#he's stinking up the whole plane but

[trashingfish]

[novemberheart]

{overview} Johnny and Kyle take care of you…..you make a new friend

{warnings} fem reader, cursing, a/b/o dynamics, PRICEGHOST, SOAPGAZ, poly141, MDNI, oral- female receiving

Chapter 19 <- Chapter 20 -> Chapter 21

None of you wanted to spend hours in a car, especially with the boys and their long legs. They opted for a plane, causing you more nerves than you knew what to do with.

“Get over here,” Simon commanded, all of you spread out at the airport. Your eyes widened and you trotted over to him, breathing a sigh of relief when he sprayed you down with scent blockers. “I'm not sitting next to lemonhead the whole flight,” he tsked. You rolled your eyes, but relieved you wouldn't be stinking up the plane.

“Bon-Bon, I've got something for you,” Johnny smiled, patting the seat next to him. “You don't have to take one, but I think it'll help,” he explained. He pulled an off-brand over-the-counter stress reliever pack.

“Did you take one?” you questioned softly. You've always been wary of drugs, even when you’re hurt you hold off taking aspirin as long as possible.

“Not today, flying doesn't bother me too much. I take them to help me sleep sometimes, or calm down when I get in my head a little too much,” he continued, causing you to frown.

“Does that happen a lot?” You questioned, the pounding in your heart giving you enough courage to hold your hand out. He popped a pill out placing it in your palm.

“It's meltaway,” he explained quickly. You popped it on your tongue and it melted instantly, even though your mouth was dry. “Happens here and there. Happens to all of us, yeah?” He smiled reassuringly.

“Guess that's true,” you sighed. “If you ever need to get your mind off of something, I can always help,” you whispered the last part in his ear and you giggled when you felt him smile against your cheek.

“I'll have to take you up on that,” he whispered back. You jumped when you felt his teeth graze your earlobe.

“Johnny,” you swatted.

“Alright, lovebirds. Not that you heard but it's time for us to board,” John chuckled, eyeing the both of you.

You were content in your middle seat. Johnny urged you to sit in the window seat, but you didn't want to be reminded you were soaring through the sky in a tube. Johnny sat in the window seat, you in the middle and Simon on the end seat so he could stretch his legs. John and Kyle were a few rows behind you, and you would periodically sit up in your seat to look back at them. The medicine seemed to help, although it could just be a placebo. Regardless, you felt safe between Johnny and Simon. You rested your head against Johnny’s shoulder, his hand finding it home on your knee, fiddling with the fabric of your tights. Simon had his arms crossed over his chest, looking imposing as always. He needed a chill pill.

You had been thinking a lot about what John had said to you last night.

“Your heats comin’ up in a few weeks.”

You couldn't deny that it had been looming over your head, especially with how excitable you had been lately. Your heats have always been irregular. They followed the basic timeline of every eight weeks, but sometimes they would skip over, or be a week late or early. You had multiple tests done and doctors concluded that it was just because your hormones were out of whack from not being in a pack for so long. You wondered if that was true. If it was, how long would it take for you to even out? Did you need to be marked? Or just bonded? You had definitely bonded with them. If the timeline was correct then you would have about one week left from your last heat.

That timeline was for more than just your heats, though. It also was a timeline for your relationships. You wanted John to help you with your heats, you felt more than comfortable enough with him and you were overwhelmingly attracted to him. You also wouldn't mind if Kyle or Johnny decided to step in either.

There was one person you weren't entirely sure about yet.

Simon.

It wasn't that you weren’t attracted to him. You just didn't feel entirely comfortable with him in that way yet. While you two had your own interactions and bonding times, there was just something missing. He treated you like a friend more than an omega. Actually, he treated you like you were an annoying child who he was stuck babysitting. The rest of them had courted you, complimented you, and made you feel like you were the most important thing in the world to them. Simon had hardly done any of that.

There was also all the fighting that had gone on between the two of you. And all those things he said about you that night when you overheard him talking to Johnny. You know you should get over it, you thought you had, but sometimes when your room was too quiet you could hear those words echo throughout it.

You could only imagine how upset he would be if you admitted any of that. How hurt he would be if you said you weren't comfortable enough with him yet. Maybe you should just wait till you feel comfortable enough with him before having any of them help with your heats.

Yet the thought of waiting any longer to be with them, especially John, felt nearly tortuous.

You didn't want to hurt Simon though.

Seems like the best choice was just to wait.

Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky eough to have your heat skip again.

