#enjoy the grimdark while I go make more

[lets-try-some-writing]

The Grim Dark Archives: Transcript #002

[Transcript taken October 1st 2004 in response to a call to 911 from the phone of one of the five missing persons reported prior to the Autobots usage of holoforms. The caller was in a panic as she reported being closed in by four vehicles on the highway not far off from Texas.

Initially this call was not brought to government attention due to the commonality of false alarms usually amounting to drivers in the area seeing things. However upon looking over the details the caller gave, one of our agents brought the call to our attention and it says a great deal about the Autobots... hunting methods.

Transcript begins.]

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(Talking Clock: September 25, 2004, 22:24:03) EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: 911, where is your emergency? CALLER: I-I'm driving. There is someone following me, a gang maybe? I don't know, but they are following me and have been for the past half hour. EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: Where are you Sir? CALLER: I'm on the Texas 49 road. I came out this way to get away from my family and to have some peace and quiet, but now there are people following me and there is nowhere for me to go! EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: I understand Sir. It will take us a while to get anyone out to you, but stay on the line. Can you describe where you are and what is happening? CALLER: Yeah, I can do that. T-There are two vehicles on either side of my car. One looks to be some sort or sports model, a yellow and black striped car. A-And the other is some sort of jeep, really dark green I think, but I can't see all that well in the dark. They haven't done anything, but their windows are tinted and I can't see who is driving. I've already tried getting away from them, but whenever I speed up, so do they! EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: Calm down Sir. Can you pick out their license plates? CALLER: NO! I've tried but they don't HAVE license plates! They are unregistered and I can't see any sort of stickers or anything that could identify them! I've been looking, I swear I've been looking but they won't leave-! EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: Sir, you need to stay calm. Tell me your name and exactly what is happening while we get some officers out in your direction. Can you do that? CALLER: Y-Yeah I can do that... My name is [REDACTED] from [REDACTED]. These cars seem like they are trying to lead me somewhere, I can't quite figure it out. They won't let me leave, and every time I try to swerve and get away, they speed up with me and get me back in my own lane! I don't know what they want! EMERGENCY DISTPATCHER 4: It will be alright Sir. Stay calm and stay with me. Officers are on their way. Just keep driving straight and try not to look panicked. Don't let them lead you anywhere, alright? CALLER: A-Alright, I can do this. Stay calm [REDACTED] stay calm... EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: That's right. Good job Sir. You are doing great. Officers should be there within- CALLER: No no no! There's another! Another vehicle! I-It's a motorcycle! Blue and pink I think! I-It's making strange sounds and it doesn't have a rider! ITS DRIVING ON ITS OWN-! EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: SIR! Remain calm! I need to you to describe what is going on. Stay on the line, officers are on the way. CALLER: THEY DON'T HAVE DIVERS! NONE OF THEM! I-I saw it, the yellow and black sports car, it rolled down its window and there was no one inside! They are getting closer! They are boxing me in, I can almost feel them scratching the paint on my car-! EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: It will be alright Sir! Try to speed up! See if you can get ahead of them! Officers will be there in ten minutes! CALLER: I'm trying I'm trying but they keep coming closer and speeding up-! I-I don't know what they want but they are so close! EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: Calm down, please calm down- CALLER: T-There's another! A big red semi! They are all around me and are pushing me toward this thing, I can't tell what it is! Its big and green and glows like some portal to hell-![Deafening screeches] EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: SIR! CAN YOU HEAR ME?! CALLER: I CAN'T LET THEM TAKE ME! I WON'T LET THEM! I'M GOING TO SWERVE INTO THE WOODS! THEY CAN'T GET ME THERE! [Hysterical screaming] EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: SIR NO! CALLER: [Various horns and beeps] LEAVE ME ALONE-! [Tearing metal and cracking wood] EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: HOLD ON! SIR! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! SIR! CALLER: I-I its hurts... the... the vehicles... they ... they are changing. EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: Sir you are likely delirious, please hold on. You need to leave your vehicle and escape the wreck so that officers can get to you- CALLER: They... they are humanoid? I'm not lying, the cars, they just changed I can't explain it... No no no NO NO DON'T NO NO I DON'T WANT TO DIE HERE!

EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: SIR! SIR!

CALLER: [Distant screams and electronic noises]

EMERGENCY DISPATCHER 4: WE NEED OFFICERS ASAP-!

(Call ends 22:30:07)

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[Transcript ends.

Officers arrived at the scene ten minutes after the call ended and discovered [Redacted03]'s vehicle wrecked on the side of the road, half crushed against the trees. Investigation proved that [Redacted03] could have easily survived the crash itself due to the airbag functioning, however her disappearance was regarded as a mystery until our agents were sent out to review the situation.

Her vehicle had its door completely torn off and there were huge almost finger like indents in the sides. Officers originally speculated that it could have been the work of perhaps a local predator, but our agents were quick to note the tracks in the ground that were quite clearly Cybertronian based off shape alone. Officers who were at the scene were paid for their silence and we gained greater insight into just how the Autobots... acquired their holoforms.

[Redacted] was not lying... I worry for how much more we are going to discover bit by bit because of these aliens.

Agent Witwicky signing off.

Recording end.]

[vyzz-undercover]

RAAAGHHG QUICK HOLD THIS!!!

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(11,000ish words) (MAXED OUT SPACE LMFAO)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•no dubcon (growth!!!)

•hints of size kink

•references to masturbation

•oral [f receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•breeding kink (finally someone admits it)

•mild violence [on reader]

•degrading language

•tumblr's horseshit concept of copy paste formating

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WHATS UP???? IM ALIVE ENJOY THE FUCKING SHITSTORM OF CATO FINALLY ADMITTING HES A WIFE GUY BASICALLY!!!!! oh and here's the taglist ily all mwah mwah!!! @mothiir, @moodymisty, @bispecsual, @the-raven-lady, @thevoidscreams, @pluvio-tea, @lemon-russ, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @historitor-bookshelf, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @scriberye, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @undeaddream, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist, @sinistermojo, @vivacious-hyena, @grimdark-racoon!!!! if anyone wants on or off taglist lmk no pressure!!! enjoooooyyyy i love u alllllll :3

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For all intents and purposes, everything is going swimmingly.

Cato is happier these days—and so are you, apparently.

So when he is called to the Command deck by his Primarch, he is somewhat unsure of what to make of the matter. Paranoia rises in his gullet like bile, but ever since the slip up in front of Guilliman, you've both been spotless.

Cato strides up the parapet and demagnetises the locking pins keeping his helm secure, tugging it off his head and letting it nest in the crook of his arm.

Slicking his hair into some semblance of order with a free hand, he sighs.

Ugh, he needs a haircut—it's starting to get in his eyes if he doesn't swipe it back. But he can't—because you seem to approve, and stubborn as he is, if keeping it this length means he receives dainty Ambassador fingers as a comb sometimes, then so be it.

It still pisses him off, though.

Regardless, Cato carries on his way—and the first face he sees upon entering the discussion area is the Chapter Master's, and two of his subordinate Victrix Guard hovering behind.

The Primarch's lesser-used vessel Dawn of Fire has been given to Calgar, and has been trailing behind the Macragge's Honour for a month and a half now; meaning the situation has granted a fair few more audiences than normal amongst them.

Nemus bows his head in unison with Lethro, the gesture familiar and practiced, while Calgar simply tips his chin down at him.

Cato reciprocates with a curt, martial bob and takes his place nearby his Primarch at the central control booth.

A few menials are fiddling with the specifications of the lithocast display before it flickers into life, the green-tinged projection juddering for a second before stabilising to a clear motion pict link.

Lo and behold, Severus Agemman's shiny bald head and pinched face.

The mere sight is enough to make Cato disinterested; and when he hears the First Captain speak his greetings to the Primarch, Cato abruptly considers himself deaf.

He turns away, looking aside, and finds you.

You're leaning on the railing of the raised observation deck while his Primarch gives feedback Cato doesn't heed.

You've dressed a little different than your usual ship-attire—clad in that same old blue robe but armed with a big navy shawl, and he suspects you've done so expecting the chill of the upper deck.

Cato's dark brow quirks as he gazes towards the high, arching, star-flecked windows. Throne, he feels like he's being hypnotised by the white shifting whorls—there is a humility to gazing up, every so often. A reminder of perspective. Cato has seen some objectively beautiful sights in the galaxy; stars and asteroids and planets untouched by Humanity, and Xenos, and Chaos alike; but none really compare to watching you stare up at the wide glass panels, absentmindedly connecting the dots between distant gas giants.

For a moment it feels like everything is unimportant.

He wants to stand beside you. Lean down and rest on the railing, and bask in the smile you'd shoot up at him.

He wants to ask which cluster of far off planets you think prettiest, perhaps if you recognise any—or if you'd like to see how the stars look glittering off the mighty oceans of his home-world—but it is not appropriate to behave that way with the current company, despite how it aches to deny himself the sentiment.

"No," Guilliman sharply answers a response Cato hadn't been listening to.

And only then does Cato realise himself, gaze and focus tearing back to reality and sticking to Guilliman's big, tired blue eyes, as he digresses, "No, no—the moment the Drukhari know we are onto them, they will butcher through the populace for sport—and the elites will cripple the dwarf planet to spite them. Farrim is a major port world, the set back of going off course, even temporarily, is worth the delay."

There are several billion inconsequential people on that rock. And all they have to thank for not being sentenced to slavery and death is the benefit of being close by.

The locale would surely not be high priority if not for the chance it is practically adjacent to Agemman, and he can simply scare off the assault with an extremely minor detour—and then obliterate the fleeing Xenos like chaff before the wind.

The only real problem is orchestrating how to go about it.

Bombard them into their base particles before they even get their hand in the jar? Or let them begin, and then close the trap to watch them squirm and suffer in it like salted leeches?

Cato knows he would chose the latter, but he's not about to dignify Severus with any sort of advice on such meagre matters.

Cato exists beyond the normal chain of discipline, as Commander of the Victrix Guard—which means felating Agemman is Sevastus Acheran's problem as Captain of the Second Company, now.

The planetary governance's reaction must be considered also—he knows of Farrim, vaguely. There are a series of vast docks in geosynchronous orbit, and that means they are host to all sorts of satellite criminal activities. It is surely a rat's nest rife with Rogue Traders returning from deep dives into hell; and that means heretical practices, like engaging in interspecies dealings; of tack, of weregild—of flesh.

Cato knows well the horrible desperation of the weak for some form of certitude in a galaxy run mad, even if the only certitude possible was that of complete degeneration. A greedy baseline would sell their kin to Xenos to eat another day. That is the reason for law. It is one of the reasons for Astartes. It is a basic truth. Because a cornered beast would sooner kill itself in the struggle of fleeing than face its pursuer—and humanity in masses are oft worse than if they were caged in a cramped pen with a starving Termagant.

But he hopes, beyond reason, that the moronic rulers that allowed the Drukhari so close would suffer far more than just the panic of the chase before succumbing to their vermin fear in such a way. Punishment would be harshly imposed, because treating with Xenos ever yielded foul results. Simply writhing in their own terror was not enough justice for their enactures, and Cato will gladly watch the meting out of greater judgement upon them soon.

Consequently, Cato had come to find almost all Aeldari are cunning, vapid, spineless rabid dogs. Naught but misery-merchants, worthless and parasitic enough to be slaughtered en masse without hesitation.

The Lord Primarch did not wholly agree with this, of course. But he had his own reasons for such beliefs, after having met with them himself. He said there are, allegedly, good and bad ones amongst the lot—then he went on to say one should ever be considerate of their fey, mercurial motives.

Cato knows a knife-eared witch had implored much of Guilliman, and his father is nothing if not a good listener.

But Guilliman is also a master tactician, and is more human than most of the Imperium is led to believe.

At times, he behaves more human than his gene-sons—but his Father was reared well, so he says. And maybe that's why he insists on assessing the uncouth. Like hearing out dribbling Xenos hierophants, or keeping you as a pupil pet.

Cato believes the Primarch favours you, truly.

He has projected his meagre hope of a kinder future on your success, against all the impossible odds.

Guilliman is a brilliant leader, and an even better teacher.

He is just, and personable—but stern.

Cato is the opposite.

He bites, and he always has.

Martinet to his core, Cato is ever succinct; almost to a sociopathic degree at times. He's never truly understood how to speak with his Father's finesse. But he can mimic it. He knows the gist of what to say, and when to say it. Largely by predicting the next words. As an Astartes, he is not inherently made to be a statesman, even if he is the Grand Duke of Talassar.

Nevermind the fact a vast majority of political dissidents opponents would sooner grant themselves the Emperor's mercy than try argue policy with him, an Ultramarine. He knows he is sullen and bad-tempered and easily aggravated in casual conversation, even amongst his Brothers—but he's not about to admit things like that out loud; and where he once sought out discourse—he's become despondent reclusive compared to his previous confidence.

He swallows down the harsh reality that he knows the exact tipping point.

He tries to forget that Damnos was the first pebble before the rockslide; the agonising strike of a Necron lord's war-scythe in his side, not to mention the sting of Severus Agemman's proverbial sabaton up his ass.

