#eugh. i have all the regrets. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vyzz-undercover · 3 months ago

Text

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

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

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

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

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

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to give it to you.

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

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

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

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

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

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

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

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

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Water," he says abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you huff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What reason?"

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

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

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He insisted?"

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

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

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

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

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

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

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

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

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

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

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

"Groxshit," you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's got your attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it," he pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine, well beyond words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato stays quiet, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, sinker—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's practically vibrating from elation.

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

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

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

Still, he plays along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

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

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whotfelsewantedtobelynnyx · 10 months ago

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Of all the theories as to how Carmilla and her daughters found eachother in Hell (adoption, reuniting after they died, one or all three being Hellborn, ect;), I think my personal favorite is the one where Carmilla was either pregnant when she died or later gave birth to a child she miscarried when she was alive.

But whether or not that’s true, one of my favorite crack theories/headcanons about Carmilla being pregnant in Hell is how absolutely weird the other Overlords would be about it- because let’s be real, they would absolutely be weird about it. Maybe supportive and weird, but weird.

Zestial, nervously following Carmilla around: My darling. My own heart. I beg of thou, please, for just a moment.

Carmilla, still stubbornly walking around in her ridiculously sharp shoes: I’M FINE.

Zestial, who’s been trying to get her to sit down or at least change her shoes for over an hour: 0,_0

Rosie, crouched at her side with a glass of something red and questionable: I’m telling you, honey, just try this. It’ll cure that morning sickness in a jiffy.

Carmilla, curled up on her bathroom floor: …it disturbs me that I’m nauseous enough to actually be considering this.

Zestial comes to her rescue and shoos Rosie out to go make her some (GINGER) tea before Carmilla can do something she’ll regret.

Alastor, gazing suspiciously: Why on earth is your abdomen moving like that? Is something trying to break out?

Carmilla, too exhausted to deal with this: That movement is my baby kicking, Alastor.

Alastor: Pardon? You mean to tell me that one can see that on the outside? Eugh.

Carmilla, glaring at him: You are so lucky you’re not worth getting up for.

- Rosie insists on throwing her a baby shower. Vox and Alastor get kicked out for fighting and are forced to put together the IKEA furniture for the nursery as punishment.

- I seriously doubt this lot can build and work an ultrasound machine, so something like this is likely.

Carmilla, slowly coming to after giving birth: Mmmh…?

Rosie, happily bouncing one baby in her arms: Oh good, she’s up! Congratulations, sweetie. You have two beautiful daughters 🥰

Carmilla: ….

Zestial, who’s gently cradling the other: Carmilla…? Is something the matter?

Carmilla: …there’s really two of them. I thought I was hallucinating.

BONUS:

Fun fact- some scientists say cats have sensitive enough hearing that they can hear babies’ heartbeats within their mother’s bodies.

Husk, staring at Carmilla:

Carmilla, who’s still processing that she’s pregnant and hasn’t begun telling anyone else: …is something wrong?

Husk, ears bristling slightly: h o w m a n y h e a r t s d o y o u h a v e ?

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starzwithapen · 1 year ago

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⋅•⋅⊰∙∘˗ˏˋ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˎˊ˗∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

JOHN DORY / READER ☆ START A LOVE TRAIN

જ⁀➴.𖥔 ݁ ˖༉‧₊˚.

☆Summary: John Dory's first meeting with Rhonda and her owner, you!

☆Content: reader is gender neutral, first meeting!! Gonna make a part 2 exploring their relationship more :3

☆a/n: I FUCKING HATE HIM [affectionate] my first worrkk pls leave feedback if youd like it helps a ton!! :3

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘˗ˏˋ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˎˊ˗∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The day John Dory met you and Rhonda was simultaneously one of the worst and best days of his life.

He'd been hiking- nothing out of the ordinary for him, maybe one venomous spider he'd had to fight off, but so far so good! The sting of the cold air against his cheeks quelled his thoughts, made him feel accomplished, in a way.

But he must've been distracted- he was a little more careless than usual, overestimating his own strength and struggling to pull himself upwards, his legs dangling over the edge- he could feel a tick of nerves in the back of his mind, but pfftt, John Dory's got this! He's done this a million times-

Next thing he knows, the rock holding his legs up collapses, and down he goes with it, tumbling over harsh terrain while the wind rushing past his ears drowns out his yelling.

After many very painful seconds of straight up rolling down this cliff, John Dory groans in pain, dusting himself off and pushing himself upwards, except- oh, shit, okay, ow, something’s very wrong with his ankle.

He hisses and grabs onto the skin, pulling his goggles up to inspect it- it appears swollen, and he realises with a frustrated groan that he'd managed to twist his ankle miles away from the nearest safe-house.

Well- looks like he'll have to camp outside for the night, wouldn't be the first nor last time, but it'll be significantly more difficult with a leg that refuses to cooperate with you.

He rushes through setting up camp, wanting to just sleep the pain off till his foot got better, but just as he sets his head down on the pile-of-leaves-that-vaguely-resemble-a-pillow, he hears distant rustling.

That's not odd- it'd be weirder for the forest to be quiet, if anything, animals are always trudging along no matter the time of day- what's odd is how loud the sound is, feet papping against the floor in heavy strides, coming closer and closer towards him.

John Dory sits up in a flash, suddenly regretting how shittily he'd camouflaged his camp- his eyes widen towards the oncoming noise, having just enough time to snatch a stick and hold it out threateningly, though his hands shake and tremble.

“Hey! I have a- uh, a really sharp stick, and I'm not afraid to use iiIIITTT-”

The stick goes flying out of his grasp, and he gets the breath absolutely slammed out of him as something huge jumps onto him, rumbling atop him and- eugh, was it licking him?! Was this how he died, after all these years?! Eaten alive by a-

“Down, girl- stop that, you're scaring him!” the thing finally lets up on trying to swallow him whole, standing back on its hind-legs and cooing at you excitedly, and it's then that he notices you.

“Gods, I'm really sorry- she's not usually like this-” you reach over with a grimace to wipe the wet mess of saliva and glitter off his cheeks with your sleeve, and all JD can do is stare at you, star-struck. One minute he was facing his impending doom, and now he was facing the prettiest person he'd ever set his eyes on, and though he's certain it's night time he feels as though you're shining the sun's rays straight at him.

You smile nervously and pat his attacker's leg, “She wasn't actually going to eat you- or at least I don't think she was? You can never quite tell with Rhonda.”

Okay, John Dory had lived on his own amongst nothing but the trees and mountains for years, so excuse him for not being particularly eloquent when all he blurts out is “John.”

You and Rhonda blink at him comically for a moment, and he feels his cheeks flush under his fur-lined vest. No one's ever caught him off gaurd like this before.

“That's…not my name, but good guess anyways.” You check over him as if he's concussed, and he tries not to frown at the scrunch in your nose as you take in his camp.

“It's my name- John Dory.” He flashes you a charming smile, though he assumes the effects are dampened by the mess of glitter and dirt still smeared across his face, “and can I get yours, or can I just call you mine?”