Kyle was able to talk Johnny into booking an Airbnb in Inverness. If it was up to the Scot you five would be fighting for your lives in the most rural area he could find. As long as it was in the Highlands, Johnny could be talked into it.

“I don't want to leave,” you sighed, already getting a sore neck with how often you were turning your head to look around.

“Good thing we just got here,” Kyle chuckled.

“Come on. Let's get settled inside then we could do some exploring,” John ushered you inside a beautiful stone house. Your stomach rumbled at the sound of exploring. “We’ll take care of that too,” he chuckled, your bag slung over his shoulder.

It had two bedrooms, both with a large bed and a bathroom. Simon and John took the bigger bedroom, with Kyle and Johnny taking the other one. You put all of your stuff with the alphas because it had the most room. Everyone knew you would be bouncing around, though.

It was already almost dinner time and you were starving, the only thing in your stomach was a blueberry muffin from the cafeteria before you had left. Simon pulled out a box of your favorite crackers from his duffle, tossing them to you. He must have swiped them from the kitchen before you left. You thanked him heavily, already digging in. It was just another example of how Simon worked.

He could be incredibly thoughtful when he wasn't frustrated with you.

At least that's how you saw it.

The truth was more complex than you knew.

It was one of those nights he couldn't fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried. His legs are restless and his heart beats a little too fast for a trained soldier like him. He pulled himself out of bed, heading through the bathroom, and slowly pushing John’s bedroom door open. He hoped you weren't in there tonight. The alpha grunted, the slightest creak in the door waking him up.

“You alright?” John croaked, his voice sending a shiver down Simon’s spine. He didn't say a word, pushing the alpha out from the middle of his own bed crawling under the sheets himself, groaning as the smell of you drifted off of them. “Somethin’ eatin’ you?” John yawned, rolling onto his stomach so he was draped over Simon’s back. It's what Simon needed. Grounding.

“It’s shite,” Simon brushed off.

“Course it is, it’s comin’ from you,” John chuckled. Simon grunted, bringing his elbow back to knock against the alpha. “Spit it out.”

“She”- he cut himself off with a sigh.

“It's me, Simon,” John reminded, his lips holding still against a scar on the other alpha's shoulder.

“She doesn't like me as much as she used to,” Simon grunted.

“She didn't know you then.”

“Thanks, John,” Simon huffed, making the captain chuckle.

“I didn't mean it like that,” John sighed. “I mean to say, she's getting to know you now. You two are navigating a whole new relationship, and to be fair it has had its turbulence. In the beginning, she was just trying to not step on any toes or cross any boundaries. Now she's trying to work her way into the pack. Growin’ pains, Simon,” John explained. “You are both doing fine considering you've never been around an omega and she’s never had an alpha-let alone two.”

“You’ve hardly ever had an omega. Other than ones to help you through a rut,” Simon added. “You know what to do.”

“I was worried about it before she came. Wonderin’ if I could be a good alpha to her like she deserves. Then once she got here it just felt natural. You have instincts too, just allow them,” John spoke.

“Not like there's any room too,” Simon huffed.

“What's that supposed to mean?” John hummed, leaning on his elbow.

“You dogs are all over her all the time. Not like I could get a moment with her if I wanted to. Every time I think about doing something- one of you has already done it,” Simon explained. John supposes he has a point. You weren't high-maintenance and you were almost always smothered with attention.

“So do it anyway. No such thing as a too-spoiled omega.”

All of you went to a pub down the street for dinner. It felt so free being away from the base. Your pack was all yours without worry of being ushered to the ends of the earth.

You were situated between Kyle and John, just like back home. You trusted Johnny to pick you out something from the menu, as long as it didn't have eyeballs still on it when it came out of the kitchen.

“Steak for me and cullen skink for the girl,” Johnny winked over at you. You were half tempted to google it before the waitress left just in case.

“And what can I get you?” A waitress hummed to Simon. You didn't like the way she eyed him.

“Scotch pie,” he answered, eyeing her back. Not in the same way, this was to deter her.

“Mmmh, that's my favorite,” She smiled, turning to the rest of the table. “And for you?”

“Fix your face, lovie,” Kyle teased after she left. It was then you realized you were scowling at Simon. Well not at him, but at what just occurred. You could tell Simon was trying to bite back a smirk.