And, most importantly, he ignores the hint of tinnitus in his ears. The echoing across the decks of the Emperor's Will that sound like screa—

You yawn, and look over your shoulder to Guilliman with a weary curiosity.

You are everything Cato isn't, and he knows that now.

Perhaps that is the real allure of you, in the end; beyond the aspects of his lust, and your own affections.

Sweet, endearing—trusting to a fault, and... small.

He almost snorts to himself at that because, Throne, you really do look tiny amongst so many ceramite clad trans-humans.

The Primarch flashes you a soft glance and directs his gaze back to the lithocast.

You approach Guilliman with a preppy, yet cautious sort of diligence; standing beside him not a moment later as he listens to Agemman prattle on, and on—and on.

Agemman doesn't acknowledge your entrance in the slightest, hell, he doesn't even blink. He doesn't know you by face—but Cato knows you know him; because in Guilliman's quest to have you absorb as much information as possible, you've interacted by writing many times. But the First Captain clearly wrongly assumes the woman in his holo-field of view is a lowly attendant, not the Ambassador he's had several dissertation-long discussions with by note.

You're looking up at Agemman with a soft smile, like one would reserve for a friend—and he does not return it.

Seemingly aware of the fact your gesture is for naut, your expression withers to a sad little frown.

At that, Cato's eyebrows furrows harshly, embittered by seeing you suffer the rejection.

He ought to—

But then a bundle of data-slates are lifted off the hexagonal interface surrounding the projection system, held out to you in far, far larger gauntlets than Cato's own; and you take them into the cradle of your arms.

It's too many for you to comfortably hold, and Cato can tell solely because there's that familiar, tiny crease between your brows that only ever appears when you're unsure of something.

"I will be back en-route with the First as soon as the threat is cleared, and—" Agemman's raving wavers periodically, hologram gaze tilting down.

Cato winces a bit when the topmost slate slips out of your bundled arms and clatters to the deck loudly.

In response, the First Captain's hologram rakes you with a nigh appalled sneer that has Cato puffing up at the hackles like an angry carnodon.

"A-Apologies, my lords..." You shrink back, seeking an exit, in that frightened-mouse way of yours that Cato would've once delighted in long ago. But it's a grating, bastardised comparison when he knows Agemman's disgust is entirely, baselessly genuine unlike Cato's had been.

Another slate falls in your timid outburst, and Agemman snorts angrily at you.

More than willing to take the heat, Cato immediately steps forward into the threshold of the holo-cast's vision breadth and snorts back.

It's a standoffish moment where the First Captain becomes aware of him and turns his head.

"Cato," Agemman says sharply in that typical, dismissive tone; but his expression betrays a brooding aggravation.

He scowls, lips curling much like his fingers into a fist, "Severus."

He can play this game, because unlike prior altercations—he's not being held to a rapport of failure.

Cato answers to Calgar and Guilliman now, and yes, he's to heed Agemman—but he's not to abide orders like he'd had to during his Captaincy of the Second.

And neither Calgar nor Guilliman have stopped him as of yet for this outburst.

In fact, Calgar is apparently more interested in trying to rub away a speck of grime on his power-fist.

While the Primarch... well, the Primarch has currently shut his eyes, grimacing softly.

It appears Cato's simply keeping the peace.

And on the surface, to onlookers, it's not at all indicative of any ulterior reason aside from petty distaste for Agemman—even if Cato's real motive is possessive defensive, and solely intent on taking the attention off you.

"Enough," The Primarch grumbles at last, and opens his eyes as he leans down—his great height folding—dutifully collecting the two, small fallen objects with mild hassle. Guilliman sighs at you remorsefully as he sets the data-slates in a better position, unperturbed by your clumsiness. "The Ambassador has done me no insult, she was merely over encumbered. The galaxy as we know it has not imploded, as of yet."

Agemman blinks, "...Ambassador?" he mumbles—with the revelation, in a fraction of a second he's entirely placid and defanged, reigning himself back in and cringing slightly—unlike Cato, who returns to glaring murderously at him.

"That means you, too," Guilliman starts aloud, and he apparently knows he needn't clarify more.

Cato grinds his teeth and tears his gaze away, letting it fall aside as he unclenches his fists.

You take a step back, a pitiful sigh leaving you as you set about trying to balance with the data-slates. The Primarch finally realises that it's too much for you, just like Cato had to begin with.

"Sicarius," Guilliman says flatly, "Give her a hand."

A hand?

Oh, he's given you more than hand.

He feels himself bristle with want, an abrupt , mad rush of eager heat besieging his body as he sets his shoulders stubbornly.

In or out of armour, he's done it—and Cato is caught daft at the sudden eidetic memory of having you straining against his big forebrace shoved hard under you to keep you in place. Squirming frantically against as many fingers as he would deign allow you, drooling on his armour as you suffer a cleverly turned thumb; so wanton and pretty as you finally, finally give him his prize and cry out for—no—no, no—shut up, shut up.

At that, he tersely inhales; and remembers he's surrounded by other Astartes.

Nobody's noticed, thank fuck.

"Cato!" Guilliman snaps.

Cato blinks, "What—uh, pardon me, my lord?"

"You are utterly impossible," he half-chastises, half-laments, with little more than a sigh. "Help. Her."

Cato nods stiffly, silently panicking, and approaches you.

"Stop snivelling like a useless dog, and pull it together, woman, you're embarrassing yourself," he accosts loudly, overcompensating for his own screw-up, and it's cruel—he knows it is because you flinch a little, and one of the gathered high-ranking brothers behind you huffs in surprise at just how brutish he's acting—but he cannot show the comfort you wish of him under the circumstances.

You regard him with a profound sadness in your eyes, and he can't bear to meet your gaze; so he casts it aside.

And immediately meets the Primarch's eyes.

A strange, angered confusion has graced his Father's features. A sort of stunned disappointment—and Cato supposes that tracks, given the fact Guilliman though he'd gotten over his gripe with you.

"Check your anger, Commander Sicarius." Guilliman says with a cold discontent, and Cato immediately drops the act.

Cato holds out his helm, turned plume-down, the inside proffered up as a bucket.

The task of shovelling the data-slates in is tedious at best, but it's easy when he joins in.

When all's done, Cato practically dumps his helmet in your arms.

"It's alright, don't fret," Guilliman chuffs, smiling at you tiredly, trying to seem supportive. "Just be on your way, Ambassador."

You look back at the Primarch, stunned for a moment—who smiles at you again, and tips his chin to the exit hallway.

Nodding, you shakily curtsy at the gaggle of Astartes and stumble away with the heavy weight of Cato's helmet and it's new contents in your grasp.

Cato frowns at the entire display, and Guilliman seems to notice that too, because he immediately grits out, "Commander Sicarius, if the safety of your helmet worries you so, go make sure she doesn't drop anything else."

"Of course... yes, my Lord Primarch," He straightens up, surprised at the dismissal but certainly not about to argue.

in his mind, Guilliman is sending him to cool off. That much Cato is sure of, which works to his favour.

Promptly, he knocks his breastplate in respectful farewell and trails after you; now a little ways down the grand and lofty adjoining chamber hall.

Cato strides with his chin held high, but promptly drops it when he rounds the corner and is out of view of the Primarch a few moments after you.

You say nothing to him when Cato catches up and matches your slow march to your quarters.

Cato's practically drags his boots across the regal carpeting as he walks.

And when the carpet runs out, he scrapes his heels on steel like a petulant child.

He knows he's taken the charade too far.

Head hung low much like his, you don't look at him—and it eats away at what meagre actual backbone he's got left around you.

It continues for a while; you pass servitors, serfs, staff, and Astartes alike; not acknowledging anyone.

They acknowledge Cato of course, but he ignores any nods or salutes like he's got blinders on.

He knows the path you're taking well—it's a shortcut, but a tedious one with the load you're carrying. And when the passersby thin out to nothing eventually, you're still trudging along like a lobotomite.

You look appear much like a sullen little arming serf carrying his helmet as you are. The coarse broom-spread of his helm's Suzerain mane brushes the fabric atop your thighs—and Cato can tell it's annoying you, because you slow a little when it itches; trying to shimmy it up higher in your grasp to no avail.

Your breathing is heavy with strain, now a few paces behind him; and Cato groans when you both round a corner and he sees a flight of stairs ahead.

He pauses, and rounds about-face.

"Give it to me," he snaps.

You immediately sigh, "Why?"

"Because it's mine," Cato grumbles. "Now give it to me."

You pout, "I don't need help."

He scowls harshly, "I wasn't asking."

A gasp leaves you as you're suddenly being advanced on by an Astartes, stomping you down—and he catches the data-slate filled rim of his helmet with a gauntlet.

He's honestly surprised you hold on while he pulls it away from you.

"Let go," he hisses.

"No," you hiss back.

"Let go, now." Cato shakes the helmet around, trying to dislodge you; going so far as to lift it until you're dangling off the side.

"No," is all he receives again.

Tiny, stubborn, cunt of a waif.

He cannot sustain subtlety when he is rebutted on something. Not without pause. He's aggravated now, and it shows when he snarls, "Why are you acting like this?"

"No," you bark.

A very real temper is flaring as he says, "No, what? That's not an answer—"

"Fuck off, Cato!"

He's never heard that tone out of you directly. It stuns him for a second, because he's never actually made you genuinely angry. He can't explain why it makes him suddenly decide to play disciplinarian like you're an unruly Scout, but it does. And you're going to explain exactly why you thought to voice that opinion, Emperor help you.

"Enough of this groxshit," He tugs the helmet high, and you up with it, scooping a vambrace under your midsection to carry you like a keg under his arm; prying you and the helm apart.

"Put m-me down!" You kick out wildly behind him, snarling insults and slamming your fists back against his plate on his core, to no avail.

It's a good thing you're actually close to your quarters, because the scene you're making is more than enough to be flagged for gross insubordination if anyone saw. Striking an Astartes is of no meagre consequence. It'd be death, for anyone but you.

It takes him a try more than usual to input his locking override code, given your squirming—and him only being able to manage a pointer free on the hand holding his helm.

Your door slides open nonetheless, and Cato ducks in with you still secured, despite your tantrum; and in his seething, he fully calculates the effort it'd take to hog-tie you with your own robes.

You're hissing and carrying on as if you're a pissy little neophyte hopped up on stims for the first time, and Cato ignores you periodically to lock your door behind you both.

He empties his helm of the data-slates on the nearest pile of clothes, magnetises the bucket on his hip; and practically tosses you onto your bed.

You yelp at the rough handling and scramble to reach your nightstand.

Instead of scampering off like he honestly expects, you grab a book; and when he leans over the bed and reaches for you, you start to bat his armoured hand away with the hardcover front.

"Do you honestly think that will work?" Cato snarls, but despite himself, he recoils and starts eyeing you. "Are you that fucking dense, woman?"

You grumble sourly and hold the novel up, like it's an actual weapon.

"Fine, be that way," he rolls his eyes, and with trans-human speed, catches you by the ankle and reels you in.

You bleat out a warbling cry at being yanked, and manage to toss the book at his head in a lucky shot.

He cops the hit to the brow harmlessly, then it lands on the covers below him beside where he's dragged you under.

You freeze for a second as he brackets your arms upward above your head in one large gauntlet.

"Stop," he bites out, "Just stop struggling."

You start fighting him again regardless, legs kicking out—knocking the book sidelong into the headboard with a thud.

Cato glances at source of sound, and then he's suddenly fixated on the wall above it.

His dagger's been hung up.

It's a little crooked, but that's expected when the hooks the sheathe and blade are lodged against aren't actually drilled in place. It's done with adhesive—it's your doing.

Cato can't exactly name the feeling that washes over him as he stays staring at it, but it feels thick, and viscous in his chest. Like pain, almost—like he's hurt himself. His tongue feels leaden in his mouth. Every ounce of retaliatory anger at your earlier antics dissipates into nothingness.

The shackles his large mitt's made on your wrists falls away.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," He mumbles, before taking a deep breath—and his armour creaks at the gesture; servos humming as he settles into a crouch at your bedside, half strewn over the duvet—staring at you pinned under him.

The bed protests, because of course it does to that amount of bulk, but it still holds regardless.

You huff sourly, and suck your bottom lip into your mouth as you avert your gaze.

With a tired sigh, Cato leans close to you and frowns—straining to tuck his nose against your neck and scoop a vambrace under you to hold you close.

"I may have," he starts slowly as he smothers himself against you. "Overreacted."

A scoff escapes you, but you rest your cheek to his temple regardless.

You take a big breath in; and the politician in you jumps out—even if the politician is currently a little bit shaky.

"I-I am aware that... it's tedious to have me around given my bearing, amongst your kind," you stammer, gaze flittering to and fro from his eyes to his pauldron to the desk behind him. "I can take a snort and a scoff, but you made it worse, at the end—" your voice trails off, and you sit up; scrubbing your cheek with your palm, fussing. "It's easy to hear criticism from a stranger, but not—not from you. Not after... all of this, in a situation like that."

