#got lost in this fanfic

[gentletrees]

Some doodles from different scenes of @ssreeder 's fanfic LIAB! I literally drop everything when you upload QuQ <3 thank you for putting so much effort into this fic, it really shows! I love it!

Really wanted to capture the two most heartbreaking moments of the last few chapters - two very, very different reunions with very different underlying emotions.

And the last one is a doodle after reading the most recent chapter - Zuko wearing his hair in a messy ponytail, dressed in expensive clothing - moments before disaster :))

[solbaby7]

I love the blurb bar idea and I loved the pina colada one, how about a neat gin n tonic with a salt rim?

[ forced proximity: “you can’t seriously be insinuating that i should sit on your lap.” + smut + az ]

guys i got carried away 🫣🤭 but at least it’s finished and has minimal spelling errors 🤍🩷

-> BLURB BAR <-

To put it quite frankly, you and Azriel didn’t really get along.

It seemed almost easy for everyone else in the Inner Circle to latch onto him; to gravitate towards him and all his shadowy mysteriousness—but not you. Between his victim complex, lack of self-control and the inability to properly communicate his feelings like a normal person, you’d lost your patience for him long ago.

Maybe that’s why you laugh right in Rhysand’s face after he lays down the guidelines for your temporary deployment to the Steppes. Everything sounds perfectly normal up until the end when Rhysand’s lips form the words, “—and you’ll be going with Azriel; he’s already been briefed.”

“Very funny,” Shoulders shake through your laughter, tickled from the joke. “But, you don’t have to go to such lengths just to make me laugh Rhys.”

Your grin fades comically fast and the deep frown that takes it place doesn’t falter long after you’ve left the High Lord’s office and scrounged back to your own chambers to pack. Every move is mechanical, clothes being folded and stuffed away a little rougher than necessary as you try not to think about having to spend seven whole days holed up in a creaky cabin with some brooding bat.

To be fair, Azriel seems no happier than you about the situation, his signature brood securely in place when you meet on the balcony at the witching hour with bag in hand. “Come—let’s get this over with.”

You refrain from commenting on his attitude; hold yourself back from snapping when he snatches your duffle from your grasp just to watch it disappear in a puff of sentient shadow. They’d almost be cute—Azriel’s shadows—if they weren’t so fucking useless. Capable of procuring intel and acting as camouflage but can’t manage to hold two fae long enough to get them to the Illyrian mountains.

No, instead you were subjected to this. Close contact and his fucking hands holding onto your body as he flies on a route you’re unfamiliar with. You eye his wings cautiously, trying to be subtle when you peek over the strong line of his shoulder but being this close? He can feel every beat of your heart against your sternum. Every squirm and twitch of a limb as you try to find a more comfortable place to put your arm. “Will you stop moving?”

“I can’t help it,” Hips shift once more, one leg hitching just a little higher on his hip. “Your fucking daggers keep poking me.”

Azriel tenses up, muscles locking and suddenly you’re being moved how he pleases—both legs wrapped around his waist and a firm forearm clasped around the base of your spine. “Stay.” His voice is rougher than your used to, his blunt nails biting into the sliver of skin exposed to the elements. “Don’t move, we’re almost there.”

That was a lie—it would take hours to make it to the Steppes but the gruff command is surprisingly easy to follow. And while you’ll never verbally admit it, the secure bracketing of his arms around your body was more of a comfort than a nuisance. It’s all too easy to ease into his grasp, allowing sleep to take over until the journeys over and you swear you can feel him cradle you in closer, his nose ghosting over the crown of your head.

He makes absolutely no comment on it when you finally arrive with your hair ruffled, clothes crinkled and the imprint of Azriel’s syphon on your cheek other than a chuffed out, “You snore.”

Instinct screams at you to make some snappy comment back but reason doesn’t allow it to be voiced—not here. Here, you and Azriel would have to appear as a united front, for the males raised in this terrain were bred to sniff out any and all weaknesses to exploit. Only here do you allow the hand that permanently glues itself to the dip of your back, pushing you past rabid animals swollen with pride and snarling with hatred.

Slurs are spat from their lips but Azriel doesn’t pay them any mind, so you don’t either.

He walks through the camps as if he owns them, spine straight and shoulders square. Strong wings stand proudly behind him, shadows guarding your flank until the unforgiving chill is replaced by the stuffy warmth of a mess hall. It’s cramped—a little dirty and smells like a mixture of male and tobacco but either way you’re given a warm meal and fresh water to drink.

The vulgar comments grow more frequent, mutterings of their unwanted appreciation towards your body so sickening that your appetite threatens to scurry away. “They’re disgusting.” You scoff, setting down your tray of food, one hand curled around the chair.