Silence stretches on between you both, his smile getting more strained by the minute- why hadn't that worked? That always worked, at least when Spruce did it! You were supposed to be- swooning, or something! Not looking at him like he's sprouted a second head!

You cut through the tension with a gasp, and he follows your gaze down to his badly-damaged leg, now with extra bloodied scrapes, “Oh god, that looks rough- did Rhonda do this?” He doesn't have time to tell you that no, actually, it wasn't your fault, when you turn around and scold your…armadillo? He feels his lips quirk up- you looked pretty cute like that, like a disgruntled parent.

“Well, you can come inside and I'll wrap it up for you- you shouldn't leave it out in the open like that.” You wave him over, grabbing onto his hand to pull him into the door, and he feels his skin burn pleasantly where you both touch.

And that's how it starts. JD walks inside the armadillo bus, Rhonda, marvelling at the warmth. Though you hadn't given him your name yet, he felt as though he could trust you- you seemed like someone who values honor and helping others, however bluntly or awkwardly you may go about it.

You wrap his leg with gauze and a healing salve, and he fills the room with chatter- it'd been so long since he'd last seen another soul, he didn't realise just how…lonely he'd felt. You don't speak much of yourself, probably staying cautious, but you do seem curious about his stories, and the twinkle in your eye urges him to speak with a little more pomp than usual.

Your voice turns more concerned as you ask what he'd been doing camping out in the open like that- he'd told you of the trail he planned to follow, though he'd skipped the part where he fell off-course. He tells you of how he'd wanted to end up somewhere warmer by the time winter really hit, sighing to himself. “I'll just have to stock up on fire-wood, maybe invest in a flame-thrower.”

“I mean….we can take you there.” You offer in a quiet voice, your gaze stubbornly set on the floor, “It's still a pretty long drive, but better than 2 months walking on a sprained ankle, especially with how gnarly it looks.”

John Dory's conflicted- the offer sounds heavenly. He pictures waking up to your warmth day by day, helping you gather breakfast, travelling with a companion, for once, but….he'd left to the middle of nowhere for a reason. He wanted to distance himself from his old habits, his old expectations of himself and others.

Though….you seemed to be just as- if not more- capable than him. He wouldn't need to be a pillar for you to lean all your weight against, nor the pressure that turns coal into shining diamond- you two could simply…have each other's backs. Maybe…maybe this could work out, at least for a little while.

John Dory tilts his head up and takes one look at your welcoming smile to make up his mind.

"Can't say no to your pretty face, now can I?"

This time you snicker behind your hand at his awful flirting, but he catches it just in time- and he knows this'll be the start of something great.

#john dory x reader #trolls #trolls x reader #trolls john dory x reader #x reader #ok sorry I dont like putting stuff in main tags </3 thats it for tags #starzwrites #PLS LEAVE FEEDBACK IT HELPS A LOT !!#i hope this was enjoyable even tho it was shorter than I wanted :[ had to split into 2 parts ....

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spicypepperflakesss · 2 months ago

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💚 Post-Route Muriel | My Muriel Masterlist

theme: How To Comfort A Loved One

Muriel x GN!MC | CW: none

It's My Turn!

You had never seen Inanna act out before. But when you forget to do a beloved activity that brings you both together, you find Muriel pushed off to the floor and the defiant wolf in his place in the tiny floor mattress you three share

--------

Last night was the most fun you've ever had.

You and Muriel stumble through the front door of his hut. Your arm is slinged around his neck as he supports your weight with his.

You remember his laughs tickling your neck while you defend your sobriety with words slurring every other word.

Muriel carried on into the house, unconvinced.

"Hm, one thing's for sure," his careful whisper is loud in your ear, "Julian is formidable drinker."

The words summon a wave of nausea. You recall the dare. The excitement when you sat down. The regret when Julian swigged his tenth drink with ease. The relief when that man finally slumped against the table an hour later.

"Ugh." is all you manage to say.

You won. But at what cost?

Muriel shakes his head with a laugh. With his forehead against yours, it feels more like a nuzzle. You lean into his touch. His warmth is a balm to your aching head.

"Here, let's get you to bed soon."

Then, he snaps his thumbs. The fireplace fwooms to life. Its warm glow is kind to your eyes. You can see everything once again. Including the shadow stretching out to your feet. There's a sillhouette of one menacing wolf blocking the front of the fireplace, but you can only see the glow of her golden eyes through her shadow-veiled face.

She lowers her head. Is she.. glaring at you? Though she's shorter than both of you, you get the feeling that her golden eyes are staring you down.

"Whorf."

"Out with friends." Muriel says, "Why?"

Inanna lets out a snort that puffs in her chest. Her gaze moves from Muriel to you. She is unimpressed.

Muriel moves to the bed. He is gentle to lower you to the mattress on the floor. You can't help the sigh of relief at the moment your bum touches the mattress. Its softness invites your bones to relax. And you do. A happy hum falls from your lips as you lie down and sink into it. Finally, you can rest.

"Oh."

The crackling of the fireplace quiets your mind. You hear the chirping of crickets. A hoot of an owl. The hushed conversation between Muriel and Inanna. Your eyes begin to grow heavy as the forest's orchestra lulls you to sleep.

"She must've forgot." Muriel says, his volume lowered just enough that you can barely hear, "I'm sure she didn't mean it."

A whine. And stomp of a paw. Your eyes have fallen shut. Your mind is falling away into the depths of slumber.

"Awwour...."

A silent beat passes.

"Then, tell her in the morning." Muriel says, his tone is kind, "I'm sure she'll tell you why."

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

My mind stirs to the sound of soft snores and chirping birds.

Where am I? I make a move to toss and turn when the ache in my muscles pinch me awake.

'Ow.'

What the hell? I let out a frustrated sigh.

I just want to go back to sleep. Instead, I force my eyes open to see what the problem is.

The room is dark. The dying embers in the hearth tell me that the flames must have died sometime in the night. I'm on the hard, cold floor.

I deadpan at myself. Well, no wonder why my body is aching.

I move to open my mouth, but a putrid smell attacks my nose. Eugh. I move my hand to smell my breath against it. Meat... Sugar... Alcohol? Had I been drinking?

A furry sillhouette lies on the bed, chest heaving up and down in slow rhythm. It's Inanna. But something is different.

She's sleeping on the side of the bed closest to the floor, which is my side. That's strange. She usually hogs the whole bed by sleeping in the middle.

I peer up to see the rest of the bed behind her sleeping figure.

Everything stops when my eyes catch a glimpse of you. You stir from sleep and turn to face my side of the bed.

Your hair is as disheveled as a rat's nest. Your chest heaves and sinks as you remain in a dreamful sleep.

My heart softens at your adorable face. How cute. You look so calm. So... content. I catch your irises shifting udner your eyelids. And you sigh. I wonder what you're dreaming about?

Then, with eyes still closed, your arm reaches out before you. You hand finds its way to Inanna's fur, and your head follows its lead as your fingers burrow in her fluffiness. Then you bury your head in her fur. You take a deep inhale, and deflate with a contented sigh.

"Muri, Honey." you croak into her fur, "What time is it?"