The waitress came back numerous times before the food was ready just to ‘check in.’ You could tell it was starting to bother Johnny too. It wasn't that Simon was just letting it happen, he was ignoring her, his eyes bouncing between you and Johnny. Regardless, he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it in the slightest. The final straw was her hand resting on his shoulder, causing everyone's chest to rumble with a warning. She quickly retracted it with a stuttered apology. You had a different waitress for the rest of the night.

It started off teasing and gentle. His lips ghosting over yours until you made a move to connect the space, only for him to pull back.

It's his fault really. Teasing you like that and then expecting you to just let him go after.

You pulled away, trying to get as much air in your lungs as possible. Kyle was relentless, his lips still attached to the corner of your mouth, making a path all the way down to your collarbone. Making out and breathing at the same time was still a skill you hadn't learned yet.

“Ky,” you breathed. He quickly reattached your lips with his, your body sinking further into the mattress from the force of it.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Johnny grunted, coming out of the bathroom. Kyle pulled away, looking over his shoulder at the Scot, who had nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. You were still panting under him, your lips red, eyes foggy. Kyle was in no better condition. Kyle winked at Johnny before turning his attention back to you. Your hands wrapping around the back of his neck, your heels digging into his lower back, desperate for him to be as close as possible.

You heard shuffling in the corner but your mind flew out the window when Kyle gently rolled his hips against yours. You gasped, your half-lidded eyes gazing up at Kyle. You bucked your hips, hoping to get an ounce of the friction.

“I got you, lovie,” Kyle whispered along with another roll of his hips. You heard Johnny curse again, the bed sinking under his weight.

“How mad do you think the alphas would be if we had a little taste?” Johnny murmured, his teeth grazing your shoulder. Kyle groaned, resulting in a whine escaping your throat.

“That's a good question,” Kyle hummed, mirroring Johnnys' actions on your other shoulder. You felt faint. “What do you think, love?” Kyle asked, making you shudder.

“Please,” you gasped. It was the only thing you could manage, still not entirely sure where this was going to lead. The tightness in your stomach was becoming painful. Kyle’s hands ran soothingly up and down your sides before dipping under your tank top.

“Tell us if you want us to stop any time,” Kyle assured. You could feel Johnny nod his head in agreement.

“Want you to feel comfortable, Bon,” he added. You agreed softly, your hands digging themselves into each of their shirts. Your tank top had been pulled above your chest, your hands leaving their shirts so Kyle could pull it off. You had no time to even think about being shy, your newly exposed skin being attacked by mouths and hands.

“So fucking soft,” Johnny growled. You were a lamb spread out for these hungry wolves. A tongue ran across your nipple making you jolt.

“So sensitive,” Kyle purred. “Anyone ever touched you like this?” he questioned, his hips twitching at the thought. You quickly shook your head, your eyes glossed over. They both growled, their teeth nipping at your skin to mark you as theirs. Their eyes met each other and a mutual understanding going straight over your head. The position suddenly changed, your back resting against Kyle’s chest, Johnny kissing between the valley of your breasts before stopping just above the waistband of your shorts. Kyle's hands rested on your inner thighs, keeping you spread so Johnny could fit his broad body between your legs. Johnny's dark eyes stared up at you for approval, his teeth pulling at your shorts. Your body was on fire, the scent in the room overwhelming. You nodded your head, your fingers running through his mohawk. He grinned his fingers curling in your shorts tugging them down quickly.

“Gentle,” Kyle growled, his hands maneuvering under the sides of your underwear. His thumb rubbing smooth circles on your hips to make up for Johnny’s actions.

“Says the one chewin’ a hole in her shoulder,” Johnny huffed back. Kyle smirked against your skin, placing a kiss against the red mark forming against you. You couldn't make eye contact with Johnny as he lowered himself between your thighs, pressing a kiss against your covered core. Your thighs twitched, and Kyle gripped them to keep them from slamming shut.

Not that Johnny would mind that. Johnny repeated his actions a few times before his tongue darted out. The fabric of your panties left you with little friction to ease the ache.

“Johnny, please,” you urged, rotating your hips slightly. Johnny groaned against you, the vibration going straight to your core.

“She asks so nicely,” Kyle complimented, beginning to pull down your underwear for you. Johnny agreed, tugging your underwear down the rest of the way.

“John’s going to love that,” Johnny smirked. You whined at the thought, your thighs starting to jerk shut again. You missed the way Johnny shoved your underwear in his pocket. “Fucking beautiful,” Johnny whispered to himself, his eyes falling over your body. “Missin’ out up there,” Johnny commented, his scruff rubbing against the inside of your thigh. His mouth was watering at this point and he made very little effort to hide it. The desire to please you is the only thing keeping his mind from shutting down.