It doesn’t give. Azriel’s boot curled around the leg holds it in place. Arched brows furrow at him, nose scrunching under the effort it takes not to kick him in his shin but there’s something about his body language that make you stop. “They’ll keep doing that shit if they think you’re free game.” Every syllable is clipped; laced with a wildness you’re unfamiliar with—almost as if he’s insinuating that it’s your fault that such brutish males were salivating at the sight of you. Darkness cloaks the hazel tones of his eyes when he meets your own and you nearly miss the gesture he makes.

One hand patting twice at his lap.

“Absolutely not.” Azriel’s boot shoves the seat away completely when you make a move to sit down on it once more. He settles deeper in his own, thick thighs manspreading as deft hands adjust the positioning of his holsters, guiding sharpened weapons away from the area of space he frees up for you. “You can’t seriously be insinuating that I should sit on your lap?”

“I’m not insinuating anything, this is me telling you—sit down.”

You pray he doesn’t see the blush that burns against your cheeks when you take a seat in his lap, his hands resting along the sides of your hips. He keeps eating as if nothing is new. As if he doesn’t realize the way his touch has you squirming against solid muscle through thick leathers, legs subconsciously parting to make more room for the wandering fingers that slide down your thighs, digging into sensitive inner thighs. “What are you doing?” You ask, barely able to grab at the food before you with the way your hands shake.

“I’m sending a message.”

Breath catches when you feel Azriel’s thigh flex between your legs, pressing against your sex in such a way that you’re certain it’s impossible that he hadn’t felt the way you clench in response. “What kind of message?”

“The kind that says someone already owns you.” People are looking, that much you know—can feel their eyes tracking every move. Azriel’s hand splayed over your stomach, his head tucked in the curve of your shoulder as his free hand spies its way through your breeches. There’s a pause, one where you’re time to push him away, to declare that this was entirely too far and smack him clear across his face.

That doesn’t happen. Your legs only part further, making more room for needy fingers to shove past your panties.

It’s a foolish decision, you can feel it the second you make it. As if you’d just unconsciously confirmed the ridiculous notion that you were one of Azriel’s possessions. To do as he pleased. To sit there splayed out across his lap like some puppet and allow him to take the reins and show off all your tricks until you’re boneless and drooling.

He’s too good with his hands. Too slick with the sly filth he mutters into your ear as he fondles at your clit under the table, pressing firm circles into the bundle of nerves until you’re panting like a bitch in heat.

You barely remember how much you hate him when he touches you like this. Until the orgasm fades and your consciousness clears and even though the way you lean into the dip of his neck appears like some typical lovers embrace—bystanders fail to hear the sharp way you sneer, “Tell anyone about this ever and I’ll fucking kill you.”

[theerurishipper]

Tim Drake, for no reason at all:

Dick Grayson, Tim's big brother in every conceivable way for the past several years:

[vyzz-undercover]

im insane have a few kilos of:

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

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

•mr. sicarius' insufferable ego

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

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

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It was doomed from the start, honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No latency pings, no close contact.

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

He hates you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why don't you smile at him like that?

You would be the death of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reaches for your soggy swaddled form, and tugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a completely degenerate urge.

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

He's got it, now.

You're alone with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Move closer," he bites out.

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

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

He likes hearing timidity on your lips.

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

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

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

In truth, it's adorable pathetic to watch.

You look so hurt.

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

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

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

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

To say nothing of his brothers' behaviours.

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

It's complete lunacy.

It's heresy.

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

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

And damn it all, does he want you.

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

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

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

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

Cato's never held himself stiller in his life.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you shuffle closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet-stink radiates again before you swallow sharply.

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

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

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

"Is—" you wheeze, "Is that...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your ass grinds back against him.

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

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

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

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

Still, your rear presses back against him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He continues petting you, absentmindedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Answer me, you little shit."

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

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

You nod again, needy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't stifle yourself now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

Because then you start squirming again.

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

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

He glances down for a moment and swallows.

He's hard—still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tracker beacon has finally done it's job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gives you a cursory glance, but nothing more.

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

He can't stand it.

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

"Get up," he turns sharply and snorts.

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

Two and a half minutes, then.

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

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

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

You finally look away.

And he finds he can't stand that either.

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

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

[helixcraft]

the fish that keeps appearing all over my recommended only that he's out of jail and happy

[pizzaqueen]

This little scene came to me when I was sleep deprived lol some established relationship fluff

"Tell me your deepest, darkest fear," Eddie says.

Steve glances sidelong at him where he's sitting next to Steve on the couch. He doesn't ask what kind of question is that because it's very much an Eddie kind of question. Instead, he says, "Kind of already lived most of them."

"What about the ones you haven't lived?"

"I—" Steve sighs. If he tells Eddie to drop it, he will. Or he could say something about zombies or ghosts or some shit. But he finds himself saying, "Sometimes I think I'm either too much or not enough, you know?" A beat and then: "I mean, in relationships or whatever."

"Even with me?"

And, okay, Steve didn't think that through. He shrugs and says, "Maybe."