My mouth twists with a laugh building in my throat, but I bite it back.

Oh well. So much for a blissful morning.

Inanna gets up, without any care that your limpy body plops back into the bed, face first.

An exhale escapes my nose as I smile. You must be so tired after last night.

Inanna inches towards your face and snorts a strong exhale into your face, sending your tiny hairs flying.

"Haawr." She huffs again.

(Wake up time.)

You jolt up. Your bleary eyes adjust to the dark room for a beat. I have to chew my bottom lip as I watch you peer up and look about the room. Its no different than watching a lost scraggly kitten looking for its mother.

"Oh, hi Inanna." You lie back down next to her, "Sorry I thought you were Muriel."

"Hmmff!" Inanna makes a show of turning her back to you.

(Always Muriel!)

I deadpan at her. What does she mean by that?

I lie back down and pretend I'm asleep. There's no way I'm getting caught in that.

But I keep my face hidden away, just enough to watch things unfold.

"Aw, what's wrong, my darling? What's got you in a bad mood today?"

Tiny gusts of wind blows over to my skin as something swishes against the mattress. I smile.

'Darling'. Even if she's mad at you, you always somehow get her tail wagging.

Inanna lets out a yowling yawn. Then snorts again. She lets out a chesty, sniffling exhale. As if she were about to cry.

"Hhmf."

(Nothing. It's not like you forgot anything.)

"Hm? Oh Nana. So upset."

You move in closer, even as she inches away from you, and you catch her in a comforting embrace.

"What's wrong, my baby girl? What's got my baby so upset?"

Her tail wags speed up. Is she... Does she like being called that?

I squeeze further into my hiding spot. I feel like I'm a part of a conversation I shouldn't be hearing. Still...

I clamp my hand over my smile. I'm definitely teasing her about this later.

Inanna lets out another crying snort.

(Always with Muriel!)

She snorts again. Then licks her nose.

(Never my turn.)

I deadpan at her direction. What's that supposed to mean?

Then, I hear you gasp.

"Oh! Nana." you soften at her. You bury yourself deeper into her fur.

"I'm sorry, baby. I forgot your story time."

"Awrf."

(That's right.)

"And your mad at me because I forgot, when I promised you I would, huh."

Inanna sniffles. But her tail wags faster.

(Ywes. You pwomised.)

She lets out a big snort again. Then turns to you, her brows pushed together in her glare at you.

(BUT YOU FORGOT!)

"Harmf."

(Now I'm angy. No talk.)

"Aww I'm so sorry. I actually was going to read to you last night. I was going to wake up after a short nap. But I guess it really got to me. Sorry, Nana."

"Hmff!!"

She inches away again.

"I know, that's my fault."

You both are silent for a moment.

Or so I thought. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of you, and I see the devious smile growing on your lips as a plan forms in your mind.

"Okay, Nana, how bout this?" you say, "What if you have me the whole day?"

Inanna snorts.

(Not listening.)

"It's my fault for forgetting. So what if I take the day off and we go to the market together?"

Her ear swivels to you, but she remains resolute in "not listening".

"Theeen~" your words take on a sing-sing tone, "We can buy that bear broth crisps that I know you've been keeping your eye on."

Then, her tail starts wagging.

"Aaand, we can go to that doggy day care spa that just opened in the other district--

Her tail limps.

"So that we can go back home and I can give us both a home spa after a round of hunting."

Her tail wags come back with a vengeance, beating again the mattress like a drum. Her body twists into a cresent shape, her head craning so far back that her golden, eager eyes are behold you in excited anticipation.

"We will also be hunting squirels."

Her tail is wagging so fast she's kicking up the floor dust as everytime it beats against the bed.

She snorts.

(And?)

"I'll cook us dinner."

Inanna leans forward with anticipation.

"It'll be roasted rabbit with that sweet potato puree you like."

The two black pools that make up her irises swell and glitter at you with affection. Then, out if nowhere, she stops. Her wagging tail halts mid-air and her breathing freezes.

She's waiting for you. Waiting for one last thing before going in for the final pounce.

I catch you bite your lip. There's a smile trying to break through your expression. As if opening your mouth would release the laugh in your throat and betray the poker face you've maintained thus far.

And it does.

"A-And!!" you clear out the laugh in your throat,

"I'll read you a bedtime story."

"RWAFF RWAFF!"

(YAYYYYY!!)

I smile at the sound. For a moment, you brought out the happy, bright pup that she used to be many years ago.

I had no idea she enjoyed being pampered this much. Maybe I should've been more affectionate with her, too.

You really have a way of bringing out the best in people.

She slams her big fluffy frame against you. No matter how careful she is about it, it send you both tumbling. The laugh you've been stifling breaks through. You're giggling as her big fluffy butt wiggles against you and she covers your face in slobbery kisses.

Sometimes Inanna forgets that she's not a pup anymore. She tries to fit her whole massive frame in your embrace. You wheeze when the full force of her hind legs rests on your ribs. Ouch.

I open my mouth to tell her off, but you return her affections with your arms around her in a tight embrace, inching your body to the side so she doesn't crush you completely. You rub her back affectionately

"I love you, Nana." you mumble into her fur, "I'm really sorry. I never want you to feel neglected."

You pull back to give her a warm smile. But with the previous night of carousing and drinking, it comes off as more tired than you'd like.

Inanna whines and her ears droop at you, sensing this as well.

(I-its okay. I was just kidding)

She regards you with big, sad eyes. A mix of worry and guilt shining in them.

(I don't really need all that. I'm okay if you just want to rest together today. That's all I konda want, y'know?)

You snort, amused at her expressions.

"I know. I'm sorry again, Nana."

You reach out and wrap her in your arms once more.

"We're gonna have the best day today, I promise."

Inanna stiffens. Her golden eyes dart around, a little lost with your response, before the deflated in defeat. That's not what she meant.

My heart breaks for her a little. She forgot that you can't actually hear her.

"Oo, y'know if Muriel's already out, then maybe we can go to my place and freshen up there. And then we can have a nice breakfast before we head to the market, yeah?"

And just like that, her worries melt away and her tail is wagging again. As you lay out your plans, she peers up at you with patient, loving eyes.

I sigh in relief. Looks like the worst part if over.

"Okay, wanna go now? Maybe if we have enough time for today, we can soak in the hot springs--"

The bed shifts. I'm caught off guard when your head juts forward and you catch my eyes open before I get to close them shut.

"M-Muriel?! Have you been there this whole time?"

"...No."

I peek through my closed eyes. And you're in full view of me, staring me down with your hands on your hips.

"Muriel..."

"Mmmff." I turn away from your pointed gaze.

"Not my fault I ended up here." I mumble, "And you guys were arguing so..."

"Well yeah." you say in a softer voice than I did. I almost couldn't make it out if I didn't read your lips, a skill I learned sometime ago because I couldn't hear someone sometimes.

.... Just like what I'm doing now.

A small heat burns my cheeks. Gods, you're so...

If this morning was different--

"And Inanna."

She flinches at her name. Her head droops in apology as she avoids your gaze too.

"Did you... push him out of bed?"

Inanna shakes her head.

