you roll, his cock slipping away from between your thighs.

Draped in covers, he can't see much of you aside from the shape of you slowly arranging onto your hands and knees; before your chest sinks, and your ass stays up.

Like a rabid dog, he scrambles onto his haunches and scuds over behind you.

He's not entirely sure what to do first, and harrumphs.

In answer, your back arches even further in a dangerously luring bow, a display of willingness whorishness that turns Cato's thoughts to mush. Ass up and still in the pile, covered in blankets and rags, it's painfully easy to tug you from them just enough so that a decent portion of your raised lower half is exposed to him.

All he's able to comprehend the very next instant in some hind-brain, primitive way is a shapely ass, and a pretty pink cunt.

He grabs your hip, and the size comparison is so stark his head swims. With the span of one hand, he could palm a whole globe of your rear.

He does just that, and spreads you to take a nice long look.

You've a glossy sheen of clear slick that's starting to string down where it's collecting between your labia, and Throne—it's that. That's the sweet smell. And it's all for him—you're everything he's wanted.

Inspecting, he finds the hole leaking lubricant and a much, much smaller one below it—the vagina and then the urethra, he reasons by way of thinking back on a baseline biologis graphics; and, eyeing lower to a hooded fold, he finds a swollen little nub.

Pointedly, he's got a suspicion of what it is and turns his curiosity to it.

It's an easy target for his large thumb, even as slippery as your lust has made you, and—

A shaky little keen, then your knees pull together; body curling.

"Keep your damn legs apart," he grunts, wrenching them wide, and splaying a big palm on your ass to lift you into an arch again.

He's tempted to just bask in the glory of it all, grope, smack, lick—make you beg for it until he's sure you know he's in charge. Until you're as high strung for him as he's ever been for you. But he's frenzied, and well beyond being able to linger on those broader wants; not when he's got an Ambassador to fill.

He's aware of what your clit's really for now, and keeps rolling the pad of his thumb over it until you're squirming. It doesn't take long until your hole is visibly twitching. Nothing but a sloppy, wet mess of your own whorish excitement for him, as you ought to be. Cato bites back a longing sigh as he gets the delight of watching a fresh rivulet of slick string down your thigh.

And when he works up the gall, he jams that same thumb to the hilt in your cunt.

Your insides squeeze around it, and you start shaking, then. But it's not from the cold. No, anything but that. You're warm now, and he's deliriously happy to find you're as soft inside as the rest of you looks and feels. Warp damn him, he's no better than some slavering genestealer wretch fiending for its pound of flesh.

Your smaller baseline frame makes every part of him look huge in comparison. Even his thumb is big. And you're so much less—and the fact the disparity is so glaringly obvious plays havoc with his brain; but he's got an idea. An idea that he refuses to acknowledge sounding painfully like a boarding action to him.

With little tact, he sidles up and positions himself so his tip slots right against you, while stretching your opening with his thumb.

Lining himself up with his other hand, he nudges your entrance, smearing precum in with your wetness while inching forward; sliding his thumb out in tandem with pushing his cock in—and his efforts succeed.

Cato's transfixed watching the head of himself fill the gap, sliding in—and you let out a muffled yelp, still half-buried in the blankets like some stuck animal; your thighs juddering as you suck in air.

Honestly, he's glad you've smothered yourself like that, because he can't imagine keeping it together if you were actively watching him. He thinks the stark reality of it would have him run right out of the shack. Even the idea of having your pretty damning eyes on him makes him swoon sick.

With an over-eager roll of his hips, a shiver races up his spine. But he earns a cry from you.

He takes a deep breath.

There's a twinge of pain-smell and the vaguest hint of blood in the air, but it's impermanent compared to the amount of lust.

He pushes a little more, and you ripple internally around him; making a racketing, breathless noise—twitching before slacking, and then twitching again. A few perfect little moans escaping you at last.

Abruptly, all he's able to give a fuck about is the sensation of wet and hot, and how you're finally all his—it's a strangling fit, but it's satisfying a craving bone-deep. Infinitely better than his war calloused hands.

You feel sublime, and it's pure bliss finally getting what he's wanted for so very long.

All those rest cycles wasted furiously humping into his own clenched hand, all those hours of torment seething about your latest unintended slight against him.

He's so dazed by the new sensation he's massaging small circles with his fingers on your flank, humming lowly. Who would have known all he really needed was to hilt in a warm, velvety, absolutely sopping wet cunt to come around to you? Maybe you're not so bad afterall. That is, for an insufferable little cock-sleeve; but it's nothing Cato can't grin and bare. He can almost imagine tolerating further babysitting assignments, if it means he can use you as a hole to ram his frustrations into like this.

He continues petting you, absentmindedly.

But the involuntary mercy didn't stop you from jackknifing when he bucks in more—each little motion seating him deeper and deeper. He's stunned he fits. You're so... small, and Throne, he feels monstrous even fixating upon the disparity; nevermind the shiver that races up his spine at the thought.

He yanks you backward and you stop squirming for a moment.

When your wriggling starts up again, he holds you still with the sheer willpower only a neurotic control-freak could muster. He stops your motion, yes—but your insides also stop shivering around his cock and he's resentful of that.

Nonetheless, you make to move again then, keening and bothering him; but you're seemingly struck daft when he bottoms out at last, hitting your cervix. Your internal muscles tense on the intrusion, practically cramping around him, blinding him with ecstasy for a heartbeat as you clench down hard; and a squeak of surprise escapes you. Your legs lock stiff for a moment, air venting out your lungs in shock.

You garble out a sweet, hoarse curse that sounds more like a sob than anything.

Cato supposes the theatrics are what an orgasm on something his size does to a woman. And he finds he's appallingly keen to see and hear you do it again. Keen to feel it, too. He adjusts himself and grinds, making sure you're getting every bit he's got to give. It's no small feat of restraint from Cato to not simply drive into you with all his might like a hydraulic press.

Maybe that'll make your tight little hole cinch up again? He thinks you'd like that. No—no, you should be begging for him to keep fucking you. You should be thanking him while you're at it too, really. Thanking him for deigning to take you to begin with.

Your arch falls away to a prone slump with a whine, thighs trembling, leaving him straining forward to stay in you.

He is irate at your antics, now; and his retaliation betrays it.

Cato seizes your hips and yanks you back up his cock, shimmying you a little so he's nice and sheathed and stuffing you full, nigh folded under him. Warm cunt stretched taut around the base of his thick cock, like a perfect scabbard.

He's suddenly absorbed in watching your covered form consciously trying to counter the overwhelming forward mass of him starting to drive into you like he was part battering-ram.

"Better than all those limp-dicked, bastard lordlings you've let empty in you to even chance a cushion near my Primarch's table, hm?" His tone is little more than a scathing drawl, pulling almost entirely out of you just to dip the head of himself in.

You moan into the fabric smothering you, and he holds you with a controlled desperation.

"Answer me, you little shit."

He watches you nodding desperately beneath the cover a second later, failing to get an actual reply out around your huffing and puffing.

Cato groans, "Far keener for Astartes cock, aren't you?"

You nod again, needy.

"Throne, you're pathetic," he chides harshly, delighting in the soft whine of protest you make when pulls out to the tip one last time. "All that haughty bullshit, just to turn out to be so—so easy," then he's sliding back to the hilt and starting his rutting anew, grinding into that perfect spot that has your insides shiver around him again and again. "Isn't that right? This is all you're really good for?"

Beneath him, you're too much of an insensible mess to even think about answering; and somewhere in that depraved miasma of sound, he swears you're trying to say his name.

So, understandably, he inches forward on his knees and boxes you under him. Pinning you under the span of his bulk, two big hands firmly planted either side of your blanketed head.

He can see a few strands of your hair sticking out from beneath it and he can see the fog of your breath and the tip of your nose through a tented section, and only one of your hands—clawing out at the scraps of fabric.

"Prick-dumb animal," he sneers, flagrantly showboating; trying to sound as if he's not feigning lucidity and completely at the mercy of his lust.

He drops from his hands to rest on his elbows, manoeuvring a forearm under your head to prop your chin up. He's so bent over you that your ass is practically glued to his massive pelvis.

You can't stifle yourself now.

The sounds you make when he starts ploughing into you again are unrestrained and absolutely debauched. Practically music to his ears. He can feel your saliva smearing across his arm, and he's absolutely stupefied at the mantra of 'Sicarius, S-Sicarius, Sica-ah—rius—' you start panting. To say nothing of the keening whimpers that escape when you're not crying out for him. Louder with each thrust, and warp damn it all—his perfect memory is never going to let those gorgeous sounds go. He's going to fiend off you mewling his surname like a full dose of battle-chems until he fucking dies.

Cato groans and delights in the involuntary squeeze you make around his cock again; your hips skewing up into his own, meeting him.