"Then your fear is totally unfounded."

Steve looks at Eddie again. "Is it?"

"Yeah, of course. You are just right." Eddie grins. "Not too hot, not too cold," he adds as he gets up on his knees on the couch, then swings one leg over Steve. "Okay, bad analogy, because you are definitely too hot for your own good sometimes." He rests his hands on Steve's shoulders, moves them around to loop behind his neck. "But you're my bowl of porridge.”

"I'm your bowl of porridge?"

"Yeah, you know, goldilocks and the bowls of porridge and—"

"Oh, I got it." Steve smiles, then lets his head rest against Eddie's chest. "Bowl of porridge," he mutters. "You're a dork."

"Hey." Eddie shoves Steve lightly. "I'm being romantic. I think."

"Then you're a romantic dork."

Eddie pokes his tongue out. Steve does it back. Eddie shakes his head and says, "I just... I meant, you're not... You're exactly enough for me. Okay?"

"Okay."

Eddie's eyes narrow. "You believe me, right?"

"I believe you." Steve holds up his hand in a scout salute. "Scout's honor."

"Good." Eddie gently nudges Steve's forehead with his. "Because you're... You're the only one who's right for me."

"So are you," Steve says.

"Yeah?"

"Of course." Steve grins. “You're my bowl of porridge, too."

[8ptates]

GO READ STAY AND BE SAFE BY @hollowknightnerd !!!!

Check it out: here

Summary: Lost kin and their sibling's escape from the abyss but are traumatically separated. Battered physically and emotionally Lost kin seeks refuge in a certain hut in kingdoms edge. Many wholesome/ heartbreaking hijinks ensue as Lost learns their worth and Oro navigates parenthood.

When I say I was obsessed with this fic I mean it. Couldn't put it down for 3 days obsessed. It had me going through the entire emotional spectrum. The characterization is on point and everything was so vivid I was inspired to draw so many moment's.

[asaethiel]

two of many attempts to figure out his Shapes

[thatbakedpotato]

you ever read a fic that changes the literal trajectory of life? that renders you incapable of picking up another piece of literature? cause same.

[its-all-papaya]

For the landoscar word prompt: homesick

okay i'm sorry this one took 55 minutes and still like. doesn't rlly end. idk, i couldn't work it out, have some melancholy rambling ig....

It's snowed every winter Lando's been at university, and this is his fourth, so he really should be used to it. It's just. He'd had an exam in the morning that he'd spent all night cramming for, and it hadn't been snowing on his walk back. It had been cold - enough that he'd tugged on a hoodie before crawling back under his covers - but it hadn't been snowing when he'd set his alarm and started his nap.

It's snowing when he wakes up, though. Maybe there's something about opening his eyes and turning his face out from the pillow and seeing it first that way. The sun's about to set; maybe it's the way it glows in the last afternoon light. Whatever it is crawls under his ribs and sits there like a pill he's swallowed the wrong direction, aching every time he swallows and breathes. He's not even fully awake. The memories are half dream when he blinks out the window and sees the ghosts of his little sisters in puffy jackets and his mum calling them back to tug hats on each of them so their ears won't go too pink.

It doesn't even snow much in Bristol. It snows much more here.

The washer is running when Lando pads out into the living room and he hadn't started it himself, which means Oscar is home from his afternoon class. His bedroom door is closed, and Lando really shouldn't bother him, but his stomach is heavy like lead and it feels out-of-sorts in a way that only his mum's tea would fix. He's afraid if he crawls back into bed he might do something silly like cry about it, because it's past ten at home and his parents will be asleep and he's not even sure calling would fix it anyway.

"You can come in," Oscar calls when Lando finally does knock.

He's sat propped against his pillows in bed, paperback folded open on his knee and blinds drawn shut. Lando's fairly sure his lit class is the one Oscar's just come from, but it would be like him to do the homework immediately after.

"You okay?"

Lando realizes a minute late that he's just been standing. Just staring. He swallows around the oblong feeling and pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands so Oscar won't see him worrying them.

"Yeah," he answers eventually, "Just. It's snowing."

Oscar smiles, says, "Is it?"

He can't reach the window from his bed, so Lando crosses the room for him and pulls the curtains back so he can see - so they both can.

It's snowed every winter they've been in university, and this is Oscar's fourth. He really should be used to it, but his smile is just as awed as Lando still remembers it being freshman year, when they were crowded together around their shared bedroom window, tucked in together over the weekend holiday all of their classmates had gone home for.

"Perfect reading weather, then," Oscar says, settling back against his pillows.

Lando should go. He should nurse the weird, sad feeling with a hot shower, or something, and not by bothering his roommate-and-something-more-too when he's trying to study.

"Can I sit with you?" he says instead.

Oscar smiles. His, "of course," comes out like there weren't even other answers he'd considered.