There was a time when Cato would've flat out turned his nose up at the prospect of apologising. He has done so to maybe ten baselines in his entire life, and he's including his parents in that number purely by an assumption—and Vedeah.

"Even in the moment," he says carefully, and tries not to think too hard about the wider implications of doing so, "I realised it was a cruelty, and I am sorry for it."

You simply hold onto him for a moment, and Cato buries his face closer; your hand combing across the side of his head.

"It's alright," you tut softly, "Seeing y-you... you getting all huffy about the First Captain for me was funny though... Throne, I feel so stupid sending him all those letters now."

"You weren't to know Agemman's a prick," he sniffs, laying a gauntlet on your thigh. "I've been on the receiving end of his sour judgment just as you, earlier."

"Were..." you start, voice hesitant. "Were you like that, when you were Captain of the Second?"

The question catches him off guard, which makes him harrumph.

Cato sets his jaw and leans back to look at you, frowning softly, "You would not have liked me in the slightest."

You look a little taken aback at his admission, and Cato feels the need to clarify before your habit of asking too many questions seizes you.

"I was..." Cato begins abruptly, cringing, "...reckless, and a lot more vain; always seeking victories at any cost despite the odds," he says, begrudgingly explaining himself and feeling a lot like his own Primarch was simply speaking through him, "I probably would have petitioned to have you tried for the simple crime of... being, despite my actual... ahem—predilection."

You eye him for a moment, and there's a familiar warmth in your gaze despite the fact he just admitted, out loud, he'd have you put to death for the crime of stirring his cock in another set of circumstances.

"Why do you think that?" You ask, curious.

Cato raises a brow, "I would have painted you a Slaaneshi temptress, like I had thought originally."

"You thought that? Really? I hadn't even—" You scoff, looking at him with a quizzical little grimace.

The deadpan expression on his own face answers you before you can even get it all out.

"Okay," you groan. "Okay, I get it."

He gives your leg a squeeze, and pulls back.

"Good," he hums and moves to stand.

"Wait, Cato—stay," you mumble, "Please."

At full height in your cramped room, he furrows his brows, "I cannot remain here, not tonight, not in this."

You sit yourself on the edge of the bed and look up at him, and Cato's forced to peer over his gorget to catch the full extent of the pleading, doe-eyes you're putting into action.

Cato has to fight back a dopey smile at the insistent, honeyed look you grace him with as you stare up at him.

So pretty, even when you're playing at guilt-tripping him.

It's risky, and quite frankly his dumbest, most thinking-with-his-cock moment; but he still offers it.

"You could accompany me, instead?" He dithers, and eventually acquiesces.

Your head cocks to the side excitedly, "...to where?"

"My quarters," Cato says matter-of-factly.

You're suddenly up and scrambling off the bed to stand beside him, and he hands you his helmet off his hip. You take it without complaint nor reason, even though Cato'd been prepared to give you an excuse.

Oh, it's an alibi, oh, it's this—it's that—it's the simple fact you looked irresistible amusing carrying his helm.

He unlocks your door, and shuffles out—with you tailing him eagerly.

Laterally, it's not too far from his quarters, but it is tedious given the levels between; and it has to be done quickly—if not for the fact if others see they will gossip, he'd throw you over his shoulder like a dead-weight and break into a run. So you need to keep up with his rush, given you wanted to follow.

He hastens down the corridor, and up a flight, and you keep pace, surprisingly.

Your breathing is a little heavy, but Cato attributes that to you having just scaled a fair amount of stairs, for a baseline.

He lingers at the top, in the elevator bay; and you bumble up to him and take the spot behind him.

Cato activates the lift and sighs as it begins to grind it's ascent into existence.

He's stunned to have not heard a peep out of you yet, and honestly that—hold on—there's a hand on his rear, and small fingers depressing the bodysuit over his left glute.

"Get off of there," he snaps, "We are in public."

"I'm just leaning to catch my breath," You huff, squeezing him a little.

Fifteen minutes ago you were sulking and seething, and now you're straight back to bothering him for entertainment.

"Don't start," he sighs, and takes a step aside from you—desperate to not dignify the heat crawling up his neck.

"What will you do?" You scoff, and he all but whips around at your snarky tone, "Snort and sneer me to death? I just fought you off with a book."

Cato rolls his eyes.

"I can and will use things against you," he says, a slight hint of a growl trailing his words.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Such as?"

"I know how easy it is to render you docile and silent, as you ought to be," Cato scowls harshly, putting some finesse into appearing menacing.

It does not work.

"You think I'm some animal to be scruffed?" Your laugh is painfully endearing, but—but he's firm in his rapport. At least, he's trying to be firm. One part of him certainly is firm and hard... and straining against his inners—stop.

"Much the same, seeing as you would preoccupy a single hand at most," he grits out flatly, but his temper wavers when he realises his own statement's double meaning—his cheeks feel a little warm, and it aggravates him that he reacts so easily.

You raise an eyebrow, staring at him, "Just your hand?"

He fights the urge to pout at the sheer cheek of you, and the lurid smugness you're letting show so brazenly.

It's a common situation now: you say something erring on insult, smile a tad, and then the brain in his cock takes the reigns from the one in his head. He thought he was past swooning starting at your antics by now; or at least he hoped to have become a lot more immune to it.

But no—despite being the belligerent, bitter bastard he is, you still manage to ferret out a weak spot for yourself in his hearts.

"I ought to take you over my knee," he says so softly it's practically an oath to himself.

Nonetheless, you apparently catch it—and blink dumbly up at him for a few seconds; a slow, creeping flush steadily finding it's place on your cheeks as you swallow so hard he hears the cartilage in your throat click.

The lift comes to a halt, and he all but harries you off it.

Thankfully, it is standard rest hours for the Victrix; that is to say those who aren't bedded down are likely on jaunts elsewhere in the ship.

It's the perfect opportunity to sneak you inside, in short.

The grand, carpeted corridor is empty, and you ogle it; and it's likely your first time having been near higher standard Astartes accomodation.

"I'll be back—" He opens the door in a quick input of numerals and ushers you in swiftly before huffing; "Don't open for anyone, not even Guilliman."

You nod and step inside, looking back at him a little sheepishly with his helm held to your chest; as the sliding mechanism activates, clicks shut, and promptly dead-locks behind you—while he quickly thumbs in his security code.

He breaks into a sprint to the nearest armour chamber, which is thankfully on this level; if not an eight minute jog at Astartes speed.

At first, Cato asks the mechanicum disarming staff to show some haste in doffing him from his panoply of ceramite—but he quickly loses patience and growls at the serfs who try to drag out the whole ordeal with longwinded rights and sermons while the adepts' machines hex-key open his vambraces. Part of the ordeal ends, war-gear shed, and Cato practically hisses at the gathered attendants when he starts to wrestle out of his body-glove and they try to smear him with unguents. He does, however, allow them to administer local numbing agents and analgesics for the more tedious, biological matters of unlinking from his interfacing.

They hose him down instead of scrubbing him at least, and Cato's glad that someone in that Void-damned room is listening to him.

He hurriedly lathers his arms and legs, dipping a cupped palm back into the presented urn of warm, fragranced oil to cover his neck and underarms—and bending, creasing points, as is typical.

He feels a little wobbly as he puts his sandals on at the hasty loss of the armour's weight—and in that aforementioned hurry, he trips a little while he tugs his tunic over his head and knocks over the servitor, who then knocks over one of the serfs, who then knocks over the tech adept.

It's not Cato's finest moment, surely, but he's in about as much of a rush to get moving as an Astartes can be in a non-combat environment.

He doesn't stop, because he has better things to do—more specifically, he has you to do.

He makes his way down the long winding halls, sprinting between the gaps in onlookers eyelines, stop-starting, like a fool. But damn, if he isn't on a mission with the thought of you waiting on him hanging over his head.

"Sicarius," the Chapter Master's voice abruptly greets curtly.

Cato swallows a scream and takes a step backwards, immediately entering grappling stance.

The aging Primaris seems to realise he's genuinely surprised him and raises a grey brow.

Cato rights himself with a forced cough and stumbles a little, "Lord Calgar?"

A huge power fist comes to rest on his tunic'd shoulder to steady him, "I did not intend to shock, but there is something you must hear of," Calgar says, manoeuvring to allow space for him to walk beside.

Cato matches the broader strides of the Chapter Master, although with him being a Primaris and Cato out of his war-gear—it's a tad more effort than normally required given the size disparity.

Marneus Calgar is typically a man of few words when he's not seized by his passion for monologuing... but he certainly has plenty words when he has gossip.

"I have a suspicion," Calgar huffs.

Cato swallows the lump in his throat, playing along, "And I assume you're not at all responsible for that suspicion travelling to other ears."

"Of course," The Chapter Master shoots him a downward, sidelong glance with his good eye. And if Cato didn't know any better, he'd have been amiss to the glimmer of amusement there.

Abruptly, Calgar pauses in step and quietly remarks, "One of our brothers is aberrant."

The metaphorical leaden brick that hits Cato in the temple works in his favour, because it makes it seem like he's in disbelief rather than panic.

"Corruption?" He hisses, eyes narrowing.

Calgar's grey brows furrow as he shakes his head, "Aberrant, Cato—not chaos-tainted, insofar as I am aware."

"How?" Cato snaps, and again, his bemusement that Calgar didn't equate the two for some reason surely works in his favour, making it look like a sincerely shocked reaction—but the problem remains that he, personally, would equate them. Throne, there—there must be a reason he's acted on his urges, there must be something he can blame.

Calgar purses his thin lips and sighs, "I have on good reason to believe there is a sort of... fraternisation is occurring."

"Really?" Cato huffs, he's simultaneously stunned and horrified that this conversation is even happening. Because if Marneus doesn't think it's the work of the Warp's wiles, then it can't surely have just been his own love partiality for you—that damnable, incessant yearning to have you close, and warm, and tucked against his side.

"And by that," Calgar starts, "I mean that one of them is engaging in baser ventures."

He tries very hard not to laugh out of sheer mortification, and the mental pict of Calgar clutching a string of pearls like a senile ecclesiarch.

"Are you certain?" Cato says, despite the looming dread.

The Chapter Master nods stoically, "I chanced upon an area reeking of Astartes sweat and... intercourse."

When every word may damn you, it is better to say nothing at all. And Throne, he can't bring himself to speak regardless of the fact; because his balls are in his throat. Even if it sounds as though Calgar's largely oblivious to the truth that the Astartes is him—Cato Sicarius—and although he is partially thankful he's in the clear; if Calgar's got your room identified as the source, you're in the hot seat. Every facet of your little existence would be so over for you it's almost unfathomable. Even if you escape the judgement of the Legionnes, you would be hunted down by the Assassinorum, in and beyond any Imperial system; fuck, he's going to have to smuggle you—

"I was sequestered elsewhere urgently, and I did not chance where it was coming from," Calgar continues, "But I know it occurred somewhere in the northeastern apartments."

Cato fights for his life not to sputter out a relieved sigh and buckle at the knees, boneless on the floor.

The ventilation systems must have dispersed the smell, which would have thrown off Calgar's vomeronasal organ.

He rejects most aspects regarding godhood placed upon the Master of Mankind ever since his agonising jaunt in the Warp, and from his conversations with Guilliman—but surely the Emperor must have leaned over on His throne and pelted a holy, righteous wrench at Calgar's big nose that morning.

The Emperor protects, albeit when He comedically feels like it.

"I will keep an eye out for... un-sanctioned behaviours."

"Report them to me, or Guilliman, should you find anything—no chaplains," Calgar says at last, and comes to a halt in a fork in the hallway. "Nonetheless, keep your wits about you—I must get going."

Cato blinks as Calgar rounds on his big heel, "Another vox-haling?"

"No," he sighs. "A meeting, for the next six hours."

"With the planetary governor?"

"No," Calgar says again, face completely dead-pan like a corpse, "With my cot—and if anyone needs me, tell them to piss off unless Guilliman's dying. Again."

Then he shoots him that wry, amused side-eye once more and stomps off down the adjacent passage.

Cato stands stunned in the hall for a brief time, genuinely flabbergasted.

Then he's a trans-human on a mission, thundering down the corridor—his mind immediately concocting several protocols to prevent the previous situation occurring again.

Firstly, the instant he gets to his quarters, he's going to stuff his incense burner into the ventilator grate.

Sound won't be an issue, he knows his chambers are proofed—surely not because he's woken screaming in that room without anyone saying anything. But that's besides the point, because the only screaming that's to be happening is his final plan of action; namely that, lastly, he's going to slide into you and have you crying his name—

Cato doesn't even consciously remember arriving at his door, nor coding in his numerals and doing the same behind him; but he's certainly in the present when he sees you.

Something in his chest lurches to a halt at the sight of you tucked in his sheets, the thundering of his twin heartbeats slowing and easing to a lulled calm.

There's less candles in his room than yours, but what little of your hair that peaks from beneath the blanket is bathed in flickering, warm light when he approaches.

His helm's lying against you atop the thin cover, and you're snoring softly.