He just wants one more thing—he wants—no, needs—he needs to hear you scream his name in that reedy voice. Telling him that you like him playing guard for you, and you're all his and you love hi—

Rather abruptly however, you're cinching down on his cock as you come again. Throne, your cunt may as well be Marneus' clenched powerfist the way you're wringing him for everything he's got. Crying out like you're inconsolable, and so painfully eager and—oh, fuck. He tries to hold off, but it's of little use. The dam cracks, and it's all too much for him far too quickly.

"You rotten w-whore—" the words leave him in between ragged, staggered pants, gritting his teeth even though it's achieving absolutely nothing. "Stop s-squeezing, I-I—"

He's finishing in you the next second and letting out a rough, unbecoming moan instead of the rest of his sentence; despite trying to muffle himself against your shoulder and save face. Emptying all his pent up spend as deep as he can inside you and rutting himself deliriously into oversensitivity. The simple feeling of it is a more profound experience than he can even begin to explain—and he's rendered daft. Fighting just to stay awake against the warm, coddling bliss running rife in his nerves as his muscles twitch.

Still trying to recuperate, he's drunk with afterglow for a few seconds. Head beside yours, sharing the same air and hurried breaths.

In his stupor, he notes that your hair smells nice even after everything. And he tuts softly, resting his eyes. Lulled by the soft sound of your hyperventilating evening out and the continuous, weak fluttering of your cunt around him, hot and tight, and still a perfect fit.

He almost understands why mortal men so frequently fought over baseline women, now.

Almost.

Because then you start squirming again.

Pointedly, he opens his eyes and begrudgingly lifts himself away, slipping free and leaving a big sloppy smear of combined fluids across your ass and thighs as he settles into a kneel.

You're still presenting yourself as Cato scrubs a palm across his face, and blinks slowly.

He glances down for a moment and swallows.

He's hard—still.

Just as ready to rut as he was to start with, despite the fact he's only just finished.

And, much like a beast in season, he genuinely contemplates another round—what would be the harm, anyways? He could be sliding himself back into you, right then, and he doubted you'd do anything but buck up to meet him. So much for some diplomatic prodigy. You're little more than a mewling wreck. And what better way to prove it than another wet layer of your mixed fluids on his cock?

A soft sound escapes you abruptly and he looks back to the place he's itching to slam back inside of.

A few fat rivulets of his cum drip out your abused entrance, but you're too well-screwed to even care, it seems.

He thumbs one of your folds aside and smiles smugly at the mess.

You poor thing, it must be so humbling to be put in your place. He hopes it felt good. Having your better's cum leaking out of you like a banner on a conquered fortress.

He's tempted to stuff his spend back into you and give you another load to drip. Let it leak down your thighs as you pad past his men on the flagship, that'd make them well aware of who you really admire—

At that brilliant jarring thought, blazing post-clarity arrived; an abrupt and unsettling feeling. The fact he'd even—even dignified your almost Slaneeshi-tier temptation—the fact he's raring to go again—he must already reek of your lust, and you of his—and Emperor have mercy, one quick scenting betrays everything, his men would tell their Father, and—you—you groan and worm yourself back under the blanket, likely truly feeling the chill now without his body to warm you.

The urge to say something becomes almost suffocating all at once, and Cato opens his mouth—just to be interrupted by a beep.

Hesitation seizes him, and he eyes his pile of half-frozen attire in the far corner.

Eighteen and a half seconds pass and it beeps again, indicating a second for every minute of arrival estimation.

The tracker beacon has finally done it's job.

But the matter of hastily cleaning up what insanity just happened becomes the real concern now.

Suddenly stuffed to the brim with adrenaline, Cato gets to his feet with Astartesian speed. He tries to take a step but sways, almost toppling. Looking down, he realises himself; and gingerly stoically waddles marches away from you, his bodysuit stuck around his knees. There's a cupboard in the other corner, covered in a frosted cobweb that looks a little like gossamer. Rifling through it provides him little. Most of it's contents are iced through, but a bottle of what stinks like absinthe is good enough, and he doesn't think it matters what he cleans up with. He definitely does doesn't look like a servitor on broken wheels as he scuds on his heels back beside your pile. And if he suffers any more injuries to his ego, they definitely don't include him bungling a kneel and being forced to wobble down on to his haunches. It's not his fault he's mentally accommodating for power armour that, currently, isn't there.

Pausing, he pokes the mound of scraps you're under, trying to rouse you.

When your answer to his 'kinder' effort results in you whining and curling up tighter, he settles for tossing any mercy out the window with a petulant grunt; and identifies the shape of one of your legs and tugs you half-free by your ankle like a speared fish, earning a yelp as the cold assaults you.

Grabbing one of the loose rags in your pile, he saturates it with spirit and scoops you up under the hips, before starting to wipe away the evidence.

You begin thrashing almost immediately when the rag makes contact. Then you're practically yowling, "It hurts, it h-hurts—wait, wait—" and okay—yes, maybe using high proof alcohol to clean the smell and slime of his cum off your freshly fucked hole wasn't his best idea. In his defence, you're one of the most stubborn baselines he's ever met, and you should learn to handle a little pain. Secondly, booze is the only thing that stays liquid at freezing.

"Enough with the bloody caterwauling, woman," he barks, effortlessly holding you steady despite your struggling. "It's not that bad, toughen the fuck up."

When he's done with you, he's actually remorseful of the situation. Certainly not his finest choice. Because now you're sniffling weakly, fussing about the residual stinging; and then you promptly scramble back under the blanket.

"There was nothing else I could use, okay?" He says sourly, scowling at the bundle of fabric you disappear into; before tossing the soiled rag he'd used to clean you into the fireplace to ignite.

He grabs another from the pile and douses it, wiping himself off—and at last, he's finally able to start to pull his bodyglove up over his hips. Wiggling and straining to fit the thick, skin-tight material over his still very much erect cock.

From the edge of his vision he can see you've peaked your head out to watch as he fixes the sternum latch in place.

He gives you a cursory glance, but nothing more.

He ultimately expects you to look away like the mouse you are—but no, what actually happens is worse. You just keep silently raking him with an expression that makes him feel like he's made of glass and every secret he's ever had or ever known is laid bare.

He can't stand it.

It makes Cato want to sneer at you fiercely in the hopes it would scare you off, remind you he's an exemplar of the Adeptus Astartes and shouldn't be stared at—something, anything except that look.

"Get up," he turns sharply and snorts.

The beeping is once every two and a half seconds, now.

Two and a half minutes, then.

"You let me fuck you," he bites out.

You're sitting now. Covered in one of the larger articles of rags. A tartan, fraying thing crumpled atop you, frowning and looking dejected. Then you open your mouth to speak but promptly stop. He can tell you're trying to form a diplomatic reply, and he grumbles, fuming.

"Tell anyone of this—" Cato's well aware he's being cruel as he adds, "—and I'll wring your little neck, Father's favourite pet or not."

You finally look away.

And he finds he can't stand that either.

So, to souse his bruised ego, Cato decides he's going to burn the shack down as soon as the transport lands and you're onboard.

He also decides he's going to burn that tacky formal tunic of his too, simply because he can.

[doe-eyed-fool]

First of, I love ur writing second I'd like to ask for a lucifer morningstar x reader request where lucifer is sick and the reader cares for him but somehow ends up getting sick too so they just both are sick now?

Can be fem reader or gender neutral I don't mind either way. It would be very nice if you would do that if u have time for it and of course if u feel like u want to write it. If u don't want to that is fine too, either way I'm gonna wait for any new story u write.

Hope u have a great day

Sick Day

Lucifer x gn!Reader

Warning(s): None

Thx I hope you have a great day too! Enjoy~

"I tried to warn you."

Lucifer lays in bed, groaning as he hugs one pillow close to him. He had recently kicked the covers off himself after getting too hot, but now, he felt a terrible chill run through him.

The king was unfortunately sick, and he felt like garbage.

"I told you that overworking and not taking proper care of yourself would lead to this." You sigh as you sit in the empty spot next to him. "Ready for the next dose?"

Lucifer would have made a break for it after hearing that question. However his body betrayed him, feeling as if someone had tied boulders to his arms and legs.

He groaned again and hid his face in the pillow. "I'd rather suffer." You roll your eyes at his childish behavior. But you couldn't blame him. The medicine tasted god awful, and it was thick too, making it harder to down in one shot.

"Well, I don't want you to suffer." You say, placing a hand to his head. "You'll feel so much better if you take it, Luci." Lucifer looked up at you with a pitiful gaze. "I promise." You add.

Lucifer sighed. "I can't believe I got this sick. I also can't believe how much it's wearing me down. My body hasn't ached this much since I fell from Heaven." He sits up, wincing as he does so.

"Yeah, getting sick is a bitch." You chuckle. "It's a good thing you have special doctors just for you. I don't think I'd trust just anyone here giving you any type of medicine. Now, please." You hold the small cup of dark purple liquid to him.

Lucifer inhales deeply. "Ok." He takes it and actually manages to get it all down in one go. He holds back the urge to gag, a shiver runs up his spine. "How can something so disgusting help you feel better?"

You shrug. "I don't know, but it does." You place your hand on his. "And it will. Trust me."