He's warm when Lando curls up at his side. He's still got the book propped open against his knee and he goes easily when Lando nudges up under his arm and props his cheek against the ball of Oscar's shoulder.

"What's your book about?" Lando asks.

"Um," Oscar lifts it to show Lando the cover like that'll help, that plonks it back down like he's realized it won't. "This orphan girl, bit of an outcast. It's like a coming-of-age thing, I think, I'm not too far into it."

His fingers trace absently along the strip of skin where Lando's hoodie has ridden up at his waist, and it makes Lando shiver.

"Will you read it to me?"

"Yeah. You might be a bit lost, though," Oscar thumbs through the pages he's already been through like an explanation.

Lando doesn't say he'd probably be lost even if he'd read those, too. That it's not about the story, really. He thinks Oscar probably knows.

"S'okay," he says.

"Okay." Oscar turns his head enough that his lips brush Lando's forehead. Lando can't tell if it's on purpose.

Oscar's got a nice voice. Lando thinks he could probably fall asleep to it, and he wonders if he'd wake up without the knot in his chest, whether the bittersweet fog over his thoughts would have lifted. Maybe the snow would have stopped by then, even, maybe it'd all be melted.

Lando yawns into Oscar's chest as he flips a page, and Oscar pauses for a second to turn his head again. This time, his lips press more firmly at outside corner of Lando's eye, where he knows he's still got a pillow crease working its way out after his nap.

"Snowy weather is a bit sleepy, innit?" Oscar says, softer than the tone he'd been using to read with, "Peaceful and stuff."

Lando looks back out the window, where it's gotten heavier - big, wet flakes that stick to the glass and leave trails when they slide slowly down towards the frame.

"I think I'll miss it if I move back home after graduation," Oscar continues, voice sounding a bit like Lando's insides feel. Lando doesn't want to think about it.

Oscar goes back to the book. His hand is warm on Lando's hip, voice warm in Lando's ears, and Lando wonders if someday, down the road, Oscar will wake up to snow showers and think of this moment.

from here

[saturdaynightfrightclub]

Life, Death, and In-Between mood board.

Feeling some writers block, hoped some aesthetic pictures would help. Feeling kind of lost…Nearly a year has passed since I started the fic, maybe I should reread it to remind myself of where I’m going.

[electricalhuzzah]

kinda mediocre but ive been meaning to finish this for ages so here

[justaz]

arthur works up the nerve to confess his feelings for merlin pre-magic reveal and merlin has to stare the man he loves in the eye and reject him. arthur, heartbroken bc he had been told repeatedly by all his and merlin’s friends that his feelings were reciprocated and to take the risk, doesn’t cry bc his father taught him to never show weakness but maybe merlin can’t see the tears clawing their way into his eyes bc the room sure is getting blurry for some reason. he asks, no, he demands to know why not. he had been paying attention and he’s completely sure that merlin was flirting back with him, that his feelings were reciprocated - everyone said so. hell, half if not all of camelot has participated in a betting pool bc they’ve been so obvious with their feelings. merlin tries to give vague answers without telling him straight up and their argument escalates into a near screaming match where merlin says “you don’t love me, you love a version of me you believe to be true. you don’t know me, you can’t love me”

[megaerakles]

To Whom It May Concern

Tim couldn’t stay. 

No matter what Bruce had said when he caught Tim in the act of laying the paper trail to establish his Fake Uncle, no matter how long Dick had sobbed into the phone at him during an inordinately expensive long distance (read: off planet) phone call, no matter how much Alfred had been fussing over him and insisting it was no trouble at all to care for him since Tim’s scheme had been revealed and promptly foiled, it just didn’t change the fact that Tim couldn’t stay. Truthfully, the Wayne family’s apparent sudden burst of affection for him actually made this whole thing worse because somewhere along the way, without even trying, Tim had failed to keep things wholly professional between them and somehow tricked them into thinking he belonged in their family! 

He couldn’t let it stand. For the sake of Jason’s memory, for the sake of preserving the sanctity of the true Wayne family, he had to stop this… this absurdity of pretending that Tim belonged with them from continuing! Tim had to run. Tim had to vanish. It was the only way to make things right again. Sure, the thought of never seeing any of them again, the thought of being done with Bruce and Alfred and Dick and Barbara and everyone in his life he currently held dear once and for all made it feel as though his heart was being ripped out of his chest only to be shoved back down his throat to stop the flow of air into his body—but it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, not nearly as much as they did. This would be for their own good. 