Cato nears, and—with nobody to judge him, including you, simply stares.

Throne, he could live this scene out every day of his life and never tire of it—but matters need attending before he can bask in the domesticity.

Dutifully, he grabs his incense holder and follows through with his plan of action.

He doesn't intend it, but he wakes you at some point while jamming the vent back into place; and you groan softly, rubbing your eyes as you stretch and sit up.

The sheets over you slip away as you do, and he daftly fixes his haze at the drowsy, stark-naked Ambassador in his bed.

"...Cato?"

He swallow the proverbial bolt round lodged in his throat and grunts.

"When..." you pause to yawn, "When did you get in?"

It takes him a second to register the question with how intensely he's focused on ogling your tits, but eventually "...a few minutes," leaves him as an answer.

You blink lazily and harrumph, then slump back—and he's sure it's intentional, because the way your body curves with the motion is almost like you're presenting yourself. The sheets are low on your hips—not low enough that he can really take an eyeful, but the temptation of it raw and syrupy in his mind. What he can see is the warm, soft skin of your navel and stomach offered up to his roving gaze like a hunk of meat. It's bait, and it's obvious, and he's a slavering, starved dog in that instant.

He sits himself on the edge of the thin mattress, kicking off his sandals—and leans over you, breathing controlled but fast.

He splays a palm on your side, dragging it up, tracing.

You fuss a little, wanting.

He manoeuvres himself atop you, and you pout, as your elbow digs into the mattress.

He can tell in some fey way you're about to comment on the state of his bed—or rather, the lack of a real bed. Well, maybe not fey, it's mere prediction given your habit of complaining. You've probably been stewing on making a remark about it the entire time you've been dicking around in here. There's no headboard, no duvet. It's closer to a big, thin cushion on a fold out, bolted to a hinge on the wall at the top end.

You grumble, "This is the worst bed I've ever actually lain on," and there it is—the nagging, the backtalk.

"My mattress on Talassar is far nicer," he hums, nosing into the crook of your neck and sighing contently.

Your voice is barely a mumble as you say, "Well, we're not on Talassar—that's for sure."

"We could be," Cato mouths against your skin as he ventures lower.

"What?" You sit up a little and displace him enough that you can meet his gaze, and your eyes lock onto his in a hasty, focused manner—then Cato feels translucent again. As if you can see him for everything he is: prideful and doltish, disgustingly predictable—you've got him eating out of your hand.

"We... we could go to Talassar," he blurts out, one of your breasts against his chin. Then he ducks lower—planting a kiss just above your bellybutton. His voice comes out muffled against your skin, swallowing thickly, cotton-mouthed. "I'm sure I could... find an excuse, logistically."

The look you're giving him is just as flushed as his own face feels.

Cato Sicarius, High Suzerain of Ultramar, babbling—once again. Reduced to an illiterate, juddering wreck. His Astartesian dignity, honour and status petering to nothing. You have him swooning, on the back foot. Earnest and vulnerable—Throne, it makes him hot under the proverbial collar.

Cato stalls for a second, pursing his lips before digressing, "I could... I could petition an excursion to Glaudor to Guilliman, and then... arrange docking at Perusia."

Why does he feel so heated talking about this? Why is he, a several hundred year old, trans-human killing machine, flustering saying these things out loud?

"I don't actually know much about Talassar, aside from—well, aside from Guilliman's assigned readings on the Void Tridents, really."

Cato huffs, "I am distantly related to their Lord Commodore, Theodro Vethrus."

"Really? Huh..." you squint, trying to parse out his expression, "So do you... like him?"

Cato nods, "He's competent."

"High praise from you," you laugh softly, and wriggle yourself down—closer to eye level with him. "So what w-would we do? On Talassar, I mean..."

He breaks eye contact and stares at your lips instead, rearing up from you a little, "Well, there's a large hinterland that's quite nice in spring when it's not raining... and my Ancestral seat, on the coast. People sometimes swim and such, there—"

"I've never actually swam at a beach, before."

Cato harrumphs, "Really?"

"Never," you pout.

He smiles softly, "That can be remedied."

From the higher rooms of his duchy's fortress, you can get a good look at the long isthmus that sometimes peaks out from afore the sea walls when the waves calm down bi-yearly.

It's nicer on the other side where it's too small of a cove to support vessels, where the submerged canyon redirects the immense tidal forces sidelong.

You can swim in the carved rock lap pool, like he used to.

Because he's not about to run into the waves with his Tempest Blade should one of Talassar's less hospitable locals swim under the marine nets.

That, and to hell with picking the sealant-putty out of his interfacing ports. The annoyance of that is almost as bad as to be without it, and chock full of sand at exposed nerve points. With that mental deliberation settled, he lays both palms flat to the mattress supporting him either side of your shoulders, and raises a brow when your hand touches his chest.

Absentmindedly, he weighs the pros and cons or giving you the leeway to continue groping; it feels nice—but there's an aspect of mischief to your eyes he finds suspicious.

You start squeezing at his pectoral, fingers bearing down; watching the dense muscle contort and bulge.

"You really ought to bind these," you hum abruptly.

He scowls down at you, "I am not binding my chest."

"Why not?" You retort.

Cato sniffs derisively, "They are not breasts."

"Riiiight..." You drawl, dragging out the word still pawing at his left pectoral. "In my professional opinion, they seem pretty breast-like to me."

"They are not. Fucking. Breasts," Cato snarls, enunciating himself sharply while puffing up.

"No need to get defensive," you trail off, eyebrow quirking up slyly; laying the faux-pas down heavily, purposefully trying to irritate him by nipping at his metaphorical heels. "It's just that—well, even though they're hairier, they do feel simi—"

"That's enough talking out of you," he says, and promptly seizes you by the chin with his mitt, closing your mouth with his hand and effectively silencing you.

But stifling you had not wiped the smug, leering smile off your face. Yes, he can fucking feel it, you little bitch.

"You aren't funny," he hisses.

You grunt at him, huffing and puffing through your nose as you attempt speech even though your maw is held shut.

"Don't say something stupid," Cato frowns, and loosens his hold enough for you to get a few words out.

"I'd wager you could lactate w-wuh—with—" you race to say, thrashing as he quickly manages to shut you back up with his palm.

Cato tries not to grumble at the fact you're wheezing hysterically through your nose.

"Every time I think you are above something, you find a way to sink lower."

In response, you start thrashing, writhing enough in his grip to get four single words out from between his big fingers, "Sink—i-into your–cl—uh–eavage—" you manage to sputter, laughing behind his hand.

"I'll sink into you in a moment, if you do not stop," Cato growls openly.

You go still almost immediately, and whine against his palm.

"Really," he sneers, flabbergasted as he pulls his hand away and raises a brow, "Are you getting off on this, you degenerate?"

The comment clearly also stirs something in you, because then you're swatting at his face—missing, yes—but the effort still infuriates Cato to no end.

He rears back in avoidance, still keeping you nice and muzzled by his palm, but you manage to clap a hand around his mouth.

You push at him and squirm, fussing.

Then he inhales.

It's a little surprising his nose finds your fingers smell of molasses, and that means slick—the lingering hormonal melody of 'please?' is so blatant it's almost pathetic.

Cato raises an eyebrow and moves his hand from your face to ensnare the one you have on his, keeping it close.

"Is that why you're being such a scathing bitch? You're just impatient?" He scoffs, purposefully trying to taunt as he sniffs them again, just to be sure—and then licks across the underside of your pointer and middle, "Were these not big enough to entertain you while I was gone?"

You whine, flushed red with embarrassment, and try to wretch your hand away pointlessly.

A belated snort escapes him and he gives you a long, judgemental glare, letting you boil in your own shame.

"Don't start," you huff, petulant.

Cato huffs darkly, "I didn't say anything."

You frown knowingly—and his head descends, lower and lower.

You're all too willing to let him arrange you near his face.

Sure, you wriggle and flush and grumble at him as he makes sure to make a dramatic gesture of the act, but you're eager—and he knows it.

With an Ambassador's plump cunt to his mouth, Cato can't complain. But you certainly try to, despite the juddering thighs squeezing fruitlessly against the sides of his head. It's hopeless to try to fend off an Astartes, especially like this.

"C-Cato, just—"

He rolls his tongue over your clit again and again, delighting in the blissful hormone feedback lighting up his brain and the sounds you're making adding to it.

Some part of him'd be content lapping at your swollen nerve for hours, until you're a boneless mewling wreck. Tormenting you, letting you beg for him while he just roils in the simple goal of getting you to your end a dozen or so times.

"Please, just f-fuck—" you sob, squirming as he laughs against your sex at how toothless your frustration is. "Fuck m-me, Cato, stop being a-a—"

He drags over your clit again and feels your hamstrings tense, a fresh surge of slick wetting his chin.

"I'm—I c-can't," a shuddering whine leaves you, desperate.

The air practically vents out of your lungs like you're winded as he sucks; until you're so terribly close, all he'll need to do is bottom out in you to make you cum.

And that's exactly what he does.

He organises your legs off his shoulders and about his mid section as quickly as he can manage and then—

"F-f—fuh—uck," You writhe, head thrown back while you squirm at the heavy press of him rocking inside you, making your breathing stutter for a second. It's the familiar, obscene view of watching the massive slab of cock press into a cunt that's almost too small for him. But given the fact you take it so well, who's Cato to deny you? You love it, and that's the real thrill. A surge of pleasure sends you bucking; legs moving mindlessly where they're hooked over his hips, but he keeps still, simply letting you suffer your end on the thick length of him—all the while enjoying the feeling of being stuffed in you the whole ordeal.

It's only a quick orgasm, but damn if it isn't a hell of a show.

You're panting deliriously, trembling on his cock; and Cato's about to start drooling at the tightness he's being treated to.

When you stop trembling around him, you fight to steady your breathing—huffing out; "I—I ought-t-ah... squeeze you o-out."

"You'd need a dozen Dreadnauts to drag me loose right about now," he snorts and tips his head close, nudging his temple to yours a second later before smirking proudly.

The heavy swell of his balls sit flush against your ass, and you arch up, scrambling to pull him down into an embrace.

The small hands on his back are a nice counterpoint, and he moans when your fingers glide up to his shoulder; trailing the side of his neck before cupping his cheek. You pet him against the slightly grown out grain of his stubble with a skrrch skrrch, and he hums contently—and when that little hand rises to his pet his hair, it's sublime.

Your touch shifts away and he grumbles.

"I didn't tell you... to stop, damn it."

"So you are enjoying y-yourself, hm?" You smile, cupping his jaw and petting slowly.

"I don't... don't know what you're talking about, woman," he lies, nigh beside himself; pressing his bulk against you while pawing and groping at whatever he can.

He'd try for one of your tits in his mouth if the angle he's currently reaming you out at didn't make it impossible.

You work kisses across the high point of his cheek and down the heated column of his throat; seemingly emboldened by the dulcet, appreciative hums and rumbles that escape from Cato the entire time.

Doused in affection like this, he struggles to form sentences, damn it all.

He lets his head rest close, assailed with honest desperation.

"But, I..." he starts quickly, feeling a weight in his chest. His brain wants him to finish with a whole other word he refuses to even think of; because even if he's itching to say that he—he loves adores you—he's too stubborn to say it without sufficient prodding; but there's an arrow of longing lodged in his gullet and thankfully it doesn't dare to leave his mouth. "But, I do enjoy... you."

The prettiest whine escapes you in answer, and the flutter your tight cunt around him proves that for once, he's somehow said the right thing.

You swallow thickly and dither for a second, genuinely flustered but still able to get the words out, "I-I enjoy you, too."

A heady rush of heat fans across his face as he tries to properly process the information. The road travels both ways, and everything is serene, he's happy—you're happy, and that's all he ever needs. The duty and the honour, and the courage, seem inconsequential to it all in that moment.

He turns and kisses you swiftly, before leering away.

You rear up trying to close the distance again, but then Cato finally thrusts—and your eyes swim in their sockets, thighs shaking, mouth open with the heady gasp that leaves you.

So he nears, and gives you the other kiss you were eager for.

It's far messier than the former; his big tongue sticking in, dragging across yours and stifling you, saliva smearing down your chin as Cato practically laps the moans out of your mouth.

When he arches back at last, you're flushed and red at the lips, fluttering your lashes at him; eyes falling half-lidded under his gaze.

"C-Cato, move," You whine, imploring, and there's another eager clench around him when he obligingly ruts forward.

Cato can see the lurid glee on your face as your focus shifts suddenly to the point you both meet. Folded under him, it's given you a perfect vantage of the slab-of-meat that is his cock absolutely jammed down to the base in your guts.

You shimmy a bit and moan, "M-More?"

The scoff that leaves him is disbelieving, but he's well aware you're goading him to really set about fucking you insensible.

"If I fucked you as hard as you liked, you'd be getting augmetic hips tomorrow," he snarks, punctuating his point my pushing forward a little, so he's jammed riiiight against the soft ring of your cervix.

A soft gasp is all the receives for a second before you're suddenly grinning, "You're n-not that big."