You stare her down, unconvinced.

Then she nods. And deflates in further guilt.

You sigh. "Geez guys, what am I going to do with you both?"

Just as Inanna thinks it's all over, you shake your head with a chuckle and beckon her to follow you.

"Alright, come on, Nana. Let's go. We gotta add a new bed to the list too."

"W-What?!"

"Yes." You deadpan at me, "No more having difficulty sleeping or being forced to sleep on the floor, okay?"

"But--"

"Nuh uh. I'm not hearing any of it." You say, "Let's go, Nana. We got a lot to do today!"

And just like that, you're out through the front door, waiting for Nana to finish up before you both leave for the day.

Inanna needs no time to get ready. But I follow her to the front door to send her off.

"Gods..." I sigh. I scratch the back of my head.

"I should really lay her back for everything at this point."

"Whorf." Inanna looks up at me.

(Sorry. For kicking you off.)

"Hm." I chuckle, "Maybe... It wouldn't be so bad to be able to fit all of us into bed."

Inanna continues to stare at me, guilt behind the big, sad golden orbs of hers.

I guess that's not what she meant.

But I have an idea of what she might mean.

I pet her fluffy head without a hint of spite or resentment. After all, it's always more than that. I don't think I want to be mad at her for something like this.

"It's alright, Nana. Really" I say, "You go have fun, okay?"

It is a joy to see her ears perk up and her mouth in an open smile. There's a spark in her eyes that hadn't been there in a long time since I first met her.

I smile back at that warmth.

"Rawrf!"

(Okay!)

And just like that, she's off. Running to your side as you both walk and talk. Your silhouettes grow small with the distance as you both are on your way back to the shop.

----------- check out my other Muriel stuff!:

My Muriel Masterlist

#vesuvia weekly #comfort the li #the arcana #the arcana brainrot #the arcana headcanons #muriel of the kokhuri #the arcana muriel kohkuri #muriel headcanons #muriel kokhuri #the arcana muriel #the arcana oc #muriel x reader #muriel x mc #muriel the hermit #muriel the arcana #muriel x apprentice #pepperflakesss #pepper-writes-muriel

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kg-confessions · 4 months ago

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I need to get this off my chest.

I was the one who ruined Ted, Billy and Jerome's poll on kgmilgram au, I shouldn't have done that and I regret it A LOT, it was just an innocent and normal blog but I ruined everything.

And I was also the anon who telled to clover color kill herself.

Damn, I regret everything, I'm sorry @clover-color , @kgmilgramau and @onsennnnn

I hate myself. (You can judge me)

Confession #6

My opinion: I'm sorry, I don't know much things to say about this. But please don't hate yourself. Nobody deserves that. I really hope you aren't lying, because I forgive you, and i hope the people you did those things to forgive you too.

Edit: I thought about this for a little but and I've changed my mind. I don't forgive you. What you did was utterly wrong and I don't know if I can forgive you. I'm not usually the type to forgive, and I honestly don't know what the fuck I was thinking. Eugh, now I hate myself. Why do I have to cause so much drama? Why am I like this?!? WHAT THE FUCK AM I EVEN DOING HERE ON TUMBLR?!? I SHOULD JUST LEAVE. ALL I DO IS MAKE THINGS WORSE. I FUCKING HATE MYSELF. WHY?!? WHY?!? WHY?!?!?!?? WHY IS MY LIFE LIKE THIS?!?

#kindergarten confessions #kg confessions #kindergarten #kindergarten 2 #kindergarten 3 #confession blog #kindergarten game #kindergarten the game #(i really wasn't expecting this one and im so so sorry if i sounded rude)#(i just wasn't really sure what to say about it)

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delightedchips · 12 days ago

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fave scene rn: ekko letting vi go back to jinx despite literally everything (an incomprehensible tangent)

ekko watching vi still stand on a resolve that he had abandoned long ago and still understanding her for it is soooo. Like knock me on the head w a brick instead. Just my own interpretations of these lil guys whose hearts r too big to contain in themselves . Awesomesauce

vi reveals her current predicament: she doesn't want to leave jinx . not again . even if she had become a direct witness of what her sister had become. top it off that the last surviving semblance of family she has tied with her powder also testifying that what she saw was real: powder is gone

but i just. Like. Ekko doesn't immediately lash out or anything. He just goes on to say the same thing he had already said when they were looking at the mural, she can't be changed

And it's so .. ekko says these things like they're a script of some kind . He has thought of these things before, hell, he has said these things to himself before . their first conversations about jinx entails the same thing

He shows her the mural. He tells her Jinx is a byproduct of choice. She functions from an innate desire for destruction. Powder is Gone and he is so sure of it . Viscerally against any belief that says otherwise

yet despite everything. when vi says this

HE DOESNT EVEN. THERES THIS FACE HE MAKES LIKE.... FUFKDKCCUCKKKM.

Like. There's this look of. It's as if he's saying Yeah Of course you would. Of course you'd want to try. Of course you can't not have even a pint of some semblance of love for her still . Of course you can't swallow it back either . I remember feeling that way too. You're as stubborn as your sister. (As me) . Of course you won't be stopped unless you have absolutely tried everything . Of course you would

And to his understanding, that pursuit is a hopeless one

And yet. YET

HE STILL ALLOWS HER TO TRY .. PURSUE THIS OTHERWISE PERCEIVED DEADEND CHASE .. EKKO WHATTTJSJDD .....

AND it feels so insane. despite all the hate you have harboured for jinx you still let vi tread down the same path you did and otherwise probably regretted .. you still let her walk right back into the brutal pursuit of discovering the truth ...

it can imply a lot of things imo .. 🐢

Ekko wants Vi to find that resolve of his that Powder is gone herself (see point 3 why)

Ekko actually, genuinely, wants to see what if she pursued her instead? What if she tried to save her? Would it have changed anything? Would it be different if it's her? An underlying hope he won't explicitly acknowledge ..?

Ekko just knows no matter what he says Vi's heart will always be too big to tame. And in a way Ekko reflects the same attribute. He understands her, while it could be because he grew up with her, i think it's because he relates too. Ekko IS an emotional person . His decisions often stem not that he can do something, but he can't help but do it . He is rational and smart by nature so often these decisions don't always harbor the worst of consequences as the Firelights leader .. he can't help but hate silco so he leads the people well . He can't help but want zaun to prosper so he risks trusting caitlyn, an enforcer . he can't help but love the firelights so he breaks that 5 minute limit to avenge his fallen comrade . he can't help but have an attachment to the people he once loved so he hesitates delivering the final blow to his best friend in a bloody fistfight . he can't help but understand vi so he lets her go

can u tell i love point 3 the most . ekko & vi's paralleling natures .. your love too big you fools. i love u dearly

And there's the hug :[ <3 despite the risk of losing each other again they still allow the other to uptake their pursuits. EUGH . (sorry. Small #arcane critical u can skip: this should've been more emotionally explored in s2 btw. Vi learning Ekko is still alive after the explosion. Crazy stuff. I'm crazy . I'm not sane. man)

anyway yes. Just a random tangent. I love vi & ekko. they're one of, if not, my fave duo in the entire story . their hearts too big. Their love too strong.. they'll kill them!!!!