Lucifer cracks a small smile. "I do trust you. But, you really should get going don't you think? I don't want you to get sick because of me."

"Luci. I'm not leaving, until I know you're better." You say with a smile. "I don't care if I get sick."

Lucifer blushes a bit. "Y-You should!" You chuckle before handing Lucifer a glass of water. "Shh, just relax. I got you."

Lucifer takes a sip, grateful that the awful taste was fading from his tongue. "You're too good to me." He mutters, blush still present on his face. You smile before taking a cold rag and wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Only the best for you." You say softly.

...

"I tried to warn you."

You frown at Lucifer's words before a string of coughs left you. "Shut it." You say with a scratchy voice. Lucifer hands you that terrible medicine.

"Don't worry, love. Just relax, I got you." Lucifer tells you. You couldn't help but smile. "Thank you Luci. And sorry, I should have listened."

Lucifer shrugs. "Eh, it's not so bad. Now we get to spend all day in bed, watching terrible sitcoms. What could be better than that?" He snuggles up next to you.

You lean into him and sigh softly. "Maybe if we weren't sick." You joked. Lucifer rolls his eyes. "I guess so. But then we would have to make up an excuse to be lazy in bed."

"Any excuse to spend more time with you is a good excuse." You grin.

Lucifer's face heated up, he cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. "Man this show is awful isn't it? How do people watch this?"

"You're blushing." You say teasingly. "I-I am not! My face is just hot!" Lucifer huffs.

You laugh lightly. "Whatever you say, Luci."

[tobiasdrake]

Incidentally, we can't really talk about pragmatism without talking about Future Trunks.

Krillin is a devious and underhanded martial artist, but still a martial artist. Trunks is an assassin. He goes straight for the throat at every opportunity. He's not here to fight; He's here to kill.

Much like his father, Trunks is not a martial artist. Every bit Vegeta's son, he's naturally gifted and has already become a Super Saiyan by both of his first appearances - in the story, when he fights Frieza on Earth, and also chronologically in Trunks the Story: A Lone Warrior.

I can't really say he's untrained. He was trained in the basics by Gohan. But Gohan is also not a martial artist; He's had one year and six months of proper martial arts training. One year from Piccolo and six months from Krillin.

Gohan's a fighter, guided by emotion moreso than technique. So there's a limit to how much Trunks can learn from him. Even Gohan admits that he's a poor substitute for his dad.

This, I should note, is a meaningful admission from Gohan because this chapter was published at the very beginning of the Cell Games. Gohan outright saying "I wanted to follow in my dad's footsteps but the clothes aren't enough" sets up an important contrast to the Gohan of the present time who has had that time with Goku and is ready to take his place.

But his concession of inadequacy is important for how we interpret Trunks as well. Trunks knows the stuff. He can perform Bukujutsu. Throw ki blasts. Power up into a Super Saiyan. But he's not Goku or Krillin or Yamcha or Tenshinhan; Like Gohan and Vegeta, he is a fighter, not a martial artist.

His heart is in the right place, but he's reckless and foolhardy. Chomping at the bit for a piece of vengeance.

This recklessness carries into his journey to the past. He never quite learns from his brief offscreen shitstomp by the Twins. He returns to a point in history just after Goku's return from space. Historically, this was a key moment in history where Goku showed up in the nick of time to save Earth from Frieza and his father King Cold. Which should technically be Great King Cold as it's Cold-Daio but he's far from the first king to have his Greatness dropped in translation, eh Piccolo?

But when Goku's late to the party, Trunks starts to worry and decides to step in himself.

Look at him. The spitting image of his father, full of piss and vinegar.

It's here that we get to see Trunks as a fighter for the very first time. Even chronologically; In Trunks the Story, they skip most of the action; It's very brief.

I mean. It's an absolutely hilarious joke that we see Trunks flying off half-cocked to go get revenge and then he's waking up from a coma on the very next page. Amazing cutaway gag.

But we're here to talk about Trunks's DNA as a fighter, so Frieza offers us the first material we have to work with. And Trunks? He does not fuck around.

Your soldiers are dead. Who's next?

You're dead. Who's next?

Your father's dead. We done here?

Trunks gives zero shits. In the span of two chapters, he massacres Frieza, Cold, and all of their soldiers without an ounce of hesitation. He is not playing.

He was even paying attention to the part where Frieza can survive grievous amounts of harm and come back. He takes great care to thoroughly and utterly annihilate every last bit of Frieza. Taking no chances.

Trunks isn't here to fight. He's here to kill. He is not interested in a protracted martial arts bout.

This fight, incidentally, also gives us a moment to talk about Trunks's sword. Cold-Dumbass thinks Trunks's sword is the key to his power.

He's an idiot. There's a reason he only exists for like three chapters and one page of a fourth. This man doesn't even understand how weapons work in anime.

Japan and the West have very different relationships with weapons. When Westerners think of weapons, we think of guns. Even when we write medieval weapons, we treat them like guns. Guns are disposable tools that bestow killing power upon their wielder. Any average Joe with a gun suddenly becomes a lethal warrior.

But Japan has a rich history and philosophy baked into their culture surrounding weapons and their role in martial arts. In anime, a weapon does not grant power; It manifests power. The weapon is an extension of its wielder. It's a means by which the wielder expresses their own strength.

In Trunks's hands, that sword can cut through Frieza. Because Trunks is powerful, and his might outshines Frieza's.

In Cold's hands, however, that sword is harmless. Because Cold is weak and cowardly. (Uh, relative to Trunks.) He has no power to express.

But Goku is strong. Goku knows power intimately, far beyond Trunks's understanding. And so Trunk's sword, his expression of power, is useless against Goku.

This is what Trunks's sword means, to him and to the story. It's an extension of his character and his strength; The means by which he delivers his killing force. Which is precisely what makes this moment so devastating.

When 18 breaks Trunks's sword, she breaks Trunks. The damage to his blade is honestly not that severe. It could probably be reforged. But the damage to Trunks's self-image, to his psyche, is unshakable.

Trunks never uses his sword again. He leaves it on the plane here.

And then we never see it again. Instead, Trunks decides to pursue greater martial arts training alongside his father, following in Vegeta's footsteps.

But he never quite loses his assassin streak. Though he begins to develop his abilities as a fighter from this point forward, Trunks is goal-oriented. He wants to kill the Twins. He doesn't care how that happens.

In the original version of these events, before Cell further altered the timeline, those blueprints were the key to Trunks's victory against the Twins of his timeline.

Though Cell has no idea how Trunks pulled off this victory despite being too weak to defend himself from Cell himself, the discovery of Gero's lab offers us a possible explanation.

The Twins have shutdown switches built into their systems. Though 17 destroyed the remote Gero built, Bulma is able to use these blueprints to build a new one.

So there's a solid implication that the weaker Trunks of Cell's timeline took Bulma's remote home with him and disabled the Twins that way. Again: He's not here to fight. He's here to kill. It doesn't matter how he does it.

...well, I guess it does matter 'cause that Trunks got wasted by Cell five minutes later.

Point is, Trunks wears his goal-oriented ruthlessness on his sleeve. He's not driven by pride of by love of the art. He has a job he's here to do.

However that single-minded focus, that determination to get it done, also holds him back. Trunks has never had proper martial training. He's been taught by Future Gohan, who is not a martial artist. And he's... taught himself near Vegeta. His developed his abilities and increased his strength, but he doesn't know fighting the way Goku or Krillin or Yamcha or Ten do. Nor does he have Vegeta's natural brilliance and general understanding.

Trunks, for all his strength and all his determination and all his killing instinct, is an amateur. We all know what happened to him in the last fight he ever fought here in the present.

Vegeta breaks the limits of the Super Saiyan and realizes that this power is good but comes at a cost, so he should only do it sparingly.

Goku breaks the limits of the Super Saiyan and realizes this form sucks and is stupid, and decides to go a different route entirely.

But Trunks breaks the limits of the Super Saiyan and goes "AWWW YEAH THIS IS THE SHIT GIMME THAT POWER" because he doesn't know. He has a killer's instinct, not a martial artist's. He's never been trained in technique.

We see, over the course of this series, both Trunks's strengths and his weaknesses as a fighter. In every altercation, he goes straight for the throat. Which is brutally effective when he has the power to back it up but Trunks, more than anyone, is vulnerable to a crushing defeat if he doesn't have the Power Level to back it up. He has nothing else.

Still, he gets to go out on a high note. His final chapter sees him return to the future, not with the remote but with the great strength he gained in the Room of Spirit and Time. And he gets to clean house his way - slaughtering the Twins efficiently and thoroughly, in true Trunks fashion.

And also getting Cell for good measure.

Godspeed, killer. You were the best your world had left to offer but you rose to the occasion, and that's the most that could be asked of anyone.

[shun-nie]

Hiyaa!! Im in love with your satosugu fic. If you dont mind, can you write satosugu trying to get reader into their relationship but the reader is oblivious and is a closet fujoshi. So in her head is only satosugu forever and never imagine herself is added in the equation. It would be a great crack fluff in my head but you can go wild for my ideas

-🐣anon

I'M IN LOVE WITH THIS IDEA. Sorry if it's too short!! Thank you for requesting!!