It's so blatantly a lie he doesn't even dignify it with an answer. Instead, he shifts back a hint so only a third of himself stays inside you, letting you grow irate at the denial.

"I w–uh-was joking, Cato... please, don't s-stop," You whimper mournfully, raising yourself a little in attempt to coax him to slam in... and suddenly, there's a small hand on his flank.

Cato ignores it, focused on getting some much needed humility out of your darling mouth; then the hand claws at his rump.

"Needy bitc—" His would-be snarky sentence cuts short as he jumps a little, surprised, and clenches his rear; causing him to buck forward, sinking down to the hilt in you.

The thrilled gasp you make is priceless, and the shivering heat around his cock is sublime—but damn you for using that instinctive muscle reaction on him—you clever little bitch.

"Stop grabbing my ass," he grumbles, scowling down at you.

A crooked smile graces your lust-dumb features before it contorts into a flushed keen—surely not because Cato grinds deep to wipe the smirk off your face.

"This ought to keep your hands busy," He chides, rearing back and reaching sidelong for his discarded helmet on the far side of his cot.

You eagerly take it into your embrace, and Cato's impulse control violently derails seeing your tits sandwiched to the side panel; the white and red plume brushing your cheek—and you looking up at him with wanton lust.

Oh, Throne of Terra—that looks...

Cato swallows the saliva that suddenly over-accumulates in his mouth.

It's lecherous, and a glaring hypocrisy to everything the Legiones Astartes stands for—but there's something painfully enthralling about the visual that riles him up to strain at the bit like a warhorse.

Throne, he wishes he could fuck you in full-plate; just to see you drip and squirm, the adamantine of his thigh plating against your tender rear—the gooseflesh cold ceramite earns out of you to contrast the big hot slide of him into you. If only there was a way to keep the comfort of familiar war-gear upon him and the bliss of your soft skin on his simultaneously.

But he's got more than one round in him, and you've signed the warrant to be fucked to hysterics with all your insufferable antics earlier, no matter how cute you're acting now.

He's not going to last long.

Not like this.

Not with you so painfully eager, and pretty, and warm, and sweet.

He can't help acting on the urge to absolutely plough into you like his life depends on spilling inside.

"Ca–ah—to, Cato, C-Cato—" you drool, eyes shut tightly, fingers white with the exertion of keeping a grip on his helm's respirator. Each time you cry out his name it's followed by the sticky plap-plap-plap of his balls against your rear, and it's enthralling feeling you twitch and cramp on his length in rhythm with each stroke.

"Aren't you such a good little fucktoy," Cato pants, grinning when you nod on instinct. "Holding an Astartes' helm for him... while taking his cock."

A strangled 'y-yes' escapes you, breath fogging condensation against the cold steel of his helm.

"Perfect," he grunts, "My perfect... little whore," gritting his teeth, "You'll let me fill you, won't you?"

Another gorgeous few bleated notes of 'yes, y-yes, yes' meet him in answer.

"You want it here?" Cato hisses, breathlessly punctuating himself with a grind, "That's it... that's what you want?"

And that comment apparently does you in at last.

The pathetic little sob that pairs along with your frantic nodding makes him salivate like a rabid dog.

Your thighs judder as he pulls back to slam in, fruitlessly trying to lock at the ankles around the wide span of his hips; vainly attempting to keep him still—squeezing tighter and tighter as he keeps driving home into you—and the feeling is ecstasy, much like the view. You're so red across the cheeks it's almost the same colour as his plume, and you're hugging his helmet close, making the sweetest hiccuped sobs of pleasure against it.

He grits his teeth at the tightness that rewards him for pushing you to finish, helpless to it doing the same. Rutting into you, filling the eager hole he's sheathed in.

Cato slumps forward, shivering; careful to not squish you and his helm beneath his bulk despite the daze of him emptying a load in you—keeping pace even when the stimuli becomes unbearably tender and your heels dig into his flanks.

Heaving, he halts at last after the pleasure begins to really hurt, and meets your hazy gaze with a long, content sigh.

"C-Cato," you start softly, and nose against his cheek.

"Yes?" He begins in an airy tone, looming close to your ear and letting his exhale taper off into a long, curious hum.

"Your helm's d-digging into my ribs..." you cringe, and he immediately lifts himself away with a strong hand and pulls his helmet away and to the side.

Redness in the vague outline of the ceramite is imprinted on the soft skin of your side and he tuts, hand tracing the minor injury.

Kneading the area a little, you start to squirm, and Cato's suddenly hyperaware he's still inside you; and looks down.

He's fucked your combined fluids into a frothing mess.

With an air of unimpressed amusement, you snort at the show he makes of pulling out—he grabs you with a mitt on the underside of each thigh, functionally spreading you as inch after thick inch drags free so slowly it's almost jarring just how much of him you fit. The flushed head of his cock pops out, dripping a final fat rope of cum across your vulva; and then your overfilled insides start leaking more.

"Still got the implant?" Cato queries, using his thumb to pull your labia aside and eye just how deep he's emptied into you.

"Yes," you snicker weakly, "Y-Yes, I do—why?"

"It's a simple question," he tuts.

"I know w-what you're really asking, Cato."

He raises an eyebrow, "It's got nothing to do with the fact you're hard to avoid finishing inside."

A laugh leaves you like a bark, "You've never tried to a-avoid it."

"You'd throw a fit," he shoots back, and shuffles over to lie beside you on his back.

With a disgruntled huff you retort, "H-How would you know?"

"I remember your opinion on a certain... 'theoretical hypothetical scenario' quite well," Cato says slowly, and prides at the flustered smile you fight to hide in his peripheral vision.

"I... I stand by that statement," you sigh, still half-smirking.

He pouts, "You do, do you?"

"Yes," you huff, "Because now there's the t-temptation of leave to a seaside paradise on the proviso of being gravid," you say pointedly, and roll onto your side to face him—worming closer until your cheek rests on his pectoral. "Which becomes more tempting by the minute."

"You lazy little shit, I never said you had to be pregnant to get there," he scoffs, grinning, sitting up and resting his back to the wall. "Besides, I can assure you Guilliman's homework will find you even on a barren death world."

"I'm sure I can come up with something," you say, glaring at him with a conspiratorial smile. "And what was that about me not having to be knocked up to get this vacation?"

"The stipulation is I'd have you squirming on my lap daily," Cato rumbles, eyeing you arranging yourself to settle atop him. "Hourly, even; and the side effect of that may very well be a procreational one—"

"Such an egalitarian bargain," You snicker softly, saddling yourself on his hips instead of remaining prone—lifting your legs, straining to splay yourself wide enough to let him slot between them. "You're a better statesman than I thought, Commander Sicarius."

He rumbles a smooth subvocal sound of assent, and the big palms on your hips slide to cup the flesh atop your thighs.

The simple feeling of your warm skin pressed to him, and he is panting softly through his nose already. You kiss him then, with a tender sigh—more a sweet thing than a desperate scramble.

Cato stares when you pull away, keen eyes lingering on your own as you look up at him.

Something about that look plays havoc with his mind, and your next words double down on the heat in his blood, "Does the Grand Duke want for heirs so badly?"

"Fuck, yes—well, no—but... should one of your gene-stock occur by chance, who am I to object," he jumbles his words a tad when you reach down to hold his cock straight.

Throne, he wants it; he really does. Even if it's more likely considered a luxury well beyond anything he deserves, he wants you beside him in whatever way, shape, or form you'll allow.

"So," you snort, and the thick head of his length catches at the rim of your still-dripping cunt, "I'm to be an infant factorum?"

"Duchess," he groans, bristling at your soft lips against his cheek in unison with you sinking down, down, down to the hilt on him. "You're to be... a Grand Duchess, moron."

The languid sigh you make when he's buried in you is so content he's genuinely giddy as you ask, "I-Is that so, Cato?"

"You're going to adore every second of it," Cato rumbles softly, palming your ass. "Spoiled little heifer, that you are."

You make a strangled sound at the harsh grope of your rear and smile against his jaw, "...what's a heifer?"

"A female bovine that's never calved," he expects a slap for that—and yet it never comes.

You lean away, looking deeply unimpressed, and he sulks a little because it's not the reaction he was after. But it's a reaction nonetheless.

"Why do you, as an A-Astartes, even know that?"

"When Guilliman's mood ebbs to a trough, he lectures me on farming techniques," he says offhandedly, "He does so for hours."

Cato feels strange talking of his Father, the Lord Primarch, when his balls are currently smooshed against your perineum and his cock is playing whack-a-mole with your cervix.

"Would t-that make you a male bovine, then?"

Cato considers for a second before arching close to drag his tongue across your throat, grinning.

"So this i-is a breeding attempt b-by you?" You laugh with a daft, pleasured sort of delight and lift yourself a little, fucking yourself on him at your leisure.

"Yes," Cato pants, and rolls his hips upward—meeting you in the middle.

The contact makes a lewd plap along with a mixed combination of his moan and yours.

"W-Well," you sigh, "You're really trying—ah—aren't y-you, Cato?"

"For once," he rasps, mouthing a nice big bruise onto the soft skin on the side of your neck, "Keep talking."

"S-So, how m-many do—" you start meekly, stuttering a little with hesitation; your mouth to his ear. "How many do y-you want?"

The question makes Cato's head spin.

A sound that he can only assume is a braying moan escapes his gullet, because all his focus is cross-haired on the implication you've just given him on a platter.

"You're... you're going to get that implant removed next cycle," Cato pants, raring. "And," he bites out as he struggles not to just give in to the moan trapped in his throat and forsake words altogether. "You'll let me... let me breed this eager cunt of yours, won't you?"

The shaky gasp that leaves you in answer is divine, and Throne, aren't you the perfect little wife whore.

Then you nod, and that fucked-out smile is the most gorgeous thing Cato's ever seen.

It's conjecture, it's fantasy. Because Guilliman's going to skin him if anything like that ever gains actuality—and he may still very well be chemically sterile, after all of this; but it feels right to indulge in that impossible want at this instant. He'd take you as a bride, by the sea—in the high courtyards that look down at the great harbour. He'd have his pretty little wife, maybe a dozen bairns as stubborn as himself and as insufferable as you—and everything'd be perfect. He doubts you'd allow that many, but it's a discussion point. He'll barter—hell, who's he kidding. He'll take anything, even if it's just the two of you.

Whatever you'd ask he'd give; because in the end, he'd enjoy nothing more than to have you with him—and whatever boon might come from that conjunction—something made out of love, that he's not supposed to have.

He takes a firm hold of your hips on either side and bounces you, managing to steal a kiss on the up-lift and ripping a moan out of you on the down-pull—again and again; until you're squirming, slumping forward, squeezing on his cock as you're forced into a racketing orgasm.

Overwhelmed, you all but squeal, scrambling at the wide expanse of his shoulders in an effort to lock him closer, clawing at his deltoids.

It's the last push he needs.

Cato empties his balls right where you want it, groaning and heaving in desperate gulps of air as he slumps back against the wall; dragging you with him.

Your head rests limply against his shoulder and you wriggle, overstuffed—taking every drop.

He grits his teeth as each shudder milks him dry, arcs of pleasure lighting up his nerves.

It leaves him huffing and puffing into your nape, grumbling to himself.

"Perfect," he whispers, nuzzling against your neck. He can feel the sticky heat of his cum dripping out of you and onto his thighs and balls.

Cato supposes if this is what de-facto baseline marriage is like, it's not half bad.

[like-tears-in-rain-storms]

It's funny how sometimes you can't help but think back to people that have cut themselves off your life and you just....wish you still could share things with them. Remember the fun you'd have. The conversations. You imagine the jokes, can even hear their responses. But mostly you wish you could share something that makes you happy, because you know they would have loved it too, and you liked making them happy.

"Rip, person who caused me the most hurt anyone ever has. You'd have loved Sevatar. We could have spent so much time analyzing Curze's damages. I am more certain than the sun rising tomorrow morning what you'd have thought of Lion El'Johnson and his DILFiness. We would have had so much fun imagining distant culturally diverse star worlds and setting our own characters in wild grimdark adventures. So many jokes about the Emperor's parenting. So much to gush over about Nosferatu. So much to trashtalk about the new Wuthering Heights. So many memes I'd have sent you. So much we could have bonded over this and this and this thing too, as we did over everything. I just feel happy at those times, and I wish you could be happy with me."

Then you feel resentful about catching yourself thinking of them. About how much more time you're still devoting to them, after everything. How you still try to include them in what brought you joy, even though you are now unable to enjoy so many things because they are connected to them. It's like you lost so much, and yet you still regret you couldn't give them more. Even though you know they wouldn't even appreciate, you thinking of them still. Even though you know they've gone forth and left you and all you had together behind. Even though, through all this time, so much happened, so much you wish you could have them there, to care a little, while you were going through. Just to be able to talk to them about it. You've not talked about these things to almost anyone. But you'd have liked to be able to have talked back then, not because they were someone, but because they were who they were, and you'd have wanted them by your side. Even once in a while. Even just to know they cared a little still, as you did.