#AUUAUAUAUAUA whatever. Not explained well I'm eepy but whatever.#I still really love arcane's visual storytelling w facial expressions. EUGH. Beautiful #Arcane #Ekko #Vi #Ekko and Vi #Ekko & Vi #Lol #timebomb #HINTS OF IT AT LEAST

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squinch-depraved · 3 months ago

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please more cscoop fluff smut anything i just need more im begging on my knees.

sorry for not posting, the last few days have been a bit insane but i should have more fics up soon :3 here's cooper taking reader's virginity been thinking about this for a while

CW: use of "girlfriend"

the unending, sputtering coughs you couldn't stop letting out left you embarrassed, and you felt your face burning more than it usually did when you smoked as cooper watched you with a shit eating grin on his face.

"shut the fuck up, dude," you warned once you could somewhat talk again. your throat still burned as you passed the bong back to him, but cooper knew you well (or at least he thought he did), so he traded you your drink for it.

"i literally didn't even say anything," he laughed. "i coulda, but i refrained." you giggled at his sudden accent and flopped back onto his bed.

"thank you for refraining," you mimicked his tone with the last word. "i would've had to bite you if you said something."

cooper cringed and stopped packing another bowl to look over at your face. "fuckin' bite me??"

"it's a sign of affection," you told him simply.

"eugh," he grunted as he shook his head with a smile. "are we at the affection stage?" the question, which you could barely hear, came after a few moments of silence.

turning to lay on your side so you could more easily see him (who was avoiding your gaze, it was his face that was red now), you thought for a moment about what he had asked you. "i mean. i'm in your bed. and we've been hanging out for... what, three straight days now? so like. i kinda figured we were. sorry," you started strong but were mumbling by the end.

cooper was suddenly able to look at you again and did so with wide eyes, placing his paraphernalia on his nightstand so he could give you his full attention. "no!! no, don't be sorry, i'm sorry! i just wanted to like... ask you and shit, y'know? so i didn't make you uncomfortable," he rambled. "it's just like. i don't know how to act around you, sometimes. you make my head feel all, fuckin'... i dunno, man, i'm sorry i'm probably not making any sense." his expression shifted from one of concern to one of regret for having said anything in the first place, but eased up a bit when you put your hand on his knee.

"coop. shut the fuck up. i promise you i prefer it when you actually talk to me rather than you clamming up like this. but just so you feel better, you make me feel... something, too, okay?" you spoke kindly so as not to make him feel unsafe and gently took his hand. it was softer than you thought it would be, and he laced his fingers together with yours in a way that felt natural. like your hands were made to intertwine. you both kept your eyes on your interlocked digits until he couldn't take it anymore and dove in to kiss you.

he immediately had you pinned down on your back against the mattress, and while all he was doing was making out with you, it was very obvious that he wanted more. you let him explore your mouth with his tongue, moaning when he grabbed both your hands, one by one, and laced his fingers together with yours just like he did earlier.

when he started grinding down onto you, though, as much as you hated yourself for it, you made a noise of concern and he immediately pulled away to inspect your face.

"wha's wrong?" he asked softly, letting go of one of your hands to wipe the spit from his lips.

"i don't- i'm not... i dunno how to talk about it," you murmured almost inaudibly.

"hey, 's okay," he assured you as he clambered off of you. he looked down at you from where he sat right next to you on the bed. "we don't have to, i'm so sorry. i went too fast, i shouldn't have thought that would be okay."

you rolled your eyes playfully at how much he cared and smacked at his legs. "it's not that!" he relaxed a tad for just a moment until you spoke again. "well, it is. but not like you think. like, i want you but i..."

he continued to look at you expectantly until you let out a big huff and said something all in one breath.

"i'mavirgin!!"

cooper looked dumbstruck for a second before realizing that wasn't the right reaction and composing himself. "ohkay. so. we don't have to do anything, 's fine!" he replied quickly, trying to mask the disappointment. he felt awful about it, but he had been wanting to tear your clothes off since he first saw you and damn, this was a huge blow to the gut. he had you under him, finally, and then all of a sudden he didn't.

"nonono, that's the thing!! i want to," you admitted as you sat up slightly.

"...are you sure?" he sounded puzzled.

"coop, you're my best friend. and, like, if i'm being honest, i've daydreamed for a while about it being you who finally takes it because i really want you and just. i trust you. i trust you not to hurt me, i trust you to make me feel good. i trust you. please," you begged him.

he made an involuntary noise as your words sank in, and you tried to be respectful and not stare at his dick twitching in his sweatpants.

"how do you... do you want me to just...?" he inched forwards slightly as if asking if he could take control and widened his eyes when you nodded.

"just fuck me, cooper. make me feel good. i trust you." the look in your eyes as you repeated the last phrase yet again caused his brain to short circuit for a second. but then, in an instant, he was on top of you again, kissing you like you would fade away if he lessened his grip. he moved down to your neck, pressing smooches of adoration to your skin until he took your flesh in his teeth and bit, hard, earning a pitiful yelp from you.

"does that feel good?" he asked into your ear. "you gotta tell me so i can make this perfect for you." his hot breath made you squeal, and he wouldn't kiss you any more until you answered him.

"yes, coop, please. more," you whined. he smirked and set to work removing your clothes, first the hoodie that he had lent you (which he was ecstatic to find you weren't wearing a shirt or bra under) so he could swirl his tongue around your nipple while playing with the other in his hand, and then he removed your shorts and panties.

when you were nude under him, unable to meet his eyes, he planted a line of kisses down from your sternum, to your hips, to the inside of your thighs, and finally arrived at your core. he licked a stripe up your folds, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he watched you writhe and toss your head back from how good you felt. soon, your legs were locked around his head in an attempt to bring him closer, and he worked two fingers in and out of you while he ate you. it wasn't long before you were screaming his name while you thrashed about on his bed, cumming harder than you ever could on your own.

once he was satisfied, cooper pulled away and came to kiss you. the sight of your juices all over his face made you wish you could take a picture. after a bit of him making sure you were still good to go, he took his own clothes off and reached into his drawer for a condom.

you admired his length in secret while he fumbled with the wrapper and slid the protection on, feeling a little scared but mostly excited. once he was ready to go, he positioned himself between your legs again and gently patted the outside of your thigh.

"you ready?" he looked so eager, but he wouldn't do anything until you responded.

"fuck you and your chivalry, makin' me beg for it. yes i'm-" you cut yourself off with a shriek when he slid into you, the stretch deliciously painful. "oh my god!!"

cooper was grinning, not even halfway in and he had you screaming? he was gonna have a hard time not getting a big head about this. but he continued to push in, giving you some time with every inch he stuffed into your little hole until he bottomed out with a low groan.

he checked on you one last time, pressing a kiss to your hand before he started moving. your fingers stayed locked together as he fucked you; he was insistent on making sure you felt loved while he ruined you for the first time.

"coop- nnghhh," you babbled incoherently, trying to express how good you felt, but you couldn't get any words out. the blond just kept going for what felt like hours, rolling his hips at a steady pace and groaning every time you clenched around him.