Tim was leaving, and it turned out to be easier than he thought it would be in the end. Not emotionally easier, but logistically easier. Bruce had been extra attentive lately, so he thought he’d have to fake an injury and get ‘benched’ so that they would lower their guard long enough for him to slip away. But by some divine stroke of luck, a new player had waltzed onto Gotham’s criminal scene not too long after Tim’s Fake Uncle plan fell through and started making threats against Batman and Robin. They had apparently freaked B out enough to prompt him to send Tim off to Titan’s Tower to ‘focus on his team for awhile’. Tim had accepted the command with the requisite amount of complaint, planted some fake texts to make it look like he’d actually communicated to his Team that he would be there, shoved everything from his guest room in the Manor that he couldn’t bear to part with into a duffel bag underneath a spare uniform, gave Bruce what only he knew was a more emotionally charged nod goodbye than usual, and then poof. Tim Drake was zapped out of the Batcave for the last time ever. 

He let himself have one night in the Tower. Partly to catch a few hours of sleep in a familiar and secure environment, but mostly so he could clean up his room for its next occupant, sweep his belongings and his person for any extra trackers, and repack his bag more efficiently. He also took the time to grab a spare backpack and fill it up with emergency rations. While he was taking plenty of cash, he didn’t want to risk having to go into stores with security cameras for a while, at least until he’d cleared a suitable distance from San Francisco proper as well as implemented the first of his many planned disguises. He didn’t think a bottle of cheap hair dye and some colored contacts would be enough to fool Oracle indefinitely, but if he was appropriately cautious it might keep her from getting a confirmation of his location long enough for the Bats to either get bored looking for him or to actually realize they were better off without him around. 

When the early rays of dawn started to bathe the sides of Titan’s Tower in ember colored light, he was off. He left behind seven trackers pulled from his clothes and bag and one more from behind his ear; he’d kept the one he noticed in his favorite pair of sneakers because it was a type that wouldn’t start transmitting data until the Bats actively started tracking it and he was hoping to find someone who wore his size at the bus station he could pay to wear them so he could throw them off for even longer. If all else failed, he would just toss them in an out of the way trash can. He had also left a letter of resignation for Batman that he’d whipped up based off of an online template, signed and sealed and awaiting discovery atop the pillow in his nearly empty dorm room (he had tried for something more personal, a longer note of explanation for Bruce about why he couldn’t stay despite being asked, but—the words just wouldn’t come, and he’d been running out of time). His bag was heavy, courtesy of all of the extra supplies he’d grabbed in anticipation of having to evade not only Batman’s team but the rest of the Justice League. His heart was heavy, courtesy of emotional baggage that he wished was as easy to unpack as his actual bags would be when he finally found somewhere to settle. 

He boarded the first bus he saw after he’d gone a few blocks and took a seat towards the back, where he leaned against the window and stared back at the iconic giant T that he used to belong in, however briefly, until it disappeared from sight. And just like that, Tim Drake’s life as Robin was over. 

—

To Whom It May Concern:

This letter is to formally notify you that I’m resigning as Robin in Gotham City, effective immediately. 

Thank you so much for the opportunity to work with you all for the past three years. I’ve enjoyed getting to know the team and appreciated the opportunity to learn about vigilantism and hone my detective skills. I’m excited to take these skills with me as I pursue the next step of my career.

During the past two weeks, I have done everything possible to wrap up any ongoing cases and leave no unfinished business. The Robin suit as well as my spare have been cleaned and placed in the armory of Titan’s Tower along with any gear I have been issued. 

I wish Batman and team the best, but am afraid I will be out of contact for the foreseeable future. 

Sincerely, 

T. J. Drake

—

Red Hood stalked into Titan’s Tower with all the grace of a wildcat closing in on its prey, his vicious smirk hidden by his helmet, his unauthorized entrance hidden by virtue of the heroes’ own stupidity in failing to remove his codes from the database. Seriously—he’d thought gaining entry into their so-called fortress would be the hardest part of this little trip, and had only tried his access codes for the sake of checking the most stupidly obvious Plan A off his list! For them to work, to realize that there was nothing truly separating the precious sidekicks from the wrath of a vengeance minded crime lord, well… it sure made the message he was about to send feel all the more poignant. 

He had come equipped to subdue an entire horde of Teeny Titans without hurting them (much), but to his surprise, the tower was empty of kid sidekicks despite Robin having been sent to work with his team yesterday afternoon, a fact Jason had gleaned last night from listening to the mind numbing chatter of Nightwing being bored on a stakeout and wanting to chat with anyone over the comms Jason had hacked into. Which he’d done in order to better plan his aggressive takeover of Crime Alley, not because he missed hearing his family’s voices. Nope. 

(Since coming back to Gotham, it had been more difficult than he anticipated to stick to the plan when some part of his mind still stubbornly clung to those foolish, childhood dreams of belonging and family and a father who gave a shit and things like that, and kept popping up with annoying questions like ‘what if he revealed his identity to Dick or Alfred or someone just to see if maybe Talia had been right and they’d want him back after all. Clearly, the existence of a new Robin meant that they’d never really given a damn about him, so he was going to go through with this thing, just watch him.)