But it is becoming easier and easier. It becomes less and less frequent. You become creative again, even if you thought for a while you'd never again be able to enjoy imagining,creating anything. You become even more flexible, going out of your comfort zone, trying your hand at things, learning to be again without the certainty of their feedback or their interest. You think less. You care less. You don't care what they think or what they would think if they knew that you miss them sometimes. You take things on your own terms, at your own pace. You find new fixations and interests to sink into - you did it all but alone before, you can do it alone now, too. You devote yourself to making new experiences for yourself, that they are not included in. You start picking up again things that were too painful to even talk about before. You reclaim things you felt you'd surrendered over to them. You return to the safety of the things you loved and you never got to share for one reason or another - they carry only your own scent, and it's alright, it's all you need. Even if it's not the same you return to them,and they're still yours. You never expected to feel glad you didn't manage to share them, but then you never expected a lot of things.

You would have loved to shared this new love with them. Instead it became a key part of helping you move on. It still hurts sometimes, but less and less. You've done your self-criticism, accepted your mistakes, harbor no ill will. You wish them well. You would have liked closure once, but don't need it anymore. What's done is done. They made their choice. You hope it helped them. Hope it brought something good. You can make your own choices now. You are not yet happy, and you still get sometimes sad.

But you have yourself. You didn't lose it, after all. And so, all will be well. As long as you have yourself, even if you have no one else, it will be well.

It has been a year. It has been over. It is done.

[schraubd]

The Joy of Being a Democrat

  One of the things I'm enjoying most about the Harris/Walz campaign, and the current Democratic mood more broadly, is how joyful it is. A common critique of progressives has always been that we're joyless, and while that attack has never been entirely fair, it doesn't come wholly from nowhere either. There's a generalized version of the old Futurama joke ("I'm sorry, but if it's fun in any way, it's not environmentalism!") -- if you're not trudging along in grimdark misery, then you don't understand the stakes/don't care about the oppressed/aren't a true believer in the revolution. It's exhausting to live out, and it isn't a lifestyle anyone really wants to join. But that isn't us right now! It's the right that is wallowing in its own self-induced machine of rage and fear and misery. The Olympics were a great example -- conservatives spent their time searching for their calipers and reliving their frustration that Simone Biles didn't snap her neck in 2021; meanwhile liberals just enjoyed watching some of the greatest athletes on Earth do incredible things under the American banner. Who would you rather be?  And this divide is present all over the 2024 race. The complete inability of conservatives to make anything stick on Tim Walz stems from their complete bafflement that a basic cishet white guy can just be happy in 2024. Doesn't he know that trans-CRT-illegal-abortionists are coming for his daughter?!? The RNC was a miserable slog of one apparatchik after another warning us that we're all going to die unless the God-king Trump is restored; the DNC was a dance party featuring your favorite tunes from middle school. Hell, one of the primary attack lines Republicans have been trying against Kamala Harris is her laugh! Democrats now are literally the party of laughing (and football, and Bud Light)! It's really nice. And for what it's worth, I do understand the stakes, and I do understand that many people are hurting, and I do understand there's a lot of work to be done. But joy counts for something. And it feels really good to be part of a joyful Democratic coalition. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/ey54oaZ

[mumms-the-word]

aight now that all the DA moots are asleep (they’re not but let’s say they are) I have silly thoughts about Rogue Trader

under the cut cause some people don’t care + spoilers

I know it’s a warhammer 40k game and w40k people are their own crowd of like weirdly fanatical TTRPG-ers that I do not belong in nor have much understanding of but like this game is lowkey slept on for how good the writing is

gameplay makes me want to claw my eyes out a bit because it’s literally built around the concept of min-maxing at the most fine-tuned level. I would KILL for a skill tree that lays everything out in a web for me, but I know some people really like the freedom this game gives when it comes to building skills and threading together specific types of skills to create extremely unique builds

I, however, am here for the writing so I’m just like….please stop throwing numbers at me 😭 what is the thing that makes the enemies go boom give me that one pls

but I digress, the story so far is genuinely worth it. I actually don’t like a lot of grimdark stuff. The world as we know it sucks rn and I get too empathetic about a lot of things to enjoy grimdark settings, but Rogue Trader keeps things almost comical with how exaggerated everything is. Like, the word that comes to mind is that this game is carnivalesque—like in that literary sort of way that subverts your expectations with humor and chaos kind of carnivalesque.

One second I’m puzzling through how to deal with a worker strike (with force? with leniency? do we negotiate or just kill everyone?) and the next I’m jumping down a deadly air-duct into a giant blood-soaked death cult temple to meet a blind old assassin where I can ask him directly, “How come my companions could just walk through the front door while I had to risk my neck jumping through a rotating propeller?” One moment I’m wrestling with the consequences of my actions on a planet in the throes of rebellion and the next I’m eating mold-slime soup and getting a semi-permanent debuff to all of my stats because I failed the toughness test to actually swallow it down.

Like this game is just a grimdark space void clown show and I kind of love it even though it’s 100% not my speed

but the writing oh my god

I only just finished chapter 1 or act 1, whatever you want to call it, and already I’m blown away by the moments where the game seems to take everything suddenly very seriously. After doing all this work to save a planet from a cult, the cult gets the upper hand anyway when mysterious forces steal the sun (no really), causing the planet to devolve into madness from both the cult and lack of sun (I could be reading the situation wrong but I haven’t yet figured out what’s behind the sun theft exactly). My companions that I’ve picked up along the way lay out the severity of the situation: we can abandon the planet, which will then devolve into a chaos daemon world (bad for everybody), we can try to save a few people or an ancient powerful relic which is basically just a giant fusion reactor power source (good for only a few select people), or we can sail our voidship a little ways away and bomb the reactor so that it effectively kills the planet (everyone dies, both good and bad, but there is no daemon planet anymore).

What a choice! And then in the subsequent chaos, there’s this scene where you and your tech-priest buddy, Pasqal, are trying to restore a computer that somehow controls elements of the ship’s warp travel capabilities so you can get the heck out of dodge before the planet goes all daemony or explodes, but the metaphorical clock is ticking, there’s a lot of corrupted data, Pasqal can only crack the codes so much, and while you can override some of the systems by literally feeding it your blood (yeah, really) you don’t know how to read the code or fix the data either. It was an incredibly well-written tense scene that, even though it felt a little more linear then the wildly branching moment where I decided a planet’s whole fate just before this, had me holding my breath as I clicked through text prompts to stick my character’s hand in something called a cybergargoyle so it could bite her, take her blood, and recognize her as the heir to the ship. Pasqal is trying to explain what the computer is and isn’t doing, swinging between what seems like traditional hacking and religious reverent prayers and rituals to machine spirits (which may or may not even be real spirits) until I finally have my character practically beg the computers to rescue us. And it works.

Insane. The descriptions are top tier and I’m literally learning new words or refreshing on words I haven’t seen in forever as I read through the game (febrile? irascible? campanological? no one writes like this anymore!!). It’s not my favorite setting but I really have to hand it to the writers over at OwlCat Studios, they are truly some of the best writing talent I’ve seen in the game development world in recent memory…and I don’t say that lightly.

Anyways onward to act 2. Im told there’s a big party at the end of this act and that I can kiss a certain interrogator if I play my cards right, so that’s something to look forward to!

[gabbydagoof]

Do you have any boundraries with your characters? Like shipping, aus, nsfw, etc?

Oh yeah, I def do! Allow me.

AUs?✍🏽

Yes! I am all for it! Go crazy if it suits yer liking! But maybe don't include problematic topics in them? Y'know, like r&pe, p€d0phillia, inc€st and or romanization of toxic/abusiv€ relationships.

Shipping?💕

Personally, I encourage ppl to ship some of my characters together, even if it may not be canon. It's just for the fun of it and I dig that! That includes any type of self ships n general simping as well. Just as long as it doesn't go against the characters sexual orientation and you don't make it super weird with the minor (underaged) characters. While it's true that most of them are in their later teen years so them being a tinsey bit suggestive/flirty with each other is understandable, but as I said before, I don't wanna see anything NSFW related that includes any of my underaged characters!! With the adult characters though, meh go for it! That includes f€tish stuff, I ain't judging 🤷🏽

Gore art?🩸

Yes! I like me a bit of blood for the spooks of it! In the grimdark matter, ofc. So if you happen to make a horror story including my characters, you're good! But besides that, overly graphic depictions of gore and violence including any of my characters (Doomsworld excluded) just for the pure sake of shock value/edgy humor will not be tolerated. Putting on mild blood is totally okay, though!

Redesigns/Headcanons?🖌️

Headcanons are more than welcome here, as long as they're not problematic ofc! The Incredibros characters are pretty much without a specific ethnicity, they only have the given nationalities so there is no such thing as whitewashing or general skin color change issue to worry about here. You do what you want! And also no orientation based headcanons, please. They already have canon ones set for them and I wouldn't like it much if you take it away. Gender based headcanons on the other hand are just as welcome as long as you don't detransition my trans characters.

And about redesigns...I mean you are more than free to draw yer own version of said character; redesigns for the fun of it and or for the criticism's sake is welcome! But please don't try to "fix" them, they're still my characters that I've grown attached to. I understand that the designs might not be for everyone and that's okay! You can always block me and go find character designs that you enjoy!

[lonesomedreamer]

SNW Liveblog: S3 Teaser Trailer

because @thekenobee enjoys when I suffer (source)

“We want to give audiences a reflection of their own world through the lens of fantasy.” I’m not going to split hairs here—there’s a lot of overlap between fantasy and SF (it’s even grouped together as one all-encompassing mega-genre at my library, at least…which I hate), and Trek has always had generous helpings of the former. But shouldn’t it be science fiction (and morality play) FIRST, fantasy second?

The SNW people can’t trick me into believing they care about TOS with filters, campy costumes, and TOS music when every single writing choice they’ve ever made indicates otherwise.

Um, I guess he looks a little more like TOS!Kirk now, so kudos…??

This looks like a joke. Why do they want to make their own franchise an actual joke? I mean, this looks cheesier than the SNL TOS set.

There’s something incredibly telling about TOS trying to look like the future, influenced of course by the culture of its own time—it’s called retrofuturism—and SNW, made almost 60 years later and which has always been slick and modern as possible, suddenly trying to look retro for no reason (and badly at that).

Why the FUCK is there a holodeck on my twenty-third century Enterprise?!?!

Really wish I wasn’t so weak for them! Watch this scene be in Episode 1, and then they break up while I put on (more) clown make up. Also: they let Spock have some chest hair! Yay!

Also, hold up: RING. GIRL HAS A RING.

I already dislike most of TNG’s holodeck episodes. Now we have the SNW crew playing live-action Clue? Jesus tapdancing Christ, y’all.

Why is he even HERE?

Pike is not beating the alcoholic allegations.

“You know, Mr. Scott, we make a pretty good team.” This line is so blatantly fanservice-y that I want to die. And again…WHY IS UNDERSTUDY DISCOUNT BARGAIN BIN KIRK EVEN HERE?!??!!

It’s interesting (not in a good way) that there’s roughly as much of Kirk in this teaser as there is of either of Spock or of Pike. Ya know, the nominal captain/hero of this show. Remember him? There’s also more of Ortegas than of Uhura or of La’an, the vastly superior characters. Choices were made.

Almost everything—apart from the last twenty seconds, which feature a bunch of phasers, photon torpedoes, and a Gorn—that they’ve offered up from Season 3 so far is off-the-charts silly, goofy even. That seems disingenuous, even mean, since Season 2 ended on a dramatic cliffhanger with life-and-death stakes…over two years ago! Way to thumb their noses at their audience. (And yes, cliffhanger or not, we all know that the Enterprise and all the main characters will be fine. That’s not the point for me. Read the room! For heaven’s sake, they kept Leonard Nimoy’s name out of the opening credits of Search for Spock even though I’m pretty sure every person who went to see that movie knew, in their soul, that Spock would be returning. Pretend to give a shit! Pretend to have integrity!!!)

Also interesting that there is nothing from last year’s awful “First Look” in here.* Granted, it’s only sixty seconds long, but they chose to include plenty of other silliness!

The stakes feel super low, and that’s disappointing. I’m not saying I want more grimdark content like last season (I absolutely don’t—you can go back and read what I have to say about those episodes if you want), but how about episodes that don’t revolve around gags like “let’s put wired telephones on the Enterprise” or (apparently) “let’s dress up like 1970s caricatures to play a murder mystery game on the holodeck” or “let’s make fun of our own source material for no reason”? How about pieces of social commentary that feel earnest and sincere? God knows our society needs that. This is the time for earnestness, sincerity, and for critiquing cruelty. Star Trek has never just been mindless fun. For every “The Trouble With Tribbles,” there are three episodes like “City on the Edge of Forever”! And even then, they were working with 24-episode seasons, not 10.

Besides, once they go heavy and grimdark like they did with alarming frequency in Season 2—once they establish a monstrous supervillain species like they’ve twisted the Gorn into—how can they proceed to spend most of their time on pure silliness? It boggles the mind.

I can’t really say much more, because there is VERY little of substance to unpack here.

My predictions:

They’ll under-utulize Number One, as usual.