Kyle grabbed behind your knees, pulling them up closer to your chest. The cold air chilling your core was quickly being replaced by Johnny’s desperate tongue. You squealed, your hands slapping over your mouth. They both chuckled, Johnny’s hands reaching up to tug at your wrists. He intertwined his fingers with yours.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Kyle lulled, his hands rubbing up and down the insides of your thighs. “Already shaking,” he chuckled.

“It's too much,” you whimpered, your hands trying to push away at his face. He tightened his grip. You were being devoured. The sensation was already new to you, not to mention the passion behind it.

“Just relax, pretty. Let him make you feel good,” Kyle talked you through it. “You really want it to stop, just say stop.”

You ignored the feeling of Johnny's smirk against you. You tried to relax your body, giving up the little control you had against the two betas. Johnny switched the pattern of his tongue, causing a breathy moan to escape you.

“Do that again,” Kyle urged. Johnny was already one step ahead, the sensation making your eyes roll to the back of your head. It wasn't as overwhelming as his previous actions. It was just enough pleasure to make your body feel like it was floating, but not enough to make you want to scream. Your soft moans were timed with his mouth, the sounds making it harder for them to have self-restraint.

“How she taste?” Kyle asked, his hand gripping onto Johnny’s mohawk. He knew the Scot wouldn't separate his tongue from you even if the world was ending. Johnny groaned at the hand yanking him away.

“Like peaches just out of the oven,” Johnny said quickly, his tongue already darting out to catch another taste of you. He nipped your thighs, waiting not so patiently for Kyle to release his hair. He pushed Johnny’s face back against you, Johnny’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. “See what you do to us, love?” Kyle hummed.

You were close. Your whole body beginning to twitch, your moans mixing with breathy pants.

“That's it, baby,” Kyle groaned, taking every ounce of you in. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” He snarled, the grip on your thighs tightening. Every second felt like it would be your last, the pressure in your stomach building and building until suddenly it burst. The warmth in your stomach exploded, causing bliss to spread over every inch of your body. You couldn't even moan, or move, instead, your body stilled, before melting against Kyles. All of you were limp, your euphoria spreading to them even though they had yet to find a release themselves. The stillness left your body, the shakiness returning.

Johnny pressed a kiss against you one last time, mumbling something about ‘seeing her again soon’ before crawling his way up the both of you. They moved your body around, so everyone was under the covers. Johnny pressed a kiss against your cheek making you swat him away, feeling slowly returning to your body.

“Your face is wet,” you whined, rolling over to bury your face in Kyle's chest. You felt movement above you, pulling your head away only to see the two betas locked together, their tongues intertwined. You were too tired to care. As long as you were being cuddled you didn't care what they did.

“Tastes as good as we imagined, yeah?” Johnny chuckled. You heard Kyle agree, before falling asleep.

You were woken up by Kyle. You groaned, stretching your limbs as much as you could. You were a bit sore from all the twitching you did last night and you could still feel some wetness between your thighs. Johnny was purring next to you, strong arms wrapped around your waist. Your sleepy eyes peered up, locking eyes with Kyle. His gaze was soft and they held nothing but adoration in them.

“Morning, princess,” he whispered, making a snicker. The two betas did treat you like a princess, so the nickname was fitting.

“Go back to sleep,” Johnny croaked his grip on you tightening.

“Wanna go on a walk?” Kyle whispered. “It rained all night.” A sleepy smile spread across your face and you quickly nodded your head. Kyle unraveled Johnny's arms from you.

“Wanna come, Mac?” you questioned, pressing a kiss against his temple. His lips quirked, but he buried himself deeper in the bed.

“I'll keep the bed warm,” he yawned, already falling back asleep. Kyle grabbed your tank top off the floor, putting it over your head for you.

“So beautiful,” he murmured again, making you flush. No one had ever spoken to you with such sincerity. You luckily had the instinct to put your toothbrush in their bathroom last night. You couldn't imagine creeping into the alpha room after all the ruckus you caused last night. You're actually not sure if you could ever look them in the eye again. Not that you had done anything wrong…it…just felt awkward. You grabbed your shorts off the floor tugging them on.

You couldn't find your panties.

When you came out of the bathroom Kyle was already dressed in joggers, a sweatshirt, and a vest.

All your clothes were in the alpha room. Fuck.

“What's with the face?” Kyle hummed, pulling you between his knees.