Truly this had to be fate, because the path to Robin was practically unfolding before him with no barriers. All that was left to do was find where in this gigantic clubhouse the itty little birdie was nesting. Jason tried the common room first. Then the kitchen. Then the rec room. And then the training floor. And the med bay. And then the armory, where he found Robin’s suit, but no actual Robin. He supposed the next place to check would be Robin’s bedroom, because even though it was well past eleven, Drake was a teenager and could conceivably be sleeping in, especially since there was no Alfred around to rouse him at a reasonable hour. Luckily, the doors on the floor with sleeping quarters were all clearly marked with either the name or symbol of the person it belonged to, so it was easy enough to find the one with that all too familiar stylized ‘R’. Jason paused to take a steadying breath before gritting his teeth and deciding to really make an entrance by kicking down the door. 

…To an empty bedroom. Like, not just devoid of Tim Drake, but also devoid of books, trinkets, photos, decoration, clothes, dishes, mess, et cetera, et cetera. It looked as clean and sterile as a hotel room, and if Jason hadn’t literally just seen Robin’s insignia on the door he would think he’d entered an unassigned room by mistake. He frowned and yanked off his helmet, as if looking with his own two eyes would suddenly change the scene, but no. Nothing. He strode into the room and yanked open the closet—empty. He walked over to the desk and yanked open the top drawer—empty. He yanked open the bottom drawer, and mostly empty except for—wait, was that a pile of deactivated Bat trackers? Fucking bizarre. When he stood up, he glanced around again, and this time something on the bed caught his eye. It had been easy to miss against the white pillowcase, but there was an envelope tucked up against the pillow. With a scowl, he stalked over and grabbed it. 

When Jason flipped it over, he noted that it was addressed to Batman, but decided that since he was a crime lord now he didn’t have to care about something as trivial as opening someone else’s mail. He didn't want to take off his gloves and risk leaving prints on anything, so he pulled out a dagger and used it to slice open the envelope. As he flipped it over to dump its contents on the desk, he had the fleeting thought that he probably should have put back on his mask in case this had been some villain’s ploy to poison Batman, but luckily all that fell out was a single sheet of printer paper folded into thirds. 

This he was careful not to damage as he unfolded it. It wasn’t a long note, just a few small paragraphs, so it was quick enough to read: To whom it may concern. This letter is to formally notify you that I’m resigning as Robin in Gotham City, effective immediately… 

Jason dropped the letter and took a step back, staring at the innocuous piece of paper with wide eyes and racing thoughts. Robin had—Drake wasn’t—Timothy—the kid, he was quitting? Leaving? Gone? 

It could be a trap. It probably was a trap. Except Robin shouldn’t have had any way of knowing Red Hood would be able to track him all the way to Titan’s Tower so why would he have set a trap for him in the first place? A trap for someone else, then? If it was, it was really, really stupid of him because the kid had signed his resignation letter from Robin with his actual name, and surely he wouldn’t have made it this far if he were that careless with his identity. So, it was either a very bad trap, or not a trap at all. And if it was not a trap at all, then… 

Then Robin had… resigned. Which, ok, Jason’s stated goal coming into this thing was to get Tim Drake to stop being Robin. So he should be happy about this, right? Except he’d not gotten to toss the kid around and work out his aggression at all so there was no satisfaction in it. Also, the timing was fucking obnoxious. Go figure that the very day he decides to do something about his replacement, the kid decides to peace out of the Gotham vigilante scene and… and go… 

… Somewhere. Jason had no idea where Tim Drake would go if he were no longer Robin. Given how he’d waited until he was alone and then left the note to be found on the other side of the country, Jason had a sneaking suspicion that returning to Gotham was currently off the table. The letter had said he would be ‘out of contact’ for the foreseeable future; Jason could read between the lines enough to figure out that meant he was running away. 

—Which, fuck. Another Robin was running away from Batman because of… well, Jason didn’t know what this kid’s issue with B was, but there were plenty of potential flaws in the man to choose from so Jason was going to play it safe and assume it was something Bruce did. Clearly, the man could never learn. And now, this poor dumb Robin was going to pay the price! Jason was more than familiar with the number of horrors that awaited kids who ended up on their own. He could starve; he could freeze to death; he could catch some disease like the flu, or get cut on a rusty nail and get tetanus, and then die from it because he couldn’t access medical treatment. He could get mugged, or harassed by cops, or snatched up by traffickers, or—

And fine; Jason himself had meant to hurt him. But that had been for ideological purposes, to prove a point about putting children in danger and not taking good enough care of them and stuff. It wasn’t like he was going to hurt him that badly, just bad enough to freak out Bruce a bit. But Jason was also the Red Hood, and the Red Hood’s mission was to do what was necessary to stop awful shit from happening to vulnerable kids. And this stupid, stupid letter was apparently enough to abruptly transfer Timothy Drake into that category in his head. 