SatoSugu x fem!reader

->They were a match made in heaven, who are you to separate them?

!!!!Slight angst to fluff, mostly fluff, reader being oblivious and a yaoi reader😌, crack, swearing, mentions of Shoko x reader!!!!

"Kyaaa~The end was so cute!" you hugged the manga close to your chest as you rolled left to right on your bed. The two male leads fell in love at the end of the manga and chose each other despite everything, you were so happy they ended up together!!!

When you looked at the cover of the manga again, which was a picture of the two male leads holding hands as they walked, you thought of your classmates. The strongest sorcerers, (but still annoying despite being the strongests) Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru. They were made for each other, they were in love with each other; you were in love with them, but you had no place to be with them. You told yourself that, if you act like you don't have feelings for them, it would actually go away. But you were wrong, so wrong. You wanted to feel their arms around you, wanted to know how their lips would feel on your skin, you wanted to hold their hands as you walk with them. You wanted everything, but decided that you won't get anything from them for the sake of their love.

You were thinking while looking at the ceiling, lost in your thoughts. What separated you from your thoughts was the notification sound coming from your phone, you grabbed the phone from your nightstand and looked at the screen to see who texted you.

[Sho-chan❤️]

-> I'm sitting at the bench on the garden without a cute girl to keep me company, isn't it sad??

[Y/N-nie🌹]

-> Don't worry dear, the cute girl is on her way!!!😍👍

You chuckled to yourself and you wore an oversized T-shirt on top and a black shorts reaching your knees underneath, Yaga gave you guys a break from the missions, you were happy he did though.

You opened the door of your room and stepped outside, after closing the door behind you and locking it you started to walk towards the garden. It was a sunny day, you were glad you took two cold drinks from your mini fridge before you left. Shoko was sitting on a bench, smoking, with a grey t-shirt and sweatpants on her. You called out her name, she looked at you and smiled. You smiled back and sat beside her, placing her dring on the bench. She took it, you were stting in silence, it was comforting.

"So, how was your day so far?" You asked while taking a sip of your drink, Shoko leaned her head on your shoulder, you didn't mind.

"Better now that you're here." She smiled, teasing you. You laughed, pinching her cheek softly. You were teasing eachother for the next minutes, being playful until—

"Shoko!!!!Y/N!!!!" Satoru called out, both you and Shoko turned your heads towards his voice. Satoru, who had a wide smile on his face, and Suguru beside him were walking towards you two. You heard Shoko sigh, you chuckled and waved to the two. They shared a look before grinning, Satoru bent down and wrapped his arms around you. You let out a confused "Eh?" when he kissed your cheek, Suguru chuckled at your confused expression as Satoru teased you about being a shy little girl. You were confused beacuse Satoru just a girls cheek in front of his own boyfriend, and Suguru was okay with this? Were you missing something?

"Why didn't you call us and tell us you were going to hang out in the garden? Look, Suguru, they're excluding us!!" Satoru dramatically put his hand on his heart and put on a resentful expression, Suguru smiled and pat his shoulder, also acting dramatic.

"Yes, Satoru...They don't want us here, and we called them our best friends!!!" Suguru placed his hand on his heart, you sighed, these two dorks....

"Yes, we don't want you here. We were just about to kiss, so sho sho." Shoko waved her hands towards them like they were some dogs, you laughed, but Satoru didn't seem to like the joke as he frowned. You noticed Suguru looking away from you and Shoko too.

"About to kiss? Ha ha. What a funny joke, Shoko." Satoru rolled his eyes and pouted, he sat next to you and snuggled to your side. Suguru walked to the bench and sat between you and Shoko, Shoko didn't like this and frowned as she told Suguru to sit on the ground which earned a chuckle from Suguru.

"Y/NNNNNNN~ Are you cheating on me with Shoko? You're so meannnnn!" Satoru whined, you were so confused, first he kisses your cheek and now he acts like you two are dating? While his boyfriend is literally sitting next to you? The heck is up with them?

"I don't know about me but you're kinda cheating on Suguru right now..." You said quietly, Suguru smiled and kissed your head. Shoko looked like she wasn't surprised they were being this affectionate towards you, she got up and walked the other way as she lighted up a cigarette. Your eyes widened as you realized you were left alone with these two. 'Oh shit.' you thought.

"It wouldn't be much of a problem if you just beacome ours." Suguru said softly, smiling at you. You let out an 'huh?' as you didn't understand them, Satoru sighed and started to play with your hair. Are they trying to say that they want you in their relationship or? No, no. That's too stupid. They were a match made in heaven, why would they want you?

"You love us, don't you? We realized we both love you too, so become ours will ya'?" Satoru said and kissed your cheek, Suguru flicked his forehead and kissed your lips quickliy as Satoru groaned. You were in shock. Were you dreaming? Oh god, you don't actually want to wake up.

"So?"

"What do you say, love?"

"I—..umm..." Fuck. You were blushing. Fuck this shit.

"I mean...If you two are okay with it...why not..?

You knew what you were getting into when they both smirked.

.

.

.

(sorry if it's too short😭)

[chuluoyi]

UNHOLY MATRIMONY — 07

✩°｡ ⋆ love unspoken

- fushiguro megumi x oc/reader - oc/reader's character name is hara sena, pronouns still refer to “you” and i won’t mention it often—just for the sake of aesthetic rather than repeatedly writing "y/n"

in another life, in which fate is still screwing his life over, Fushiguro Megumi finds himself in an arranged marriage―with you.

genre/warnings: arranged marriage au, gojo cameo, jealous!megumi

notes: ladies and gentlemen, it’s with great pleasure to tell you that another drama is about to unfold after a one-week break :)

series masterlist | next. all falls down

Harajuku, Shibuya. The busiest ward in the city is the most lit spot to meet up with anyone. And the greatest place to hide in plain sight.

Gojo Satoru, suave and neat in his casual shirt with that distinctive sunglasses, undoubtedly drew the eyes of many. He appraised you from head to toe, from your curled hair to your blue floral sundress, and then let out a chuckle.

"Well, well… Look at you. Now quite happily married, eh?"

You regarded him with a furrowed brow. "It's been a while, Gojo-san."

"How's it going? No regrets, I hope? You look absolutely stunning, so I'd assume not."

This isn't a good idea, you lamented internally. You shouldn't have agreed when he asked to meet at this popular bakery in Harajuku.

After Megumi's more or less confession on that morning, you immediately contacted Gojo, because in the end, he was the only one who actually could help you and Megumi.

You cleared your throat. "Megumi treats me well, yes."

"As I expected of someone I raised," Gojo proudly quipped with a proud smirk on his face.

You remembered the night following that fateful morning a week ago. Megumi told you that he was this close to finding someone who might be able to break his sister's curse.

“A curse-breaker, also a jujutsu sorcerer,” Megumi explained. “She possesses a nullifying technique capable of canceling all curses. Perhaps she can help to free Tsumiki as well.”

A beam bloomed on your face upon his explanation. "That's great! Like, if she can cancel the curse, there's a high chance for her to recover right?"

"Should be... I've got to meet up with her first though. So far, I'm still using the Zen'in name to contact her." He had this look of being deep in thought briefly before fixing his gaze on you. “Well, I just want you to meet Tsumiki soon.”

The fact that he wanted you to meet his remaining family filled you with joy. "You never talk about her much. Tell me more."

"She's exceptionally kind. In short, she is different from me." His emerald eyes crinkled a bit, seemingly remembering a fond memory. "She is against cruelty, even though there were many people who weren't nice to us."

"For as long as I can remember, it's only been Tsumiki and me," Megumi proceeded to add, as if sensing your curious stare. "Gojo-sensei is there too but I can't say he's my father now, can I?"

No, Gojo is more like his benefactor, and with his sister cursed, Megumi is essentially alone. Your smile fell a bit at that.

It was strange, you did feel sympathy for Megumi before, but now that you had acknowledged that you were in love with him—and even more now that he also made it clear that he felt the same, the thought of him being alone sent needles to your heart.

"Don't make that face," he retorted and you glanced at him. "I'm fine now. It was not that bad."

He then went after your hair and messed it up, making you scrunch your face in faux indignation.

Before you even realized it, you were down bad for him. You didn't want to see him get hurt or upset, and ultimately, you wanted to stay by his side for as long as possible. And that was what hurt the most, because you didn't know how long this could go on.

That was why now you were facing this six-eyed devil once again.

"Gojo-san," you exhaled. You didn't come here just to let him mess with you. "With what I've heard, the first hearing went well. The second one will be held soon. You… will be there, right?"

He let out a thoughtful hum. "Well, if I don't have any missions lined up, then sure."

"Please treat it more seriously. You know how they wouldn't dare to touch him with your presence alone."

"Oh, it seems you've forgotten already," Gojo remarked with a snort as he plucked a mini tart and popped it into his mouth. "That should be your part, Sena-chan. I'm just here to assist."