“I don't want to go in there,” you muttered. Kyle cinched his brows before the realization hit him.

“This have anything to do with the little show you put on last night?” he smirked, making you flush even brighter. “Relax, lovie. Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. I can go grab some clothes if you aren't ready, though.”

“Thanks, KyKy!” you cheered.

As soon as he opened the door pillows were thrown at him. He caught them with ease, tossing them back on the bed. He cleared his throat at the heavy scent of alpha musk. Your room wasn't the only one that was busy last night.

“She’s with the two of you for one bloody night,” John growled. Kyle chuckled, opening a window. It was a good thing you didn't come in. You probably would've passed out.

“Best night of our lives,” Kyle tsked, watching the way both the alphas' faces curled. They were jealous. Not because of what happened, but because they hadn't been able to watch. Instead, they were confined to their room, only being able to listen. Using their imagination to pretend the bulky body under them was smaller, softer and sweeter.

“Come here,” John commanded. Kyle plopped a pair of your leggings on the bed, only for John to grab his collar pressing his nose against his neck.

“Good right?” Kyle chuckled, squirming his way out of the alpha's grip.

“She taste that sweet?” John hummed, stretching out, his muscles cracking.

“Sweeter,” Kyle smirked, shutting the bedroom door behind him, getting too much enjoyment from the groans on the other side of it. “Here you are, lovie,” Kyle smiled, passing you your clothes. He was all too pleased with himself.

“There’s a farm that has a petting zoo,” Kyle hummed, swinging both your hands back and forth.

“Really?!”

“They sell baked goods too,” he winked.

“God, you know me so well,” you sighed, shuffling closer to him. The earth was wet and clean, the feeling sinking deep into your bones. The clear air made you think. Made you think about something you've wanted to say for a while, specifically to Kyle. “Kyle, there's something I have to tell you,” you said slowly. “You don't have to comment on it, but I need to get it off my chest.”

“Alright,” he agreed cautiously.

“I love you,” you said it all in one breath.

“Oh thank god,” he said, relieved. “Would be weird if it was just one-sided, yeah?” he smiled at you. “I love you too, sweetheart. Very much.” he whispered the last part, bringing your hand to his lips kissing your knuckles.

You and Kyle were acting like true tourists. Stopping to take pictures with anything you deemed to be ‘exotic.’ The petting zoo was the most fun. You got to feed the animals and you even took a selfie with a sheep that looked like Johnny. It was sent to the boys group chat and Johnny quickly made it his wallpaper.

“Look! Puppies!” you grinned pulling Kyle over to the large pen.

“Lookin’ to adopt?” An older woman in a rocking chair asked. She had overalls on, a few chickens pecking at the ground around her feet, knitting needles in hand. You made a mental note to be like her when you grew up.

“Sadly no,” you replied softly with a smile. The excited bunch ran around the pen, stumbling over each other. Except for one in the very corner, halfway under a blanket.

“That's Peaches,” the woman sighed following your gaze. “She’s free.”

“Peaches?” you questioned mostly to yourself. “Why is she free?” you chimed.

“She’s deaf, not entirely sure she can see either. She doesn't move too much,” the woman frowned.

You frowned too, walking to the other side of the cage where she was.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you whispered, crouching down. Kyle was wincing already having a feeling where this was going. The puppy looked at you with her big black eyes, before moving towards you, her body staying low to the ground.

“Well look at that,” the woman chuckled.

“Do you have a blanket or something we can buy to wrap her in?” Kyle questioned already knowing you weren't going to leave that farm without her. At least it wasn't a sheep or chicken. Mission accomplished in his eyes.

Sorry, I didn't post when I said I would! This series is going by so fast! See you in two days for chapter 21! 🧡

[vyzz-undercover]

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

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

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

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

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

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to give it to you.

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

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

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

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

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

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

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

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

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Water," he says abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you huff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What reason?"

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

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

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He insisted?"

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

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

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

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

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

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

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

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

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

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

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

"Groxshit," you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's got your attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it," he pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine, well beyond words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato stays quiet, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, sinker—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's practically vibrating from elation.