Everything Jason had heard about the kid said he was smart, and the timing of his disappearance pointed to some thoughtful planning on his part. Jason could imagine that the little shit had some sort of plan in place to evade Batman’s attempts to locate him, and he probably could manage to run without getting caught by Bruce and the Gotham team for a while. Heck, the kid probably had strategies to get away from most if not all of the Justice League members, since B was sure to call in favors once he got frantic enough about the little bird. But one thing the kid likely did not plan for was being pursued by him. Ex-Robin, currently a crime lord, League of Assassins connections, and a bone to pick with Timothy specifically? (He ran away from home and left a fucking resignation letter about it? Does he not realize what that would do to Dick, to Alfred, to Bruce—)

After stuffing the letter into his pocket, Jason put back on his helmet and stalked out of Titans Tower as silently as he’d arrived, this time with a new yet equally furious purpose sharpening his steps. Sucked to be Timothy Drake, he thought, because the Red Hood got his message and he was officially concerned. 

[fool-babe]

god i love putting logan through shit. nothing sexier than a traumatized man

[updownlately]

4 - oh you love me, you love me

series masterlist

~~~

“Hi bub…” 

Keeping your voice low, you walked softly into the room, beelining straight to the blonde under the covers, her head barely peeking out. 

Settling on the edge of the bed beside Alessia, you smoothed out her messy hair, a soft smile on your face at how adorable she looked- a sleepy grimace coating her face as blonde strands stuck out in every direction, no doubt a result of the nap she had taken earlier.

Hand coming to rest on her forehead as you stopped your ministrations, you quietly checked her temperature, mindful of the fever she had a few hours ago.

Feeling it to be near normal, you contemplated asking her how she was feeling, cautious of annoying the blonde as she was waking up. 

You decided to take the leap however, and ask, well-aware that you’d have a grumpy Alessia on your hands afterwards.

Still, being careful to not rouse the blonde too much with your voice, you kept it quiet as you spoke, words nearly a whisper. 

“How are you feeling now? How’s your stomach?”

At your questions, the striker let out a small grunt, no other response besides her shuffling ungracefully until her head was resting on your thigh.

Shaking your head fondly at her antics, you ran your fingers through her hair as she settled, scratching Alessia’s scalp in an attempt to bring her some comfort. 

Trying again, you spoke once more. 

“Less, baby, does anything still hurt?”

Again, another grunt, this one with a hint of a whine at the end this time. You shook silently with laughter at her response, eyes rolling lovingly at the child-like behaviour.

“Alessia…” Your tone was playful but the warning in it was clear- you really needed to know how she was doing so you could help her. 

The slight push was successful, the English woman finally responding verbally.

“Cramps are still bad and my back hurts.” 

Her voice was quiet though, discomfort apparent as her face scrunched up as she spoke.

You knew the drill at this point- on her periods, Alessia liked to cuddle a hot water bottle as you both would watch a movie, light sandwiches shared between you two as you huddled under a blanket or two in your bedroom. 

Nodding to yourself as you created a plan in your head, you made a move to get up, ready to go heat up some water for a hot water bottle and grab some food and ibuprofen. 

You didn’t get far however, Alessia burying her face into your torso at the slightest movement, her arm coming to lay across your lap, preventing you from leaving.

Unfortunately for you, as adorable as her wanting you to stay was, you knew Alessia would be in more pain if you didn’t get up right now, well aware of just how awful her periods got sometimes.

“Love, I’m just gonna fill you a hot water bottle, see if that helps…” Trying to convince the blonde to let you go, you tried to gently lift her arm off you. Your effort was futile though, her grip only tightening.

“No.” The response was clear, the blonde making no effort to loosen her grip.

“Lessi…”

“No. Please…” Her voice was quieter this time, nearly pleading.

Sighing, your shoulders deflated at her tone, knowing she was typically more clingier during the first day or so of her period, the pain heightening her need for your presence. 

“Only a little while, okay? After that I need to get you hot water and some food probably.”

And as Alessia moved over to the middle of the bed to make room for you, you got comfortable, sitting with your upper back against the headboard, propped up by pillows, legs stretched out as you made room for the Gunner.

Patting the space between your legs once you had situated yourself, you helped Alessia get comfortable in your hold, her back pressed to your front as you pulled the laptop she had been using earlier closer to you. 

Continuing the episode that the blonde had fallen asleep to, you let her rest her head on your shoulder, placing a loving kiss on her temple as you snaked your hands under her shirt, coming to a rest just under her stomach. 

Gently kneading, you did your best to massage the area as you both watched the show, trying to alleviate some of the pain. 

You could feel Alessia relax at your movement, body getting heavier and breaths getting softer, her slowly falling back asleep with the help of the comforting touch.

Briefly stopping your massage, you quickly turned the volume down of the laptop as to not wake her again, trying your best not to laugh as the girl in your arms whined at the faintest absence of your touch. 

Carrying on once again, a soft smile ever present on your face, you settled in, not unfamiliar with this situation with the number of months you had been together, but more than content to be there for her. 