You clicked your tongue in irritation. "My point exactly. I'm asking you to provide your assistance."

You couldn't really believe him. He had said it himself—he had raised Megumi. Why wasn't he slightly bothered at all?

"You know, you're really cunning now that I thought about it," he blurted, mouth still stuffed full, as if mocking you altogether. "You're playing him like a puppet just to fulfill your goals."

"Don't act like you don't have your own agenda too." You bite back your anger, disregarding his comment. Apparently, true to many rumors about Gojo you had heard, this man was truly infuriating. "You want control over Zen'in. That was why you agreed to my proposition in the first place. You're using Megumi too."

"Are you really in mourning?" Gojo fixed his gaze on you, his clear blue eyes seemed to shimmer. "Barely a month after your mother's passing and you are instigating another bloodbath without knowing the consequences."

You felt your breath hitch at the blunt words. Something inside you snapped at his mention of your mother, and you bit your lower lip, willing your tears at bay.

Gojo's mouth was split into this rather manic grin, satisfied at how he managed to make you clam up. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Crankiness doesn't suit you, Sena-chan. And you don't have to worry if I will be there, because as you put it yourself, I do have my reasons."

But now your mind was pulled elsewhere. "Did you know something about who murdered my mother?"

"No. But she wasn't even a sorcerer. Who would target her? Someone who pins a mark on you would."

"Zen'in Naoya..." You gasped at the realization. He was the first person you should look into, how could you overlook it?

"Nah, but that's jumping too early," Gojo huffed. "You can't just come with nothing and accuse him of murder. Naoya would have your head before Megumi's."

"But he—!"

"Keep your eyes forward, Sena." Gojo's voice dropped, nearly sending a shiver down your spine. This sensation felt familiar to you, you could have sworn you have gone through this washed up terror before.

Your father's warning words. The way you would lower your forehead to the dirt ground, asking him for permission only to be told to remember your place.

Gojo Satoru was this era's strongest sorcerer, and now he was staring you down as if you were the stupidest person he knew. "I see through you. You can't run away from this. Not anymore."

And his smirk made you flinch.

"Not when Megumi is involved. Figuratively and literally speaking, you can't do that."

You shuddered this time, as what he said sank into your core. Figuratively and literally was the cold truth, incorporated in your binding vow, and not for the first time, you truly feared what and where this would lead to.

Perhaps sensing your silence as petrification—which wasn't far off the mark, brutally speaking—Gojo threw his hands in the air and barked a sardonic laugh to ease the tension. "Well, you've got me. Don't stress too much about him. Worry about your actions more."

"I'm doing this for him as well, you know," you snapped. "All of this, now I'm doing this all for him too, not solely for myself anymore."

Megumi was now so close to breaking Tsumiki's curse. As much as the prospect of him becoming the Zen'in clan head wasn't appealing at the slightest, that vile name was still useful and you could worry about that later.

Gojo released a derisive snort. "Is that so? Then, what's still in it for you?"

You looked at him with blind determination.

"I'm going to destroy Zen'in Naoya by taking away the one thing he covets the most."

Megumi thought it was going to be an ordinary day. As ordinary as meeting someone new would be, at least.

He was meeting up with a woman by the name of Kurusu Hana to discuss the possibility of curing his sister in Shibuya. At first she was acting fine, he was certain of that.

"Zen'in, right?" her voice sounded hesitant. He snapped his head towards her, and nodded. She promptly took a seat before him in this high-end cafe. She seemed nice, and he was convinced after she introduced herself.

"Let me introduce myself first. I'm Kurusu Hana, it's a pleasure to meet you, Zen'in-san."

"Oh, that... actually—" He never rectified it in their calls, but it felt wrong if he didn't disclose it to her now. "I'm not actually a Zen'in—please call me Fushiguro. Fushiguro Megumi."

"Fushiguro... Megumi...?"

That's when he noticed a sudden shift in Hana's gait. It occurred to him that she might be not as cooperative now after knowing that he was a not true-born Zen'in. However, this theory didn't align with her behavior, as she continued to respond to his inquiries and displayed genuine interest in Tsumiki's condition.

"Uh—oh, so it's been nine years..." she mumbled, lost in thought. "A curse as profound as that is not easily undone." Hana briefly met his eyes, then quickly looked away, a shy expression crossing her face.

If he were honest, her demeanor made him uncomfortable. He saw that kind of expressions on you, and you looked adorable, whereas she... was not. Well, might be because he definitely wasn't remotely attracted to her.

"Can it be reversed somehow?" he asked curtly.

"In theory, there's a chance. Possibly 40% actually," Hana responded, though her tone lacked the firmness he would have preferred to hear. "A curse residing that long in a human's body have... ingrained into the body itself, so it's not going to be as simple as exorcising newly-planted curses."

Megumi knew it wouldn't be easy, but hearing it firsthand was undeniably disheartening. "I see... Is there something that I—or you—can do?"

"I can attempt to break it, but the cost of it failing would mean the vessel’s immediate death."

He took a sharp intake of breath at that, his chest feelings suddenly tight.

Why was this world so unforgiving to kind people like Tsumiki and your mother? They hadn't done anything wrong, so why did they have to bear such heavy curses?

It was hard, but stalling any longer still meant Tsumiki’s impending death, so he decided to go through with the idea.

Hana would do enchantments for three weeks straight as a preparation to lift the curse from Tsumiki's body. And Megumi would be there to keep watch. Ah, he was thinking he could bring you too to switch with him if needed.

Wrapping the discussion up, he expressed his gratitude to Hana and prepared to take is leave. However, she halted him with a hesitant look.

"We have met before." She looked at him with such a hopeful expression it was jarring. "D-Do you... remember me?"

To him, what she said sounded like the peak of absurdity, and so he blurted the first thing that crossed his mind. "No, we have not."

"But..."

Megumi wanted to argue but then noticed something peculiar out of the corner of his eye. Through the glass panel of the quaint cafe, he could see the establishment next door that just happened to be where you and Gojo were.

Wait, you and Gojo-sensei?

"You saved my life!" Hana exclaimed, her raised voice shattered his thoughts and drew the attention of nearby diners. "You had two dogs with you—they led me out safely. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made it until today."

There were many things on Megumi's mind then. It took him a few seconds to discern her words as his eyes flickered again to where you were, and this time he saw you getting up from your seat and grabbing your purse.

And how Gojo seized your arm, pulling you roughly enough that you stumbled back a couple of steps.

Megumi saw red.

"I don't remember."

He knew it was his irritation speaking. He shouldn't have brushed her off like that, especially since he was the one in need of her help, but an overwhelming urge to stride over to where you were surged within him, and Hana's insistence was starting to grate on his nerves.

"I'm sorry, but I need to go." He completely missed Hana's crestfallen face as he fixed his gaze on you. "Thank you. I'll be seeing you again soon. Will contact you later."

He marched towards where both you and Gojo were, forcefully yanking the door that it caused the bells to ring with such intensity that it startled the girls waiting in line for pastries. That was when he realized that this fancy place was the one that required reservation before you could have a seat here.

Was it Gojo? Or you?

In any case, it appeared that both of you had finally become aware of his presence. You whirled to face him, wrenching your hand off Gojo's grasp.

"Megumi." Your voice came in a tense gasp. "What are you doing here?"

In sharp contrast to you, Gojo Satoru was jolly and didn't seem to care if he had just manhandled another man's wife. "Yoo, Megumi! It's been a while!"

It was as if every wire in his body had switched to autopilot. He remained expressionless, but he swiftly grasped your hand and pulled you to his side.

"I'm the one who should be asking you." His voice carrying a hard edge as he turned to you. "What are you doing here with him, of all people?"

"Booo, Megumi, you wound me! It's not like I would do anything to Sena-chan—"

Gojo's familiarity with you seemed to irritate him even further as he shot him a warning look. "Shut up, you're annoying," he said, lacing his fingers with yours and glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "We're going home."

The three of you—or rather, Megumi—definitely had made a debacle that onlookers were left with gaped expressions. He scowled and passed by them, maintaining a firm grip on your hand.

Gojo couldn't suppress an amused smile. "Well, well, Megumi-kun... Look at how much you've grown up."

Kurusu Hana was in love with Fushiguro Megumi.

She had convinced herself of that fact somehow, going as far as thinking of him as her destined one.

On a harsh snowy day, when she was teetering on the brink of certain death, a fluffy dog suddenly barked at her and indicated the path to safety. She recalled crawling on her hands and knees, following the white dog, until she felt the warm touch of local police guiding her to a secure location, away from menacing curses. She also remembered how the dog had dashed toward a boy who promptly patted it on the head. The boy, whose name she would later learn as Fushiguro Megumi, looked at her with a straight face, before a smile slowly spread across his lips.

She really didn't expect that she would really meet him again. More than ten years had passed by, and yet she still held that boy close and dear to her heart. Her savior.

Meeting him again this time was, of course, fate, or at least that was what she thought. She was about to erupt with euphoria… until he didn’t acknowledge her and left to catch another woman, pulling her along in a display of possession.