"god, i know you've never been fucked before, but you're so tight," he laughed breathlessly. "this feelin' good, baby? hmm?" the question (combined with how overstimulated your pussy was beginning to feel from being used like this for the first time) caused a knot to start forming in your stomach.

"so good!!! fuck, cooper, i can't- 's too much, it feels too good!" you wailed. the spasms of your walls around his cock signaled to him that you were going to cum, and he increased his pace slightly in anticipation. when you finally came undone, you wrapped your legs around him as you cried out, eyes rolling back into your head. he watched your face as you finished, gently wiping the single tear that fell with his thumb.

now, he could really have some fun. not that this wasn't fun, this was the best time he had ever had. but making you orgasm twice surely meant he deserved to focus on himself a little bit, right? so he slowed down to ask you a question.

"can i move you?"

you nodded, out of breath, and let him guide you into the position he wanted (on your hands and knees, ass presented to him like you were making an offering to a god). he squeezed the flesh of your behind as he entered you again, letting out a low grunt when he was able to get deeper in you from this angle. you emitted a strained whine at how far inside you he was able to reach, but sat there and took it when he began slamming his hips against you. the smacking sound of skin against skin with every thrust was hypnotizing as you lay there, face pressed against the mattress, so far gone that you could only let out whimpers at how incredible your best friend was making you feel.

"fuck," he panted after a while, "i'm gonna cum. i'm gonna cum, i'm gonna-" he spoke rapidly before grabbing your hips and slamming you back onto his shaft, earning a yelp from you. the moan he let out as he spilled into the condom would stick with you every time you remembered this experience.

his fingers gently rubbed your skin where he had been gripping you, and he slowly pulled out after a minute of heavy breathing.

"are you okay? did i hurt you?" he asked, turning you over so he could check on you. you went limp so he could maneuver you onto your back again and blinked up at him through hazy, lidded eyes.

"i'm fine, coop," you mumbled. "i need water and another fuckin' bong rip though, jesus."

he laughed quietly and pressed a loving kiss to your lips. "was that okay?" inspecting your expression for honesty, he tried to wipe off the mascara that was now caked onto your face. you shied away and instead brought his hand to hold your face tenderly.

"that was perfect. exactly what i wanted."

cooper smiled softly and kissed you again before helping you get dressed and walking you to the bathroom. when you got back, he had a bowl packed and waiting for you, along with some snacks and drinks.

"can we please have an official movie date now? i feel like a huge asshole fuckin' you like that when i haven't even treated you to a real evening. and i know this is no different than what we've been doing, hanging out in my bed, but this time i'll let you pick the movie and we can hold hands!" his goofy grin warmed your heart the second you saw him.

"of course. only if this means i'm your girlfriend, though," you countered with a raised brow.

cooper chuckled quietly and walked over to you, pulling you in for a long kiss before replying, "wouldn't have it any other way."

#x reader #cscoop x reader #cscoop smut #cscoop x you

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cravingpepsimax · 3 months ago

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ok, idea on how trianglecest works despite bill destroying his whole dimension, including his family:

bill had a twin named steve. due to bill having the biggest ego known to man, steve being unable to see the stars, and steve being accepted by society at large more easily than bill, he began to resent him. yk how ford had that whole “stan was just riding on my coattails” thing? like that. i’m unsure if they’d ever be as close as stan and ford were, growing up — bill has a superiority complex that makes ford look humble, and i feel like he’d have that for his whole life, being naturally rebellious and being told that his eye was a defect

canon continues on as normal, until he hears about this interdimensional con artist that goes by “pyram1d steve”. bill dismisses it as a coincidence at first — steve’s a pretty common name, all things considered — until he meets him.

turns out, steve’s from an alternate universe where he was the one that could see the stars, and he was the one that ended up destroying his dimension. steve was convinced to by his bill, who was the only one who ever believed anything steve said about the stars.

on the one hand, bill feels vindicated, and is absolutely projecting his feelings about his twin onto this steve. even if steve had been given his gift, he would’ve squandered it away, doing stupid cons instead of destroying universes and planets and partying like a frat bro 24/7. what a loser! steve’s always just been a worse version of bill. plus, steve is so, eugh, affectionate, probably from guilt regarding his own supportive, if megalomaniacal, bill.

on the other hand… bill, deep down, misses home. he’d never admit it, but he regrets what he did. and he finally has someone that understands. someone that may not be from his home, but was in his neighborhood — and isn’t that better than nothing?

#trianglecest

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leeofthevoid · 10 months ago

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Did we or Did we not?

Part Two of Not so Meet-Cute

Farleigh x Reader

a/n: I did think about adding SMUT. I really did. I just don't have the heart to make half-assed SMUT scenes that people would dislike anyways, and I kind of wanted a Fluffy Farleigh fic that still had his usual sass. I love you all so much!

Word Count: 3635

Warnings: Explicit content, Mature Content, Strong Language, 16+

Annabel and India never gave up on your dating life, but you sure have for months now. It's just the same damn thing over and over again, and it was stupid. The boys are all okay at first, but then they disappear from the area. Farleigh swoops in and asks you to make out again, and you just entertain him. It sucks having to bruise your ego every now and then.

What's worse? Farleigh points that out whenever you two are on each other's nerves.

"Annabel and India won't stop setting me up for dates." You passively say while lying on his bed, his head on your stomach. He had your shared cigarette in between his fingers while chuckling. "It's getting sadder and sadder by the minute. Are you that desperate?"

You smack him on the forehead, earning a pinch on your thigh. "Farleigh!"

"What? You did it first." You rolled your eyes and stole the cigarette, inhaling deeply to calm your nerves. "I mean, did you tell them you want to stop?" He asked, raising his head to make eye contact for a split second before settling on your stomach again.

You puff out and sigh. "Well, that's the thing…I kind of don't want to stop? If you get to have sex, why can't I?"

"Because you don't want us to?"

"And get all your diseases? Bitch, please." You hear a low chuckle from him, reminding you that he is still the same American bitch you dislike. "But be honest, why do you not want to take it up a notch? Am I just your designated boob sucker? Or am I not too English for you? Oh, oh, oh! Maybe you prefer ugly men." You scoff and push his head off, but he is pretty adamant about lying down on it.

"Eugh, it's just weird, okay? You had your chance, but you blew it last year." You sat up and looked down at his stupid face.

"And why can't I have a second?" He mockingly fluttered his eyelashes. "Because you dragged me to your bed just because one of your little toys can't come in this morning." He scrunched up his nose and groaned, "Touché."

You push him off to stand and fix yourself in front of the mirror in his room, a burst of annoyance nagging at you when you see your reflection. "Farleigh! I said no fucking marks!" It was everywhere. On your neck, chest, back?! Not even a single place untouched by that little shit.

Farleigh walks up to you with a grin, placing his chin on your shoulder, hands wrapped around your waist. "I know a place I could put them where no one can see." He hummed. You rolled your eyes and shoved him away from you.