~~~

It was nearly an hour later when Alessia rose from her second nap, and if you were honest, you didn’t think she could have gotten any more cuter.

Sleep laden eyes, the blonde had immediately buried her face into your neck upon waking up, adjusting herself to be sideways in your lap as the evening light started streaming into the room.

The pair of you had sat there, cuddled up, for the better part of a half hour, you doing your best to make sure to slowly wake the blonde up, asking little questions here and there until she was fully coherent.

You had eventually convinced her to shower as you started on plans for dinner, an idea, a small surprise, on your mind.

Gathering all that you needed, you worked quickly, time limited.

Pulling away the coffee table in your living room, you quickly rearranged your couch, converting it into the bed it could become, before grabbing all the fluffiest blankets, pillows, and stuffies in the house and throwing them on the makeshift bed. 

Scouring around the apartment and the groceries you had gotten earlier, you prepped a snack tray full of the blonde's favourite treats, setting that near the fort you had built.

Finally, boiling some water, you prepped a hot water bottle for when Alessia was out of the shower.

Hearing footsteps just as you finished pouring the water into the bottle, you quickly set the kettle down, screwing the top shut before turning around. 

Smiling at the fact that she was wearing one of your oversized hoodies, you proudly presented her with the hot water bottle before taking her hand and leading her to the living room. 

Coming to a stop and facing the blonde, you watched as she took in the sight before you- dim lighting around the area, a few candles, the sofa-bed filled with blankets and pillows, snacks, and the TV set up, ready for any streaming service to be chosen. 

“I-…huh? What?” 

Sending you a bewildered look, Alessia tried to find the words to convey her shock, surprised at how you managed to pull this off in fifteen minutes.

“What is all of this?”

Shrugging your shoulders in response, a nervous smile on your face, you rubbed the back of your neck anxiously.

“I know we had plans to cook together tonight but I figured we could have a relaxing night in instead…”

Slowly walking over to the handful of take out menus you had piled up on the side, you picked them up,  bringing them back to the blonde with a sheepish smile.

“Bub, you’re on your period and I think it would be nice if we can just put on a movie, have some snacks, maybe order in, and just cuddle and…relax? No pressure for the night. Just you, me, some good, easy food, and some good entertainment y’know?”

Watching you explain your thought process with a lovesick smile on her face, Alessia stepped closer to you, arms coming around to pull you into a hug, burying her face into your neck.

Sighing into the crook, you felt the smile on the Gunner's face, her hug getting just a tad bit tighter with every passing second, almost as if she was trying to physically make you feel her love.

Relaxing into her hold, you let out a breath at the gesture, glad you had read Alessia correctly. 

Pulling back slightly, her sky-blue eyes met your own, head tilting earnestly as she glanced around the room quickly before looking back at you.

“This really sounds like the perfect night right now, thank you.” An apologetic smile crossed her face as she continued, “sorry I’m not in the mood to cook, I know I promised to teach you how to make pasta from scratch and-”

Cutting the striker off before she could spiral into a series of unnecessary apologies, you pulled her close, placing a soft kiss on her lips to quiet her.

Leaning back with a smile on your face at the dazed look in Alessia’s eyes, you grasped her hand in yours, tugging her onto the sofa behind you. 

“Less, love, don’t worry a second about it okay? Plus anyways, I’m feeling a little La La Land and some snacks…and then we can order food in a bit yeah? Sounds alright?” 

Smiling at the eager nod you got, you situated yourself, helping Alessia dig her way to the middle of the pulled out sofa. Letting her get comfy, you grabbed the softest blanket you had found, coincidentally her favourite one, and gently placed it on the blonde, making sure the hot bottle rested comfortably before settling yourself beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she laid her head on yours. 

A carefree smile unknowingly residing on your face, you flicked through the plethora of streaming services before you found the correct one, hitting play on the movie before tugging your love impossibly closer. 

Unbeknown to you, Alessia had a matching smile on her own face, heart softening at the thought of the effort you had gone through- that you always went through, when she was on her period. At how you would always go out of your way to make sure she was comfortable, her very much aware that you had most definitely picked up majority of the snacks today knowing she was starting her period and craved them. At how you checked in with her, took care of her, stayed with her so she wasn’t in pain alone, fed her, did all of that and then some for her. 

Well aware your love didn’t need words, Alessia revelled in the thought behind your actions, letting herself fall deeper in love with you as the opening credits rolled around.

Glad that of all the people in the world, she had you by her side through all the good times and bad, she pressed herself into you, letting your warmth wash over her and bring her comfort as you played your guys’ favourite movie. 

And as day turned to night, the fall cold slightly sweeping in as the TV illuminated the room in bright lights, the two of you sat, cuddled up, warmed up, and loved up, needing nothing more than the other and the love and comfort of the home you were building together.