She was heartbroken. Maybe it was her fault too for keeping this love unspoken for as long as she did. But then again, how would she even speak it out loud? She never got the chance.

The way this encounter had played out and that she had seen him firsthand with a woman who clearly had his affections made her realize that there might not be a chance for her after all. Hana felt disheartened once more. But her spirits were consoled somewhat as she reminded herself that, from now on, she would be in contact with Megumi regularly due to her involvement in breaking his sister's curse.

It’s okay… Even if she couldn't have him, she could still admire and be near him.

That… should be enough.

next : all falls down

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[cosmerelists]

Cosmere Characters: Should They Be At The Club?

As I think I've mentioned, I write these lists a couple months in advance, usually. So I don't know if the great "They should be at the club!" meme is still going strong, or if people will see this and be all, "Bah! That's SO 2023!" But eh.

So anyway, should Cosmere characters be at the club?

1. Dalinar

Dalinar should not be at the club. Dalinar would not understand the club, and he would not like the club.

2. Sadeas

Weirdly, I think Sadeas would understand the club better than Dalinar would, but he still should not be there. Sadeas's presence would make the club worse, no matter how fashionable he is.

3. Tress

Tress was only eighteen! She should have been at the club, although the club would probably be less exciting than her life at sea.

4. MeLaan

MeLaann is only, uh, thousands of years old (I think) but she should ABSOLUTELY be at the club. She would love the club, and the club would love her too.

5. Rlain

Has Rlain ever NOT been having a tough time? He deserves a wild night at the club with Renarin, and I'm sticking with that.

6. Vivenna

Vivenna was only twenty-two when she was supposed to be sent to marry the god-king. Yes, she should have been at the club instead. She would hate it, though. She would hate it so much.

7. Painter

Painter should get to be at a club lurking in a corner, drinking vodka on the rocks because it sounds tough and wishing it didn't taste so much like rubbing alcohol.

8. Hoid

Hoid should not be at the club. He's very old and also, no one at the club would be able to hear what he was saying and that would make Hoid sad.

9. Demoux

Demoux was in his early twenties when Kelsier's rebellion was going on. He 100% should have been at the club instead. He's named after a friend of Brandon's and Brandon said he'd survive and "get a girl" apparently and those are both things that can happen at a club.

10. Lift

Lift should not be at the club. Isn't she like 13? That's too young for the club.

11. Kaladin

Kaladin should be at the club. Adolin will have to drag him there, though, and he will spend much of the time looking glowery.

12. Ulaam

Ulaam should not go to the club because drunk people cannot consent to giving up their body parts (even after death) and Ulaam knows that and it would make him sad to see all of those beautiful elbows or what-not and not even be able to ASK for them.

13. Sebarial

Sebarial should not be at the club--he should be home drinking with Palona. He would own clubs, though, if he could.

14. Hrathen

Hrathen should not be at the club. He would definitely kill the vibe.

15. Szeth

Szeth is like 35 years old. He should not be at the club. He should be wrapped in a warm blanket and placed somewhere quiet, peaceful.

16. Moash

Yes--at any point in the narrative you can look at what Moash is going through and say, "Would it be better for him to be at the club right now?" and the answer is always yes.

[gremlinmodetweeker]

I love u ur hella underrated i love your soft konigs🥹 i dont fancy those who makes him so morally corrupt(R@p1st)

Okay so, I have some mixed reactions. On one hand, thank you so much for your kindness. Like genuinely, it means the world to me. This is what keeps me going!

On the other, I am kinda wishy-washy about morally corrupt König? Like, I like reading it, but I can only see König as a highly intelligent dweeb. The worst he gets is my kidnapper au, where he's respectful of the reader's boundaries.

However! I do hope to write cnc or dubious consent sometime in the future. However, full on assault scenes are just something that I am not great at writing. I always see reader consenting in one way or another. I can't see König being fully malicious.

Is he a good person? Eh, it depends on who you talk to. Is he out to harm you? No. He'd never hit his partner (intentionally, there is no doubt in my mind he's spun around and whacked people in the head before) and I can't see him as the type to verbally or emotionally abuse someone, or at least not intentionally. However I would pay to watch him yell when training soldiers because that would be hella hot. But yeah, I see him as having good intentions, but being kinda funky in the head. He's seen a lot of combat, but he's also gone into combat trying to do the right thing, right?

So yeah, I do plan to write dubious consent and cnc, but I always have the reader fundamentally consenting as the ground level. König, as I write him (or at least, how I write him now) is not the type to harm someone intentionally if he's not in combat (unless you ask him to).

Again though, he has totally been looking at his phone and steamrolled people before. I bet he's the type to accidentally dent someone's car as he's reversing in the parking lot and then drive off as quickly as he can because he's ashamed of himself. Later, he stays up the entire night wishing he'd gone back and written an apology and given them some money. That's the König I write (for now).

Sorry for the whole rant, I just want you to be fully aware of what I write. I do not want to give you a false impression and then let you down or hurt you, yeah? I want to make sure you're safe. I know cnc and dubious consent isn't for everyone, and I want to make sure you're aware that this is something I write.

[squiddy-god]

hiiii I was wondering, well maybe this is a strange request but I've been reading a lot about "Merchen's Stepmother" where the protagonist is forced to marry at a young age to a much older marquis and from one day to the next she has to be a wife, take care of an entire house since she is a marchioness and also be a stepmother but not long after her husband dies, making her a widow at an early age and now she has to take care of everything alone, I know it sounds angsty qwq but I was wondering if you could do hdcns with an mc in a similar situation?) for pomefiore and scarbian, Sorry it's a long order ;u; ,thank youuuu and have a good day <33

Haiiiii~ so I think this request is very interesting because I had never heard of this, and I do have some thoughts but they are to general for it to really be hcs.

So my first thought is that I actually hate this trope,,, like arranged marriage for me is always on the edge and most of the time I just think it's eh, but I hate the trope of having to marry young to someone much older especially because the age implication with twst characters

But I think it's an interesting concept for a darker yuu/MC because imagine the implications of being suddenly thrust into this new magical world and,,, not having those expectations

I think it could be really great for like a MC who maybe doesn't want to return to their own world and kind of views this as like an opportunity to escape, because they're no longer a widow or head of the house, they're completely free to just be a teen/young adult (18) without like feeling that pressure

If I was going to write something like this, I would probably turn it into an AU where this is the MC/readers backstory because I can see this going 2 ways, either one, they don't want to return at all and are pretty happy to be able to like, basically go to school and learn about this world and have friends and all of that, or at first they would feel like they have to return because they had all these duties and responsibilities, but slowly realized that they never should have had those duties and responsibilities in the first place, and they've been basically given an opportunity to be free

I think just about every character would be pretty appalled to learn about this with maybe the only exception being Malleus and/or Lilia. Not because they aren't horrified but because they aren't shocked (Malleus would be pissed tho no doubt) especially if MC had to go through that all alone

I think the interactions with the noble characters would be interesting, so like disomnia, idia, Leona, kalim would be super interesting because they are actually royal/noble (kalim is just rich af but clearly influential)

If this was an AU or if I was going to write this, I think I would write it as a sort of tragic comedy, where it starts out kind of angry at first and then quickly transitions into a lot of comic relief. Because I feel that there is comedy potential

After scaping this horrible situation, and finally, being free of the shackles and burdens that came with being in their old world MC decides to bag a rich husband closer to their age this time

I think several of them would take the stance of "it's a good thing, your first husband is dead because they would have killed them" namely malleus and Lilia, potentially a few others (villain school)

Going to vil and Jamil I think they have very similar ways of handling this, but for different reasons.

In jamil's case it's coming from a place of knowing what servitude is like and actively, having to serve and do a great amount of stuff for kalim

In vils case it's coming from a place of not wanting you to let others dictate and control you, especially the words of others.

Both come from their Fierce senses of independence but slightly differently.

In the case of MC feeling duty bound to go back I think there are several characters who would be very blunt about how that isn't a good idea

Vil is definitely one of them, he's upfront and honest that he thinks it's a stupid idea. He can't understand why you would want to go back to a life you clearly hate when you don't have to. His blunt words help you to realize that you don't own anyone or any world. You have had no choice in any matter until now so you should make a decision that will be good for you!

I think Leona would be especially appalled by the treatment you received having to do all of this on your own because it's so vastly different from how women in the afterglow savana are treated, and so different from how he would treat you. Even if it was an arranged marriage he'd never treat his spouse so cruel and disrespectfully.

I see either option of it playing out very similar, with a very capable MC who manages the ramshackle dorm better than any of the other dorm leaders and is like "this is way easier than a whole estate"

If it's scenario A where MC is overjoyed at "escaping" and having freedom then MC takes lengths to ensure they will be able to get a job (or rich husband their age lmao) so that they can live happily in twisted wonderland, they get war flashbacks from Crowley because he makes MC do so much lmao.