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

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

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

Still, he plays along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

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

[willowser]

you're not expecting the bathroom door to swing open.

sitting in katsuki's overly-large bathtub, soaking into suds and fragrant oils and trying to enjoy what you believed would be another evening alone; one of kirishima's sidekicks is out with an injury and your great explosion murder god has been picking up the slack, pulling double shifts almost every night this week. not something to be upset about, as it's no one's fault, really—but you certainly didn't forsee your bath being interrupted.

this is what your i'm in here! call is met with: the creak of hinges and the smell of smoke, the deep scowl on katsuki's face as he shuffles across the tile, eyes rimmed with that greasy paint he wears under his mask.

very rarely does he intrude on your alone time—not that you're complaining. a faint shy streak travels through you, and you pull your knees closer to your chest as you smile at him. without a word, he stands across from the tub, leaning against the sink counter as he scratches at sweat dripping down his neck.

"hello," you tell him quietly, trying to tide back your excitement for the sake of his exhaustion. "didn't expect to see you here, stranger."

it's only a joke, but katsuki's frown deepens. for a while, his eyes dance anywhere other than you, long enough that you begin to wonder if a nerve has been struck, but you're surprised to find him a little pink as he straightens out his slouchy posture.

"scooch." is all he demands of you, gruffly. before you can manage a retort, his arms go over his head to grab a fist full of his shirt by the back, tugging it up and free from his dirty, worn body.

it's a nice sight, one that keeps you quiet and content: the soft curve of his shoulders and the rippling, bruised plane of his ribcage; the thick muscle of his thighs as he yanks down his pants; the spreading flush to his chest, as he strips himself bare.

you are more than happy to scooch, slipping to one side easily so that he can sit at your back. a rough groan escapes him when he sinks into the steaming water, as he stretches out and rubs at one of his knees, digging his fingers into his skin with a grimace before gently tugging you to lean back against him.

you turn your head just a bit, so that your forehead is against his cheek, nosing at his jaw. again, you give him a quiet, "hello," that elicits another long, deep groan from his chest.

"hi," katsuki murmurs, a little awkwardly into your hair. you tell him he stinks and he grunts out a single laugh, before pinching your sides under the water until you're squirming against him a little too intimately.

when you turn to face him now, the scowl has slipped away, replaced by a soft curve of his lips that looks almost like a smile. his head is leaned back against the edge of the tub, eyes lidded, and he infects you with a yawn that stretches out his whole face.

he's so cute when he's sleepy like this that you can't help it; you wrap an arm around his neck and run a hand through his hair, leaving water to drip free and down from his temples. you place a fat kiss on his cheek, no matter how dirty, and it earns you a pleased hum that makes you want to squeal.

it's been a long week, that's all, and you're just happy he's home.

"are you all mine tonight?" you ask, pulling your lip between your teeth when he raises his head to stare at you. something heavy weighs in his eyes, like his response will answer to more than just your question, this question, right here in the bath and in your arms.

katsuki blinks softly, and digs a hand into your hair, too. "yeah," he murmurs, serious. "all yours."

[moongumi]

⁀➷ ∵  ❝is it pure jealousy?⁰¹❞

⟶ ghost can't feel normal about his best mate all over a shadow

⟶ ghost x reader/oc x soap

⟶ cw. not much, just lusting, manipulation, graves (he's his own warning but i love him <3), lip-locking, ghost is so jealous, he wants reader so badly.

⟶ note. written in one go, will correct mistakes later but i've just been thinkin' about continuing this series in like short bits before making a big story as i'm focusing on adler x bell rn

who would’ve thought that soap would get close to a shadow. and who would’ve thought the person sitting alone with a stinking look on his face would be ghost.

no one can see the way he balls his hands into fists, the way he blows more air out of his nostrils and his eyes locked onto them. who’s them? soap and a shadow.

on the cargo plane back from their mission soap is all over her. giggling and pulling his best jokes out on the damn girl. she stands leaning against the walls of the plane, nodding her head along. ghost can’t see what shes thinking, he can’t even make out what she’s saying–her mask covers her whole goddamn face. he could only see the eyes, those doe eyes just begging for attention.

her mask, similarly to his in fact–but with fangs it seems. shadows do enjoy drawing unnecessary blood. soap would know this but apparently he can look past it for a pretty girl. ghost feels anger, but he doesn’t really know what the root cause was.

price wasn’t thrilled to be working with graves but as graves puts it ‘let's set our differences aside and stay professional’. soap seems to get the memo.

it’s when she leans towards soap, her hands brushing against his arm–the rolled up sleeves, her fingers dancing on his bare skin. she moves slowly up his arm towards the flag attached, she might’ve asked, ‘you english?’ and soap shakes his head, laughing about it.

“no love, can’t ya’ tell by the accent? i’m a scot,” he explains.

she rolls her eyes, smacking herself on the head like an idiot, “duh, i'm stupid, as you can tell I don’t get around much.”