They’ll pretend M’Benga didn’t kill a diplomat in cold blood, or hand-wave it in some fashion.

Ortegas will continue to be annoying af even though the writers seem to think she’s cool.

Everyone will make fun of/belittle Spock, given the opportunity. (This is cheating. We already know they do from the first look material.)

Scotty’s character will be ruined and made unrecognizable apart from his accent.

And Pike will continue to be everyone’s indecisive, functioning-alcoholic Space Dad.

Oh, and despite (or maybe because of) what’s shown in this teaser, they’ll come up with some lame-ass, paper-thin reason to break Spock and Christine up, again.

Anyway, you can bet that I’ll be suffering through every minute of this season for the sole reason of seeing Spock and Christine enjoy some much-deserved intimacy, even if it’s only a couple of scenes. I’ve come this far for them, haven’t I?

I previously did a Season 3 First Look Liveblog here.

[randomfox12245]

What is your idea for Belle? I didn't understand It in the last post

Basically would wanna take this idea that the comic established, that Belle is technically a badnik having been built by Eggman, and actually fucking do something with it. As opposed to the Nothing that the comic did with it.

Such an interesting idea. That actually doesn't make any sense within the context of the comics own internal logic lol. Like, Mister Tinker is the one who built Belle. Out of wood. What POSSIBLE internal mechanism could Belle conceivably have that would make her susceptible WHATSOEVER to a universal badnik summoning signal sent out by Eggman? This is, like, borderline a plot hole in the comic As Written.

But by my idea, it follows from how I'd personally rewrite Mister Tinker. I always liked the idea of Tinker trying to sincerely help and make useful things, but he either fails and makes things worse on accident, builds dangerous or harmful things out of instinct, or if he succeeds and makes something that people enjoy he realizes it gives him zero satisfaction or happiness whatsoever. He just feels hollow. Doing nice things and helping others not only doesn't come naturally to him, once he's able to actually successfully do it it doesn't even feel good. He realizes that he only felt compelled to try and do it because it's what he's "supposed" to do, and not because it's what he actually WANTED to do.

Tinker's story would have been a lot more interesting if Sonic was like "this is a disaster waiting to happen =| " and was NEVER cool with leaving him in the village. And it was the goat dude who was trying to convince him "no dude, this proves he can change =D "and Sonic is like "if he got turned INTO this then he can turn back FROM this. I know Eggman. This WILL go bad." and it gets passed off like he's getting a lesson in learning how to trust and the power of redemption

only for Eggman to eventually come back, he betrays windmill village, and Sonic has a grim little "i told you so" moment. That would have been more in character, AND it would have been edgy grimdark bullshit which the comic is in love with -.- And Eggman maybe could have used that against Sonic later. Gaslight him by beinglike "well hey, maybe if YOU believed in Mr Tinker and trusted him, maybe I never would have come back >=P " monday morning quarterbacking I know.

Anyway, following up from that idea, Tinker would have created Belle but would have subconsciously designed her as a Badnik. EXPLICITLY STATING that Tinker built Belle the same way Eggman builds Badniks, with the same programming and same materials and same external radio frequency receivers that synchronizes her to what the comic describes as the "Eggnet." (No, this is NOT explicitly stated in the comic, it legitimately doesn't make any fucking sense why Tinker would have made her as a "badnik" even if she was made from badnik parts internally). She would mostly be exactly the same in terms of her little Pinocchio backstory

but once Tinker goes back to being Eggman, she would still be receptive to his direct commands and the command signals sent out en mass across the Eggnet to all active Badniks. So a combination of sudden exile from the only community she ever knew and the robot equivalent of schizophrenia where she's hearing Eggmans voice in her head telling her to do Badnik stuff would have driven her to hiding away inside of one of Eggmans bases and going a little loony for a while due to the isolation.

So when Sonic and Tails meet her it would make MARGINALLY more sense why he reacted to her this way if she was initially hostile. She would be recognizable AS a badnik and initially be acting like one.

Once Sonic decks her hard in the fucking face, it knocks the internal radio antenna keying her into the eggnet loose which allows Belle's "the daughter of mister Tinker" personality to come to the surface. And Sonic would recognize that she's not only no longer hostile but is an innocent, and offer to bring her along out of this dingy ass Eggman base so they can help her find her dad or whatever her stupid deal was at first.

Tails opens her up and repairs her from any damage Sonic caused during their initial meeting, reconnecting her radio receptors and putting her back online in the Eggnet. Which Eggman would take notice of and investigate, discovering Belle's existence and her connection to his network as a Badnik. Providing him a Manchurian agent in Sonic's friend group! So he would be able to implant suggestions in her subconscious or in opportune moments send her direct commands to commit sabotage or subterfuge which she would be powerless to act against. At first she would just Lose Time during these periods of Eggman control, of Eggman puppetting her, and she'd be just as ignorant of her actions during that time as anyone else.

But over time Eggman would become more bold or more careless in taking control of her directly, and she would start becoming aware of it happening. Becoming a passenger in her own body, watching through her own eyes as she's forced to move and act out what Eggman wants her to do, unable to stop herself. And once the control is relinquished she would be too scared of being exiled again or even being destroyed outright by Sonic's friend group to admit to anybody what she now knows is happening to her.

Basically just completely ripping off the Boomer story from Battlestar Galactica lol

I'm also a complete hack because the whole Eggman double agent thing is also my rewrite fix for Lanolin x3

[inkcurlsandknives]

Thinking about what makes a compelling narrative

I've been watching and reading a lot of anime/manga and romance lately. They're one of my comfort genres. Way too many real life terrible things have been happening for me to be able to experience escapism into anything with a hint of grimdark. For example right now I'm watching My Happy Marriage/Watashi no Shiawase na Kekkon, which is an Anime/Manga/light novel romance. It is blatantly a Cinderella story, where all the villain's are cartoonish-ly evil, while the MC is simply a cinnamon roll, too sweet, too soft and good for this world. The whole thing should not hang together as a functional or even strong narrative, much less a show both my partner and I are enjoying wholeheartedly.

I think it's secret is that it is completely and utterly earnest. I think as an audience we're more willing to suspend disbelief and go along for the ride when a story wears it's beating heart on its sleeve. I think a huge weakness of a lot of popular western media and fiction is that it feels like everyone is allergic to sincerity. Everyone's too busy cracking a glib one-liner or being grimdark and gritty to care deeply and honestly.

It's something that a lot of anime/manga and the romance genre at large has completely embraced. Even media that is actually quite dark like Jujitsu Kaisen or Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba feels like a breath of fresh air because of how earnest the protagonists are. Romance books have this in spades, some of my favorites have been, The Sun is Also a Star, Get a Life Chloe Brown, and The Devil Comes Courting.

I think a lot of the time we're too ready to turn up our noses at narratives and characters that care and care deeply. Writers will say it' simplistic, or a character archetype that's overdone. But I think the first step of getting your audience to care is to have characters who care, and to not be shy about it. Let the audience care with your characters, let stories be earnest and sincere and wear their hearts on their sleeves. Not everything has to be a clever twist or a joke or afraid of real feeling, and we do ourselves and the stories we tell a disservice when we tell ourselves that sincerity and earnestness are trite and only serious grim and hopeless things are real and engaging.

One thing I always strive for in my own stories is to have characters who care and care deeply, and often for conflicting things.

[bugeyedfreaks]

While I would be interested in a darker reboot of the PPG, I think it would be more on the level of Mystery Incorporated or Batman the Animated Series (dark but ultimately uplifting). Where exactly is the idea that the series should go into Grimdark coming from? Is it just edgy teenagers, or is it from older fans forgetting all the silly stuff?

Mystery Incorporated, yes. Possible! It definitely still had an undercurrent of humor. BtAS… I dunno, that’s skewing too serious for my own tastes in most cases.

From my own experience, I usually (though not exclusively) see calls for excessive gore or ultra dark content from what I like to call The Internet Edgelords. They are annoying and span young and old alike. 😆 Despite that, I mean, they can obviously like the show and everything, and enjoy the gorier/darker aspects of it. One of the things that I truly love about the show is the fact that it was essentially made for everyone regardless of age/gender/whatever else, but there are multiple things that make it good! It’s a super funny show with heart and humor that also happens to very occasionally have a lot of very cool action sequences and intense fights in it.

But it’s interesting that, for every person who claims that the show was made “for the girls” and want to erase most of the violence from it, there are fans who claim it’s solely “for the boys” and, therefore, must be stripped of anything that could be heartfelt or silly and should just be bloody fights 24/7. There isn’t anything wrong with loving all the cool fights in the show (because, hey, I love them too!) but it’s like the inverse of people reducing the show to be about little girls who very rarely use their superpowers: in this case, they’re seen as superheroes who very rarely act like the little girls they are.

…sometimes it feels like that almost translates to some of these people like “superheroes who are soulless killing machines and just so happen to be trapped in little girl bodies…” 😬

[pimpkinkingz]

In my absence, I have found the weird side of the brony fandom lmao Ponygram and their story telling, the Tamers universe along with enjoying the grimdark stories and infection AUs. So, I wanted to make my own lil oc, an alicorn who's mother kept him hidden away while she was banished to the moon for over a thousand years. I'm sorta making a story that goes more into each pic on my deviantart- so if ya'll are curious go check it out :>

(It's like revisiting my childhood ~o~)

[aspaceformbf]

Magus Thoughtdump - Dancing / Witchcraft / Clothes

I like it when my man has hobbies. Like dancing.. and witchcraft.

---

Dance

I occasionally save videos of guys dancing on tiktok, thinking that it would be neat if Magus could dance like that too.

A lot of the videos involve some dudes with big ass muscles and when I save them I think

"His body doesn't look like that.. but the moves are cool. I'm saving this for him."

"Inaccurate body but nice moves"

---

I like to think of them as additions to his personal bucket list of things to learn when I'm not around. He can practice while staring at me too. Yeah, I see him multi-tasking in that sense.

The Tumblr did mention he is a fast learner, so I see him picking up new moves pretty quick. I mean, those tiktok dancers dish out videos everyday.. that's insane. They make it look easy.

I imagine it's the same way with him, somewhat.

---

I do headcanon that my Magus already has some experience with dancing before I met him.

The YB Tumblr began on 2019 so I do headcanon that Magus met me around that time. I only met him around 2021 so he had two years to watch me in a one-sided fashion.

Back in 2019 I did enjoy cosplay and dance videos so I imagine that he took the effort to try to learn how to do those things in his free time.

---

Question : What if he downloads the dance in his brain?

I do like to think of Magus having a learning curve, like he has to try it before he gets the hang of it. I like the idea of him taking the effort to experiment and feel it out instead of just automatically uploading and knowing how to do it.

To be fair, he is adaptable and fast learner and dedicated so his learning curve is faster than normal.

I see the process going like-

He sees the video and tries to copy it. The first few attempts would be messy, clunky.. and probably really cringe. But with practice, his moves gets better and he eventually pulls it off.

Something like this would be like a first draft.. probably a second and third too. It could also just be a form of interpretative dance he does for fun without practice.

---

Witchcraft

This ramble was inspired by this Tiktok video.

Peter canonically does have a shrine of us so witchcraft is something I could feasibly see a Boyfriend doing. I headcanon that my Magus does that too.

---

Before meeting me, I headcanon that he has tried ALL KINDS of stuff to get us together. Look.. when your lover lives in a whole other realm, you gotta try things that are straight up otherworldly to keep them. Listen, it makes sense.

Also he is canonically a product tester so I do see him testing all kinds of spells and rituals and shit before I met him.

I see him having an extra laptop that runs a whole playlist of witchy videos 24/7. Probably includes stuff like prayers for health, peace of mind, manifestations, affirmations, love spells, protections and stuff to ward of evil and all that.

---

On the more extreme end, game YB can't actually truly die even if you kill him. Tumblr YB self harms and offers to hurt himself terribly for you without any hesitation. And there's his fixation on blood.

I think the witchcraft he did before we officially met is probably pretty grimdark. If it's not straight up killing stuff on the altar, with his tendency to self harm I wouldn't be surprised if he did some extreme ritual like

"Dig out your own organs, put it on an altar and write chants in your blood 100 times"

Which he could pull off since he technically cant die.

He is more focused on spending time with me nowadays though and I would rather he treated his body like it won't just respawn forever.

---

When I first started hyperfixating on him back in 2021, Magus gave me a lot of deity worship vibes. 

He gave the impression that he had shrines and prayers and offerings and whole ass rituals dedicated to me. That includes body pillows, love dolls, posters, mannequins, all of that.

I wouldn't be surprised if he decorated his whole house based on his love for me.

---

He started giving more witchy vibes instead of deity worship vibes as I spent more time in the fandom.

We have been together for a while now, so the nature of his spells and rituals are kinda different than before we met or compared to our first few months together.

I like to think he is less reckless with the more violent or self destructive practices. He probably still does some dark arts but not to the extent he used to before we got more steady with each other.

I think a lot of it is because I'm more actively involved with him now, like making art and writing and being active in the fandom. So I see him paying more attention to me and the people I'm interacting with and less time allocated to witchy stuff.