At first is hesitant and nervous to have fun but after the bad (great) influence of ace, deuce, and grim, they begin to feel more comfortable and really let loose since they no longer have burdens weighing them down

Casually brings up why they were so hesitant to have fun and be silly at first and everyone is horrified. The overwhelming support from friends really helps a lot honestly

Makes jokes about being a widow/being married. If they romantically pursue malleus/Lilia they make about how they are technically older then their first husband (malleus is not happy he's your second husband but is determined to be your last and best husband)

If it's scenario B where MC feels obligated to return home at first then the reveal is much sooner, they say they have responsibilities to go back to but are only met with looks of horror and pity, the others deciding that this reserved, miserable, sad cloud hanging over MC has to be taken care of so they decided to give you a price of their mind.

I think this would happen after book 7/potential book 8, after MC has spent at least 1½-2 years in twst and is really struggling because their new life and friends make them happy, maybe even their love interest, but they feel so incredibly guilty for wanting to stay. After all the overblots and adventures malleus is the last straw. He's very similar to MC in a way, desperate to not lose the only friend he has while MC is desperate to not lose their new life and happiness.

The dream Malleus gives them is telling. They don't see "home, they don't see the estate or family they left behind, nothing of their old miserable life married to a man on death's door and expected to just be fine with it all. No MC sees grim, and ace, deuce, epel, Sebek, jack, everyone. All of their friends in Ramshackle are happy and smiling, they feel free and weightless and it's like this was meant to be. They dream of cute dates with their " boyfriend" not husband, not fiancee, just a simple term that invokes a sense of youth they've never felt despite being so young. When they awake, ripped from that perfect dream to see the thorns and bramble grown around them in a magical cage, they don't have time to lament the irony before having to deal with malleus.

But afterwards? When the smoke has cleared and malleus returns to normal they break, if there was Any magic in their body it would have bloted that very moment because they realize that they don't want to go, they don't want to leave.

It isn't until they stand face to face with the mirror that they take a stand. It's been a whole year, no one is happy, nothing but gloom perpetuates the mirror room and in the brief moment of hesitation ace is the first to speak up- hell he really wanted to punch you- but decided that pulling you away from the mirror into the world's tightest hug is far better.

He rips into you honestly, they all give you a piece of their mind, some are gentle others are harsh and blunt but the message is clear.

You don't have to leave, you have a choice for the first time in your life and you don't owe your world anything.

Stay, stay and be happy- just take their hand, become a part of their world.

[smilingangel582]

Hiiii I just finished Cyno's second story quest and it's beyond amazing! I love it! The best story quest so far for me... seriously!

I really really want a Sethos and Cyno fic now... bjt at the same time I want a Lisa and cyno too...

Eh, I'll just write both. Man it's been a while... since I wrote for genshin impact.

Hehe

Warning spoilers for Cyno story quest 2 and his lore about his powers.

Ler!sethos, Lee!cyno

Summary: Sethos really wants to beat Cyno. Tcg is out of the question... what can he do? He really needs to find his weakness... nonetheless, a certain Fennec decides to spill a little secret.

Temple of laughter

Ugh... again... Cyno, the general of Mahamatra, beats him again.

That'd thr seventh time in a row.

"You really need to brush up on your strategic skills." Cyno casually states, his tone serious anf genuine regardless of Sethos mentality.

Sethos has his head lowered on the table. Utterly broken and defeated. He looks up with fatigue, "Seriously Cyno, isn't there any other way that I can best you in?"

Cyno thinks, actually wondering to what he can help with Sethos. How's your sense of humour with jokes? I've known to have the best puns in Sumeru... perhaps from Teyvat"

"Don't go spouting puns on my watch, Cyno," Tighnari intervenes as he joins them briefly after a rain forest mission.

Cyno sigh, "Just admit that my jokes are superior and you can't hold in your laughter..."

Tighnari rolls his eyes, sarcastic now, "Oh yes I'm gonna die laughing every time he says a pun joke..."

Cyno, naively believing him, folds his arms proudly, "See, even the most serious ones know how great my -Ah!"

Tighnari poked him on the side, looking sassy, "How about try a tickle fight?"

"That's dumb..." Cyno scoffs but flinched defensively when Tighnari threatens to poke him again.

Sethos blinked. Could that be it? The general mahamatra can't possibly lose to something as simple as that...

Tighnari, seeing Sethos who's also curiously watching Cyno, smirks with an idea popping to his mind. His ear twitched in excitement as he swiftly began, "You know Sethos, you and Cyno can wrestle and see who's stronger."

Cyno, unaware of his ulterior motives, looks up in confusion, "That's unexpected... why suddenly?"

Tighnari cheekily points out, "Oh? Are you afraid that you might actually lose to someone younger than you?"

"N-no, of course not... geez, fine, I'll play along!"

Green eyes brightened at the thought of how Tighnark set him a perfect chance to get Cyno back. However he should be careful when Cyno retaliates. He's pretty ticklish too... perhaps even more than Cyno.

It's too absurd to think Cyno is ticklish... it might be a path to death if he attempted it. Still it's worth the risk.

"Fine Sethos, ready whenever you are," Cyno says, his hands up against his chest to a defence stance.

Sethos takes his chances, inhaling and exhaling. Praying thar Cyno will be at least a bit ticklish...

"The ribs and armpits... and pretty much his back and thighs are bad..." Tighnari whispered to him on his way out from the room where they've been duelling TCG.

Sethos looks back, tearfully and gratefully. He should remind himself to treat Tighnari to a meal sometime.

He lunged, and as expected, Cyno dodged most of them. After keeping up the charade, Sethls strikes by throwing himself on the general, grabbing his waist.

Sethos swiftly tickles his ribs causing Cyno to jolt on surprise, "H-ha! Wait... what a-ahahare you...?"

Getting more confident by that reaction, Sethos began to tickle up his armpits, causing Cyno to jerk again, more violently, he giggles in a low voice.

"Ah... I never knew the general Mahamatra to be this sensitive..." Sethos responds fondly. Seeing the uncontrolled movements of Cyno, squirming and rolling to the side to avoid his sensitive spots but Sethos was already on to him, his tickles nimble and effective.

"H-hahaa cohohohome on! Thihihihis isn't fahahahair!" Cyno squirms now, trying to figure back but Tighnari had give away all his worst spots to Sethos and luckily he can't even tickle him back properly. Every time Cyno reached to tickle him back, Sethls tickled his armpits.

"But you weren't fair when you tried to make me play a game. I never had a chance to win..." Sethos said, feigning hurt, "Oooh but general... you look more ticklish than me... what if an eremite finds out?"

Cyno was not prepared for Sethos to switch him on to his stomach, and scribble his fingers on his back. Unable to defend himself, Cynl writhes and laughs, more like cackling like a madman, "AhaHAHAHA NOHOHO MORE! AHA!"

"Do you yeild Cyno?" Sethos grins, expectantly but Cynl cackles. Not responding...

"In that case..." Sethos and Cyno both hears a voice, Tighnari leaning by the door frame, watching fondly, "Sethos aim for the back of his thighs... its so bad that he will scream like a girl"

"Ihihihi dohoho nohohot screeeheheheam like a gihihirl -EEEEK!"

Tighnari shakes his head amusedly, and he did...

Sethos freeze by that sound when Cyno lets a shrilled, high-pitched cry as his fingers swiped the back of his thigh.

"O-oho wow... I didn't expect that..." Sethos somewhat feels bad, but... he couldn't help lightly run his fingers over the thighs, causing Cyno to yelp now, "N-NOT THERE!"

Maybe just a little longer...

Sethos teases him, "Wait... are you really begging me Cyno?"

Cyno grits his teeth, but giggles angrily when Sethos, merely used to tap the sensitve spot, and even his hips making him flinch again.

"Cynoo~ which funny bone will it take to break you?" Sethos had to make a joke as he squeezes his hip, Cyno shrieks and that made Tighnari laugh, "Well I can guarantee Sethos has a better sense of humour than you..."

"Nooohooohoo"

Sethos didn't know if it's the tickling or the fact that Tighnari said he was funnier than Cyno triggered him.

"So tough but ticklish..." Sethos murmurs, now Cyno reached his limit when he got his knees.

"Fohohor thehehehe love ohohof teheheyvat y-yohohou win! You whihihihin!"

Sethos looks happy, suddenly whooping as he got off of Cyno, "Finally! I beat Cyno!"

Tighnari giggles now, proud, "Nice one, Sethos... Cyno is finally put to his place"

Cyno groans, trying to sit up despite his fatigue and flushed face, "J-juhuhuhust don't think I'll not get rehehehevenge on you and Tighnari"

Sethoa merely grins.

Worth it...

Ignore the grammar pls thanks

[beyondthisdarkhouse]

Well, I just got VERY distracted.

I was researching wholesale sewing supplies companies, and came across one from Eastern Canada that showed their shipping policies and times, which included a map like... this.

I've simplified the colours from the original, but not the positions of anything. And that made me DISTRACTED, because like... if you have also spent time staring at road maps of the prairie provinces, let me ask you: what the entire actual fuck, eh?