“you're not stupid," soap flirts with her, "not to worry, at least i’m the first scotsman you’ve ever met.”

he might’ve been or he might’ve not. ghost can’t tell if she was lying to merely butter him up. she seemed like the type to manipulate and lure men into her grasp, just as she’s doing with soap. poor johnny, ghost thought to himself. ghost knew better than to trust a shadow.

the next few days after was as normal as could get. off duty the task force would hop around pubs in the evenings after spending their days cooling off.

today, they were at a bar. the whole squad but soap, soap just had to invite her. with the invitation to her, he never expressed it was limited to her only. many shadows came to a small english bar in the north, at least they owners got good business that night with graves buying rounds all night.

she took her coat off. as a girl not used to the english cold her cheeks are all flushed, not the mention the drinks she had made her cheeks rosy.

her shirt tight, that skirt too. she leans over the bar as soap attempts to buy more drinks for the table, just before that he was venting about a ruined date.

“i didn’t think she would invite graves and well fuckin’ hell, graves brought the entire battalion.” 

ghost looked at his friend and rolled his eyes. “should’ve been more specific.” or rather not invited her at all, at least ghost wouldn’t have to sit across from price and gaze with that look on his face. that look that was so easy to read.

the bar is dark, so damn dark he can’t even make it her face properly. she didn’t have her mask on. he knows johnny gets a good look at her, at that pretty fucking face.

“you don’t even know what she looks like,” gaz says.

ghost didn’t realise that it was directed to him, he did a double take until deciding to take offence. “the fuck you on about?”

“the girl, soap and you–a shadow too…good luck with that.” is all gaz says before he chugs his stella as if for ghost’s sake.

price sighs, drinking his guinness. “i’d just warn ya’, but you probably know what yer’ in for with that.” he nods his head towards soap and the girl. he then laughs along with gaz at the situation.

ghost finally looks back and his blood boils at the sight. his hands over her waist, landing perfectly over the curve of her ass. anyone could tell that girl worked out and was build like a fucking god. the shocking difference in width could make anyone’s mouth water.

he sees soaps hand grip her waist tightly drawing her closer. the girl chuckles, ghost can only see the moisture on her lips being lit up by the strobe lights. she says a few things to him, then backs up.

her eyes are bright and she draws closer to soap. the man across from her wastes no time in attaching his lips to hers, angling his head to deepen the kiss already.

ghost can feel the confusion in him, the anger, the desperation. the way her tongue slips between the corner of soaps’ lips to taste him. soap holds her tightly against him, if they weren’t wearing clothes it would look like they were already fucking eachother.

her hand grips his bicep as it flexes when he’d dive into her. her other hand against soaps’ cheek as if guiding him.

ghost felt like a red bull, angry and hot. but it seems he isn’t the only one angry.

“good fuckin’ god. price, who let your dog get his dirty mitts on one of my shadows, huh?” grave’s voice echos into ghost’s head, the drawn out southern accent and the mockery of it all. the mockery of the situation that ghost desperately wanted to be in, the fucking burning feeling that held onto him all night…jealousy.

[donutwatches]

MHA 2.22 - Yaoyorozu: Rising - part 2

I want a Todoroki pinata for my birthday party.

She really has a high opinion of Todoroki, doesn't she? That's sweet and all, but Momo, you are one of the smartest kids in your class, you got this!

HE VOTED FOR HER! SHUT UP! THAT IS SO STINKING CUTE! It is like a literal 'vote' of confidence.

I have no reason for putting this screenshot up other than the fact that looking at it makes me tingle.

Speaking of tingles. Is Momo BLUSHING? Do I sense a crush in the air? If she doesn't think of a good plan quick, Todoroki is going to get strung up like a pinata again.

She missed the switch! Girl, you have GOT to work on your hand-eye coordination. Pulling a catapult and a whole pile of metal out of her booba is a unique talent. Paired with her brains (if not her spatial awareness) her potential sky high.

Look! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it Superman? No. It's a hot burrito flying in the sky! I love this funky shape changing metal. It looks kinda snug, but being encased in hot metal is a nightmare actually.

Why does it look like Aizawa is taking a power nap? He would though. OR is he looking down so that Momo cannot see his face as he LIES like a lying liar.

"Do you feel sick?" - Hahahaha! Sometimes I think Todoroki is a low-key unintentional comedy king.