"You don't deserve it." He raised his eyebrows at you, leaning on the cabinet next to you and checking the time. "We have class, babes. Time for you to cover that up." He got a sweater from the cabinet, threw it at you, and fixed himself.

Another day, another regret of wearing a strapless top you had to cover because of Farleigh. What a dreadful day for fashion.

Walking down the hallway, India fell into step with you with another juicy gossip. She paused and looked at the sweater that clearly did not match the black pencil skirt and spiky boots you had going on. "Farleigh made you do his homework again?" You nodded and sighed.

"Babes, this is a sign to sit next to that smart kid in our class. He could totally at least get homework out of your hands." She had this impressed look on her face and linked her arm around yours. "Imagine the power couple of the year!"

"No way. Do you not notice how he picks his nose?" Farleigh pointed that out when the guy walked past you a few weeks back. "Oh. Ew, alright, never mind." She scrunched up her face and started to talk about the other guy.

It was a few hours after classes, and India had this giddy smile. She separated from you when you went to class and quickly looked for you when you were dismissed. "India, hiding something from me?" She giggled and walked you to a table with Annabel, a boy beside her. Oh fuck.

"And he just threw it?"

"Yes! He had this whole speech about being able to afford another one!"

You and Farleigh laugh while sitting on the bed of another house party you were dragged to. "There's no way he could replace that. You know that kid got here because his mother was hot?"

Your eyes grew big, and a gasp came out of your mouth. "No way!"

"Yes, way. One of the board members had a huge crush on her, and when she begged him, he didn't think twice." You both laugh as you gossip about that guy you had a terrible 'date' with three weeks back.

"I still can't get over how he insulted your sweater and my ring. He went on and on about how cheap the fabric was, how it washed out my 'beauty,' and how my ring seemed to have a fake red diamond." He gasped, eyes in disbelief. He sat crossed leg with a pillow he clutched tightly when you told him more about the disastrous date.

"Oh god, how dare he? That sweater probably costs more than his flat." He scoffs, clearly irritated by the dislike of his fashionable clothes. "I know right! You're horrible, but you at least have taste in clothes." You both burst out laughing, Farleigh shoving you while you tried to breathe.

"Fuuuuck! Annabel and India are such idiots. How could they not tell the fake Piaget he was flaunting." A sigh escaped your lips as you leaned back on the headboard. "Trust me, I've been to worse. I just didn't appreciate the casual flaunting and the insulting." Farleigh raised an eyebrow and scooted next to you to sit back. "He told me, "What is that bloody junk doing on your delicate hand? Someone must really hate you for giving you a fake." Like, seriously?"

Farleigh made an amused sound, and then a smirk followed. "The wicked witch and the fake ass bitch. Sounds meant to be." He smirked, earning him a ton of smacks and slaps. It ended up in you two play fighting, grunts, and victorious laughs tossed here and there. When you both settled, sprawled on the bed, heaving air, you got to thinking. "I need alcohol and a line or two…Maybe even a joint." Farleigh craned his neck to you and shuffled to stand up. "We're at a party for a reason; stand up, my dear! This party needs us!" You giggle and take the hand he outstretched to pull you up.

You were totaled, and the amount of things you took was wild. And you sure as hell did suffer so severely the next day. You wake up in someone else's bed, your head pounding and your body sore. Fuck, this soreness was definitely not from partying too hard. "Fuck!"

"Shut up." You shot your head to look at the space next to you, moving from under the covers to avoid the sun. You were too groggy to retaliate and can't even register your surroundings yet. It was just sore and not in a terrible way. Just the sore you get when you've spent the whole night having…Sex.

Fuck! The panic set in, and you checked under the covers. Yup, that is your naked body under there. What a fucking idiot, how could this happen? There were a ton of drinks, but were you that shitfaced you couldn't even remember?

You wasted no time pulling the covers to wake the stranger, which might have made your blood run cold.

"Ahhhhhh!" You couldn't stop screaming bloody murder when Farleigh shot up and looked around to check what the commotion was about. "What! What!"

"You!" You clutched the cover to your chest and threw pillows at him. "Farleigh, what the fuck is happening!"

He paused for a moment and then realized," Shit, how? When?"

"I don't know!"

"Did we…"

"I'm fucking sore, so yeah, we definitely did." He groaned and quickly got up to run into the bathroom, snagging his clothes from the floor on the way.

You huffed and pulled the covers up to look for your clothes, carefully picking them from the floor. Your legs were wobbly, but you could still wear your clothes again…Or what's left. There were weird tears on them, and you hated the party even more now. I guess you were glad to at least wake up in the familiar space of Farleigh's dorm room instead of the house where the party started.

You sat down on the bed again when he came out. "So…"

"Do you remember anything, Farleigh?" He sat down on his study chair, creaking under his weight. "I don't remember much, to be honest. I just remembered playing many games with Felix, and we absolutely crushed that idiot's ego. I saw you making out with two guys at once, too. Uhm…”

You choked, eyes widening, not believing the last thing you did. It may be best not to remember much. "I'm sore." He looked at you, and a slight smirk plastered his lips.

"Well, I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"Oh, shove off!" His face rested on the palm of his hand, looking as smug as ever. "As if you totally didn't imagine me as one of your gross professors, you weirdo."

"And you must have fantasized about being under one of Felix's blonde posh friends." Still triumphant as ever, this ass. "As if! Did you know Ellis didn't use deodorant until Felix gave him a spare? Or that Matthew doesn't bel-"

"Believe in condoms? Yes, I do. Little Matty wanted a piece of your man, but I refused." You can't help but crack a grin at his twisted form of acknowledgment that he was not an easy catch.

You wanted to look at him longer when his door suddenly opened, Felix crashing in, looking excited. "Holy fuck, Far. You guys were at it the whole night the fucking R.A. almost went in due to noise complaint." You sighed and sat up. "Felix, best to shut the door before telling your fun little story."

Felix chuckled and closed the door behind him, then sat on the floor, his body trying hard not to bombard you with gossip. "Holy shit, guys, one of the T.A.s went to the party, and the dude was a massive lightweight. Even dunked his head in the fountain on the way back just to wake him up." Farleigh barely listened, but you loved blackmail so much that you could not let it pass.

"I'm actually kind of interested as to how we fucked?" Farleiigh pointed at you and himself, getting even more excited that he had to stand up. "Okay, okay. So basically, you two were just partying and playing some games with us when India told her," He pointed at you, "To chug like, what? A whole bottle of Vodka! By the way, I respect you so much for that." You chuckle at his boyish daftness that you can't even comment.

"Then holy fuck! When we all got out of the party, Annabel and I were kind of doing our thing when Farleigh almost broke my door demanding for an extra condom!" Farleigh turned and massaged his temple. At the same time, he bit his lip in surprise. You could only cover your mouth to hide yours. "Holy shit! You guys went on for hours, and I had to switch locations because we could not get our thing going!" The annoying thing about Felix was that he was so passionate that even his arms could not stop moving to emphasize whatever he deemed interesting.

"Stop, stop, stop," Farleigh said, eyes shut and index fingers plugged in his ears. He's right. This was a ton of information on a Sunday morning.