Let's superimpose. (Click for better resolution)

This map is sus in so many ways I can't even explain what went wrong here. The northern shore of Lake Athabasca gets faster shipping than Winnipeg? Kindersley is a priority destination, but Regina isn't? Edmonton has been usurped by (*reads smudged writing on hand*) Edson? The best shipping in Alberta is not centrered around Calgary, but, like... Nordegg? It's not on the map, but I swear to god it's fucking Nordegg. Also, who the hell did Saskatchewan have to fuck to get that kind of relative priority? (Come to think about it, though, if I were in charge of Saskatchewan, I'd absolutely sell my honour for some kind of rural logistics boost. What else would I do with it?)

And I wouldn't mind, except that this is the map that tells me how fast my shipping is gonna be! This is the only indicator on their website that lets me know whether my shit will arrive tomorrow, or a week from now!

(Okay, self. Deep breaths. I'm getting a bit upset and overblown here. It's okay. Clearly my shit wouldn't arrive until the next business week whether I lived in the Pembina Valley or not.)

So, in the larger map, Ontario, Nova Scotia, Vancouver, and Victoria are all where they ought to be. But what if, I don't know, these shipping zones were the right size and shape, but just in the wrong place?

I'd still be desperately curious to know what Saskatchewan did. And if I had to accept them, I'd guess they'd be more like...

If I'm right, clearly it's not just one thing wrong with them. They're not off in similar directions or amounts. At which point my only explanation would be that, like... someone started out with a shitty map, compressed the image, and then tried to blow it back up into a regular image again. And then it happened three more times, if not more.

MY FELLOW CANADIANS: DO BETTER

That's it that's my post. I wash my hands of the subject and will focus on suppliers from BC.

Except, just for fun, Saskatchewan's suspiciously spacious shipping corridor (what a great new tongue-twister!) with some European scale for spice.

[thebaddexample]

FILM THEORY: DEATH RETURNS TO INANIMATE INSANITY!! BUT IT'S NOT TACO OR LIGHTBULB!!

Warning, spoilers and possibly cringey or bad writing, but it's 1am for me so eh

(First off, shout-out to my mom for coming up with this idea for me to make a theory on- You're the best :3)

(Second, thumbnail by me :])

(Thirdly, I might rewrite this during the day at some point because I'm really tired, but had to get this out before I slept bcs I'd forget to otherwise)

(Fourthly, I know that this isn't a completely original idea, and people have done it already, but I wanted an excuse to make a theory and there's evidence, so I thought "why not?" It'll make people upset with me if I'm right, and I get to pretend to be Film Theory for a bit. It's a win-win!)

(You are legally required to read this post as MatPat's voice /silly /j)

————————

With the horrifying tweet that Brian made last Saturday, there's a lot of people (including you, probably) worried about who will die in the finale, the harsh battle between whether we say "bye" to a bright light, or "so long" to our sour cream schemer. My answer? Neither!! Object show community, inanimate fandom... whatever we call ourselves! I'm about to present to you why our beloved (and somewhat recently hated) host is going to be the death of the season.

————————

First of all, the trailer (and @inanimateinsanityfan 's recent tumblr post "invitation") has somewhat implied that the focus of the movie, the A-Plot at least, will be around Cobs attempting to get to MePhone4 somehow, whether it be luring him up to Meeple Headquarters or trying to get down to him. We've seen from previous episodes that Cobs wants him dead, but it's hard to tell if he's changed his motive, since we haven't seen him since Episode 13 "Mine Your Own Business". However, he has been consistently sending his newer MePhones to eliminate MePhone4, as 5C clearly states in Episode 6. The newer models have features like tracking (much like MePad) and knife hands (NOT like MePad), which MePhone4 doesn't have, which should in theory have made him easier to kill.

Speaking of the abilities, the MeLife function is only ever used by MePhone4, or at least we only ever get to see him do it. Why? Well, I have an idea but that's a theory for another time. The point is; MePhone4 seems to be the only Meeple product with the ability to bring people to life, and has all of the contestants on there as far as we know. This means that, unless there's a creative solution to perma-kill one of the contestants, MePhone4 needs to die first for any perma-death to occur in the first place.

And hell, removing the regeneration ability as a whole would be a great way to cap off the season, to establish that there's no more retrying and that everything is now set in stone. And even if we do get that damn FOURTH season (bonus points to whoever gets the reference), it'll at least spice things up with having, say, MePad as a host instead, leaving the spot open for someone else to claim and have an interesting story arc of their own.

This shot already pulls up a parallel between MePhone4 and MePhone3GS, and though 3GS isn't really confirmed dead, they're definitely not gonna be alive any time soon. The parallels could imply that MePhone4 is destined to a fate similar to 3GS; no longer in service, probably broken, and maybe even killed of by Cobs himself.

In addition to this, all of the other MePhones we've seen have all died; MePhone4 technically died with 4S and 5 in the Season 1 finale "Journey Through Memory Lane", 5S and 5C were introduced and immediately killed in Season 2 Episode 6 "Let 'Er RIP", and MePhones 6 and 6+ were also immediately killed upon introduction in Season 2 Episode 8 "Theft and Battery". The MePhones all have something in common, and that is unavoidable and quick death, much like real iphones honestly.

Does this mean that MePhone4 will have to die as a result of MePhone's faulty creation? No, but there is a pre-established pattern with each of the MePhones that goes as a cycle, perpetuating Cobs' cruel style of doing things; he creates something, claims it's his favorite for a year, then makes something a little better and throws the pre-established bond away to die, and rinse and repeat.

But hey! That's just a theory!

An Object Theory!!

Uh- what's the opposite of "greetings and salutations"-?

"Goodbye and see-you-laters!!"

[milksnake-tea]

OMG COULD I FOR THE FFOR TH- SAMPO 66666666ckfkuff 0PRŌMPY

OKAY I GOT THIS! FOR THE EVENT COULD I JAVE FLUFF PROMOT 6 ACCIDENDNFLLY FALLING ASLEP ON SAMPO???? HAVE A GREAT! YOUR WRITING 🥺☺️😊

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: You accidentally falling asleep on them. ❀ ˎˊ- 1k followers event ❀ ˎˊ- character: sampo ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: mentions of alcohol ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: IM SORRY IN ADVANCE IM STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE SAMPO,,, HOPE U LIKE IT THO VI !!! also this hinges on the masked fools sampo theory so coughs

It's late at night at a bar in Epsilon, the home of the Masked Fools. The sound of laughter, the pouring of alcohol, and the songs of bards fill the air. Bright, warm lights, coupled with the darkness of night outside, create a beautiful balance.

You laugh at one of your fellow masked followers' jokes, leaning on Sampo as you sip at your preferred drink. Your lover in question is prattling on to another follower, retelling the story of Belobog and the Astral Express in a far more entertaining and dramatic fashion.

You'd love to live in this moment forever, basking in the blessings of the Elation. However, you were still only human, and the hours without sleep were beginning to get to you.

But you weren't one to ruin the joy of others on your account. A simple nap would do. Just a few minutes, and you'd be back on your feet with everyone else. Just a few... minutes...

Behind your mask, your eyelids drooped, and your head lolled onto Sampo's shoulder. Soon enough, five minutes turned to ten, and ten into twenty.

"Huh? Oh," Sampo laughed when he saw you dozing off on him, his chest rumbling with his laughter. "Would you look at that."

In one fell swoop, he swept you into his arms, and stood up from the table. He does it so easily, it's almost like second nature to him. Meanwhile, you are none the wiser, lost in your own dreamland.

"Well, it seems our night together is coming to an end, my good friends!" he declared, keeping his voice loud and joyful, but not too loud that you would awaken. He bows the best he can with you in his arms, careful not to drop you. "Let's continue this tale another time, yeah?"

He only chuckled when his friends jokingly boo him, sauntering off as they ushered him away. Using his foot to open the door, Sampo finds that the outside is much quieter than the roars of the tavern. Much more peaceful, he muses.

As he headed towards your shared inn, your head bumped against his chest, jolting you awake. You yawned in his embrace, stretching.

"Sampo..?" you said drowsily, blinking deliriously at him from behind your mask. "Where... are we?"

"We're just about headed home," he replies, grinning down at you with that cheeky smile of his. You don't know how he did it, but he'd already removed his mask. Why he didn't remove yours, you didn't care to find out.

"Mm." You hummed, curling into yourself to snuggle closer against his chest. "You didn't have to leave, you know."

"Yeah," Sampo agreed, "but how could I leave my little angel to sleep in such a loud place? Just isn't right."

You laughed, the sound warming Sampo's heart. "You're so sweet."

"Aren't I?" Sampo chuckled. "Make sure to tell the guys and girls over at Belobog that, won't you?"

"I always do." You let out another yawn, closing your eyes once again. Sampo wanted to protest, but you were already knocked out. He sighed to himself, smiling fondly as he arrived at the inn.

"You are so high maintenance sometimes, you know that?" he said to no one in particular, not really meaning what he said. "Eh, whatever. Still love you though."

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!