---

Old witchy headcanons of Magus on Twitter

Sorcerer AU - #sorcerer au

There's between 5-10 fic posts in this tag so yeah.. the lore/character building is there.

---

Clothes

I will admit, I have put him in A LOT of outfits over time. His closet must be pretty big. Oh, my metrosexual husband~

---

He definitely has the Tumblr YB trait where he will cherish every gift you give him so.. unfortunately I do see Magus having a big ass closet with all the outfits I have edited him in.

If we do get together I personally prefer him in simple clothes unless we are going out somewhere fancy like his Sunday best or whatever. A lot of his clothes will just be there gathering dust for the most part.

He would spend time to dust them off and maintain them the way he polishes his bottle caps, However he would spend most of his time on me generally so I do see his clothes getting neglected.

I have thought about clothes rental as a side income but .. nah he's not sharing.

---

Question : Would he ask you which outfit you would like to see him in?

Listen.. I'm terrible at making decisions. Having to choose between A and B would stress me out. 

I see him picking an outfit on his own. Or if I tell him I'm in the mood for a specific look, he will just wear that. I headcanon he wearing simple clothes for the most part. Tshirt and shorts, the usual.

If we don't go out, he's just in his underwear.. or naked. His birthday suit is the best suit :))

..Hygiene may be a factor though, so maybe underpants.. or booty shorts.

---

Skin Colour

Most of the videos on my Magus-tok show him.. being white. And it's like.. I kinda wish my feed showed more videos of people doing stuff like this but like.. with melanin? He's grey, not white.

I see his skin colour being closer to this tbh.

(Get your shit together, algorithm)

[misc-pit-of-things]

Watched Cinderella's Castle; Rambles Below

This isn't going to be an exact play by play reaction, but I did try and keep it chronological.

So first! Random little set dressing thing, but the hanging little buildings in the upper right side that imply a backdrop/perspective without actually having any? Neat!

The music, dancing, and props are great out the gate. I love how detailed the puppets are. I'm more used to the actors for puppets being hidden, so it took a bit for me to adjust to seeing the actors, but I imagine this makes for excellent re-viewing.

The trolls keeping Cinderella dirty to give credence to the rumor of her going mad AND because they like stink and rot, is a bit of writing I appreciate. I enjoy when an aspect of plot has multiple reasons/effects.

I'm not wild about the evil step-mother's costume/wig. It feels a lot more garish compared to the other wealthy outfits, although it looks okay beside the dresses that the step-sisters end up wearing later (the colors complement each other). I imagine this was an intentional design decision to emphasize the character's whole seduction and "pretending to be human" aspects. I've seen a lot of stories that use garish make-up and over the top fashion/jewelry to emphasize that while a character is trying to look 'high class' or 'feminine', they don't have the background to pull it off. And its not a trope I enjoy. It skates uncomfortably close to "ugly is evil" for me. I have seen it done in a way that emphasizes inexperience over nature, but that's not the vibe I got here.

Bryce Charles' voice is gorgeous! her wigs and outfits are stunning! I love her acting!

The raunchy over-sexual dude is pretty much a staple of Starkid productions, but its never been my thing, so I don't find the prince entertaining at all (I know the audience isn't supposed to like him, but I'm kind of under the impression that he's meant to be funny in some way??). I like his costume though!

Taking the step-family in such a monstrous and dark direction is fun. I've loved nuanced humanizing interpretations of them in other re-tellings, but going full grimdark fantasy is fun!

I appreciate that the step-sisters have distinct personalities. But this does bring in a common issue in fantasy: Fully sentient species that are ontologically evil. Think orcs, goblins, etc. being treated as inherently evil creatures to be mowed down by heroes despite being thinking, feeling, intelligent creatures. Between the unique personalities between the three troll characters and the comment about a bastard brother who hunts trolls, it doesn't paint a pretty picture. Maybe its because of shows like Trollhunters or Hilda that depict trolls as more neutral--like, I do think that monsters in fiction can serve as symbols of ideas like good or evil, but humanizing those monsters and then dehumanizing them to wave away any moral conundrums... its a whole thing. I don't think this was intentional on Starkid's part btw. Context matters. I think they chose trolls because making the step-family literal-monsters was a cool dark twist.

Also, I'm sure it was obvious to a lot of people watching, but I'd kind of turned my brain off and was vibing with the grizzwald girls, so it didn't hit me that these characters were introduced solely to become skin-suits until the stepmother showed up with the crossbow. My jaw dropped.

Love the fairy. LOVE the otherworldly powerful fairy vibe. More fairy than godmother and that adds to the whole grimdark fairytale vibe the show has.

Sir Hops a Lot and Crumb are fun and cute, while fairly one-dimensional. They unlocked some nostalgia for the Muppet's Hey, Cinderella! (Hm, the step-mother has a tall candy-red wig in that one too. Is this just a cinderella staple I wasn't familiar with??)

Royalty/nobles in fiction are very engaging. And I thought the way Ella was written was interesting. There was a big emphasis on her bloodlines and nobility (All that was taken from her that was 'rightfully' hers). You can see she was raised to view herself as better than peasants (and then experienced trauma at the hands of peasants). She has internalized "I deserve better" (she does!) but she also carries some of the classism I'd expect from a noblewoman, which I thought was unexpectedly nuanced. Her conversation with Tadius was interesting because it made her grapple with the responsibility she would have to these people she, until now, viewed as adversarial.

SO, Trolls kill cinderella, which I did see coming this time. Oddly, they switch from skin-suit to amputation. If I had to explain the switch, I think its 1. a call back to the step mother threatening to chop her feet off 2. implied to take less time than skinning a whole suit?? 3. to avoid having a skin-suit of a black character and even coming close to touching the idea of monstrous blackface. Whether that was the right call?? I'm not sure, but I love the fairy rules dictate that cinderella is unstoppable once the trolls put the slippers back on her feet.

Overall: love the puppets, love the music, love the dark and powerful forces at play vibes going on. And we got a happy ending!!

[blazer5402]

Have you ever hyperfixated on a single fandom? What about hyperfixating on a single fanfic. Because that's been me for nearly the past year.

Trailblazer's a Worm/Gundam crossover fanfic. It's 1.6 million words long, nearly as long as canon Worm is. I've read it twice in the past year, and am re-reading it again. It's living rent free in my head.

Trailblazer takes place in a Worm AU where Scion was killed 10 years ago in the Gold War (akin to canon's Gold Morning). While it draws on elements, themes, and characters from Gundam - mostly Gundam 00 and Iron Blooded Orphans to my knowledge (I'd only watched like 4 episodes of Witch From Mercury before reading Trailblazer), you don't really need any Gundam knowledge to read Trailblazer.

While the end of the world was averted with Scion's death, the world's still dying a slow collapse. The Endbringers are predicted to bring global trade to an end within a few short decades. The slow collapse of society is predicted to start soon after. Anti-Parahuman sentiment is on the rise. If the Endbringers don't end the world, humanity may end up ending it themselves.

One bitter, broken, bullied girl sees a world she isn't satisfied by and sets out to save it. She saves herself along the way.

I love Worm. I spent most of my high school years obsessing over it. But I can't read Worm anymore. Not all the way through. I know how it ends, and it's really not something I have in me to reread.

Trailblazer, on the other hand, is a fic I actually enjoy re-reading. It treads brighter where Worm canon goes darker, but that's not to say it's all sunshine and ponies. If Worm's grimdark, Trailblazer's... more hopepunk? noblebright? Whatever you want to call it.

Worm's the story of a girl who gives everything she has to save the world. By Worm's endgame, Taylor's barely a person. She's thrown her life into it, she's cut every tie in the name of it. She's alive, but she's not really living.

Trailblazer's the story of the same girl going in an orthogonal direction. Taylor's character arc in Trailblazer is about realizing that she wants to live. It's about overcoming her death seeker mindset from canon, and realizing that she doesn't just want to save the world, but that she wants to live in it too. It's like if canon Taylor went to therapy, and therapy actually worked.

Trailblazer's biggest theme is that the world might suck, but it can be better, even if you have to go out and make it better yourself. That even if the system is broken, good people can still do good things within a broken system.

Anyways, what I'm getting at is that Trailblazer is fucking fantastic. It's the best thing that's come out of the Worm fandom. It's complete at 1.7ish million words, just about as long as canon. It'll make you laugh, it'll make you cry. Go read it!

[viewfromthelake]

Comics Reading Update: Feburary 5, 2025

Reading pre-New52 Power Girl books led me to decide to read Infinite Crisis, because in my mind I don't know much about a lot of the big crisis events in DC history. Started reading it and realized by issue 2 that I had read it before. Nothing wrong with a re-read, but I also didn't feel like it (I'm a little cold on the "critiquing modern comics for getting all grimdark, while also reveling in the grimdark" thing). Decided to move on and read Flashpoint because I'm pretty sure I haven't read that one. I'm enjoying that Kubert art. The story is okay so far a couple issues in.

Someone posted an Alex Ross painting from an Astro City cover in an online forum I frequent, and it reminded me how much I loved Astro City when I recently read through all the Metrobooks they had on Hoopla.

It made me think, "I wonder if any more of these are out yet." There's only four on Hoopla - the ones I'd read - but as far as published Metrobook collections they are already up to 6. So I think I'm going to go for it and buy 5 and 6, because this series is so fun and satisfying to read, and I love how these collections make it easy to just read all of Astro City including spin-offs without going on side quests to search them out. Alex Ross art - especially his painting - always blows me away.

Falling In Love On The Path To Hell and the first volume of Power Fantasy continue to sit on my nighttime reading table. I'm very interested in them, but lately by the time I'm ready to sit down for some before-bed reading I'm so tired I don't want to start something brand new to me, I just want to sit down and read through another issue-and-a-half of some old DC comics from the 2000s/2010s.

[thesummerstorms]

This is sooo late, but I didn't have a proper keyboard while I was housesitting and I've just managed to sit down now and do anything that required any length typing.

Thank you to @nepobabyeurydice for the tag!

If I'm being honest, I've not perfectly been able to keep track of who I saw answer this already on my dash, but if you are a writer and we are mutuals, consider yourself optionally tagged.

When did you start writing?

I remember typing up original stuff on our hand me down Windows 95 computer in elementary school, though I could not tell you what any of it was about.

My first fic was a very, very, very cringy Naruto fic when I was 11 and emo everything was at the height of its popularity. I never finished it, and it is now nonexistent, which is very much for the best.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I read a somewhat decent amount of science fiction that isn't as "loose" in it's worldbuilding as even space opera, but you will never catch me doing world building outside of fantasy. I can make things internally consistent, but do not ask me to make them realistic to science.

Also, just in general, while I don't read action per say, or at least read for action, a lot of my favorite genres and series do have fight scenes, and I cannot write those at all.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I can trace a few things in my own writing- both good and bad!- to a handful of authors that particularly influenced me as a young teenager, but I don't think it's anything anyone else would pick up on.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have a proper desk in my bedroom with a desktop PC and two monitors and everything, and if I'm doing any serious and researched meta, or leaving comments on particular fics, I use that.

But I don't really write fic so much these days, and what I do post tends to be... fragments? Concepts? Worldbuilding that morphs into slightly-longer than drabbles? here on tumblr. And 95% of that gets posted from my phone because inspiration struck and it was in my hand.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

I don't go seeking things out, honestly. Like I said, I don't write plotted or long fic or really much fic at all. So what I do write comes out because it's sitting there poking at my brain for too long and then I can't ignore it anymore.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

... looking at my SW stuff and my PJO stuff, one thing I guess I like the idea of a lot is the boundary between human/larger than human, mortal/immortal, mutable/immutable etc.

I loved some eldritch Force stuff and I love the idea of the PJO gods as being forces as much as or more than they are people.

Like, there's an Anne Carson translation of a Sophocles quote I saw for the first time years ago on tumblr- "Nothing vast enters the lives of mortals without ruin"- and I can't help but fixate still on that idea. What if the vast is inherently part of you but in a way that is alien to your humanity? What happens when the "vast" is both sympathetic and destructive to your personhood?

Also, a slightly less pretentious and definitely less wordy answer, I just think angst is fun to write. Not pure tragedy or grimdark, but angst.

What is your reason for writing?

My brain Will Not Shut Up and it has to go <i>somewhere.</i>

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I want people to talk about ideas with me!

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Not as a fiction writer per say, but I fucking killed every literary analysis paper I ever wrote in college. Like, this may sound arrogant, but I got nominated for awards by my professors. I thrived off of getting their feedback and that looping into a discussion. So I feel like meta comes easily as a result.

Now if only you could get paid and have health insurance writing literary analysis... alas, I cannot afford a doctorate and academia doesn't pay well or have decent enough healthcare access for my many needs.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I wish I could write long fic and coherent plots, but I am proud of the ideas I come up with sometimes.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I feel like most of my writing is in conversation with what I read, whether it be the original text, other folks' fic, or meta. But even if it's in conversation, I'm never going to even have the idea much less the words unless it's something I'm interested enough in that my brain snags on it.