"Felix, let's grab breakfast first. This is just a one-time thing; it won't happen again. Go and tell Annie we'll be at the café in a bit. "Alright, mate. See you later, wild ones."

A beat of silence finally returned to the room when you and Farleigh looked at each other. "See you later." He nodded, and you went to who knows where to get fresh air.

How did this happen? You guys promised to the one thing off-limits, and all crashed down in one night. Oh well, it won't happen again.

Right?

Farleigh was groaning beside you for the nth time while you gave him headache medication to ease up his pain. The class hasn't even started yet, but most of the students looked like they were about to pass out.

It was almost like the world hated you. You get your fix of sexual need, but the catch is you don't know how it went. The only thing you know is that you do it with Farleigh. Happens every two weeks.

Compared to India and Annabel, who was passed out in last night's clothes, you at least had the decency to change into new ones that were more decent but still screamed 'Hot bitch’.

"Babes, this lecture is killing me." You shake your head as he grumbles more about how he probably did all the work last night that's why you were in less pain. Little shit.

"Shut up, you little baby. We both know you're a whiney fuck that likes to be bottom." He shot you a glare and continued to silently nurse himself back to health. Silently whimpering while he basically put his whole body weight on you.

It felt weird. It was like the night you two do it, you can't remember a thing. He doesn't either. In fact, that bitch sometimes blames you for 'touching his beautiful body' like a dramatic fucker he is. It happens every two weeks, and at this point, you don't mind anymore.

From someone you hated so much, you two became closer friends than India ever was with you. Farleigh had all the gossip and snide remarks you never got from your girlfriends. You matched his energy and were very candor about the people he talks about.

Class ended and you had to wake Farleigh up. "Farleigh, wake up."

"No." He whined.

"And if I pour water on your new velvet shirt?"

His eyes shot up and sat back, glaring at you. "You'd never."

"I would." A smug look on your face as you stood up and followed the wave of students walking out the class.

Felix all texted you to meet up at the pub later that night. Farleigh decided to get ready together at your dorm, a decision you never had a chance to stop.

"Hey, Farleigh, do you think I'm sometimes trying too hard to get a guy?" He looked at your reflection as he was fixing his hair. "Don't we all try too hard?" He used his hands to make his curls more prominent and kept.

You creased your forehead, thinking too deeply enough to draw blood while biting down your bottom lip. "I mean…It just feels like I'm doing things to amuse you a lot. I feel like I gave up a long time ago."

He turned his head to look at you, stopping whatever he did and sighed. "Hey, not feeling like partying?" You nodded and sat on the bed, slumping your back. "No. I don't feel like doing anything much to be honest."

Farleigh's eyes flashed recognition, and he sat next to you, placing his head on yours. "It's your time of the month, isn't it?" Confusion shot in your mind but you still nodded. How the fuck did he know? "...How?" He chuckled and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. '"You get all sentimental and overthink. I'd rather stay in too. If you're not there, what's the point of being in a boring party." You don't know what wave of emotion came over you, but you felt so nice that tears welled up in your eyes.

In a twisted way, this idiot got to your heart in his own way. Without Felix or India to force you to be together in a room or a park date that they concocted just to play cupid. You liked seeing this side of him that was far from that asshole you met in first year.

You appreciated him so much that you were afraid of the possibility that the asshole got his second chance of 'shooting his shot'. He was too good to be true, and you didn't want to lose that. He was too important just for your measly feelings to ruin what you had.

Even after that whole ordeal, Farleigh became more attentive and he looked more beautiful in your eyes for some reason. He always makes time for you and was never shy to ask for your help in his essays and other things he knew you excelled at.

The one time you knew you were disgustingly in love with him was when you were at your weakest during the year. When your grandfather died.

He was so kind and so loving. He was the one who pushed you to still hangout with people so you won't die of loneliness in your dorm room. The one to lie next to you when you had to cry so much that you got sick at night. The one who took notes from your classes that you missed while you grieved. He was also kind enough to teach you about the rock tradition his family had, which helped you a ton.

He was just so imperfectly perfect.

When you finally got better, finished finals, and was in the time of the term to get ready for summer break, you had the courage to confess.

He lounged on your bed with that bitchy bored expression of his as you paced the room back and forth. "Baby, stop doing that and just tell me what's up. You're making me fucking dizzy, love." You stopped and rolled your eyes before sitting at the edge of the bed beside him.

"Farleigh, I have to tell you something. It's really important that you don't fucking make fun of me or else I will kill your whole family and leave the country afterwards." He crossed his arms over his chest and breathed out. "Go on then, I'm listening."

You paused and took out a small bottle of tequila, downing it quickly to gain some liquid courage that you badly needed. "Woah morning drinks already." You glared at him as he stuck his tongue out at you.

"So! Farleigh Start. You shitty bitch that replaced me with another person while we were on a date last year. The idiot that asks me to make-out with him that I can't say no because you're undeniably good. The asshole that I fight with all the time."

"Wow, it's like a proclamation of hate." You covered your hand on his running mouth while clearing your throat. "Farleigh…" He rolled his eyes and sat back. You removed your hand and slowly fidgeted with your sheets.

"Farleigh, I think I like you."

You ran all scenarios in your head for what reaction you will get but probably missed this one. He scoffed. The type of scoff that makes you think he knows for a long time now.

"Fucking finally." You gave him a confused look, he simply rolled his eyes keeping up with the bitchy act.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? You know you're such an oblivious prick sometimes it hurts my head." You gave him a look while he went on, "Um…What the fuck?"

"Babes, everything I did for you. It was my shot to try and redeem myself for a second chance. The moment you called me out in that bathroom I realized what I lost." You smirked, "My beautiful face and striking personality?"

"That and… You're you. You don't try too hard. I did! I tried so fucking hard to actually get you to talk to me more. And you know what's worse? Kissing you makes it hard to kiss other people!"

You rolled your eyes yet again because it sounded way too condescending for someone who wants you to like them. Idiot.

"No, listen. You don't get it. Kissing you felt like something that wasn't lust or boredom. You knew how to kiss well and I was bewitched!"

"Exaggerating won't help your case after downplaying my confession." You crossed your leg over the other to add a bit more sass in your words.

"I like you too, Y/N. I like you so much that I stopped doing my American slut façade and just wanted to be there for you. Unlike Felix and my supposed family, I felt like I was seen for who I was."

It was touching and honest. You saw his eyes getting glossier while emphasizing his own twisted confession. You held his hand and kissed it. "You know. I'm not a jealous person, so I probably missed the part where you ask for forgiveness for doing the tango with other people."

"How could I when I do it with a ninety-year-old by soul bitch who had sex with me multiple times when we were black-out drunk." You smiled and pinched his cheeks hard.

"I hate you, Farleigh."

"I love you too." He said with a genuine smile.

You looked into his eyes and sighed. This asshole really made you do all that just to make you realize he liked you. What a prick.

But he's your prick now.

a/n: What if Farleigh Racer AU next?

#farleigh start #saltburn fics #farleigh x reader #farleigh x you #saltburn movie #felix catton #farleigh and you #save my love #deserves the world #ples send prompts

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