Momo can't handle any blows to her confidence right now. Aizawa knows that, so he is letting her small mistake slide. It isn't truthful, but it is what she needs to hear to support her growth right now.

Oh my god, Todoroki you absolute donut. Who sees someone cry and thinks, I know what will fix this, pressure points! So practical and yet so clueless.

Granny is onto you Aizawa. He looked so excited to beat up his students, but when it comes down to it he is a sweetie.

I have gotten a tag request, @jessiedead If anyone else wants to be tagged I can start a little taglist. Let me know!

Click here for episode 23

Click here for the masterlist

[pupyr0arz]

random Gaz flavored food

It’s not creepy if it’s an accident. It’s really just a coincidence, a happy little convenience of fate.

It’s after the dust up with Shadow Company that theyre strongly advised (read: ordered) to take a step back and allow the issue to be fought over at a higher level. Kyle knows, academically, that Laswell is absolutely going to tear someone a new asshole and that he can’t do much in this situation. Realistically, it sets his teeth on edge and he has to set his gun away before he nips at Price’s heels for a couple of hours in a useless argument they both know is pointless. He takes it better than Soap, at least, who needs to be dragged away by Ghost like a disobedient dog. If he gets his fair share of licks in when Soap sulks back into the barracks with a furious temper, well, it’s indistinguishable from Ghost’s discipline and really not his fault. He doesn’t instigate fights, he ends them.

Still, the whole thing ends up with plane tickets and another one of Cap’s lectures, which Ghost spends feeling contrite for all of eight seconds, Soap glaring at him because he wouldn’t dare at Ghost with his recent outburst, and Kyle tunes the majority of it out to focus on the printed destination. He’s been to the States a couple times, fleeting memories that crumple under a sudden surge of homesickness. All of a sudden he’s ten times more exhausted than he was a couple of minutes ago and the non-existent, everpresent stink of smoke makes Kyle want to retch all over the floor. He wants to be in his flat, in sandals and watching tv on his couch, letting the rain outside wipe away the etchings of violence on his psyche. Not being dragged to some nightclub to drink himself into liver poisoning or whatever his team counts as activities. He’s disgusted with himself and more disgusted with the people in the bar, with dark wild eyes and talking too loud to be heroes.

What can’t be helped can’t be helped, and unsurprisingly to everyone in the world besides Kyle, drinking more doesn’t make him feel any better. Soap had managed to drag him and Ghost here originally, the Lieutenant being surprisingly indulgent after their shared near death experience. Indulgent for him, which means he vanished a half hour in and Soap stumbled off to root him out, and Kyle doesn’t think he can get drunk enough to want to follow them without dying. It’s not the worst night out with them in the world, but the mood is too twisted to be enjoyable. It’s all so…too much. Johnny is too Soap and Ghost is too Lieutenant and Kyle isn’t sure where he’s straddling because he can’t keep his eyes from counting everyone in the room while he flirts with the bartender Soap called over on competitive reflex. The lights are too bright and the shadows are too dark and none of it is working to chase away the shadows and filmy taste of blood that lingers in his mouth. He’s disgusted with himself and more disgusted with the people in the bar, with dark wild eyes and talking too loud to be heard.

He’s standing before he realizes he got up, and Kyle isn’t sure if Ghost or Soap are nearby to cover the bill so he tosses a handful of bills on the table and pushes out. The night air is a painfully relieving shock to his senses, wiping away the cloying perfumed air in a burst, and he wants to lean into it and enjoy the cool relief but he adjusts too quickly to it, sobering too fast to make it worth it. He knows the path to the flat he’s been given, and he doesn’t want to do a thing for the rest of the night other than drink water and sleep for the next month.

Kyle’s walking down the street when it happens. He almost thinks he’s hallucinating because nothing like that ever actually happens in real life, it’s never that much like one of the romcoms he has stashed in his flat. It’s exaggerations from people too busy trying to get on their lovers good side and executives trying to sell candy and a story. Love, as he’s found it, has been a quiet understanding fostered gently between people. Held like small embers, close to his chest so they wouldn’t go out. His genuine flames that had been more than hookups were when he was younger, approached and then abandoned after a couple of months. It’s not compatible for him now, the anonymity more appealing than consistency. 

But he looks up, on a whim too fuck he could’ve missed you completely, and it’s a bright flat with the window cracked open enough that when he tries he can hear music, and you’re dancing. It’s nothing graceful, you’re spinning around to some tune he couldn’t name if he tried and you’re holding some ball of fur and singing along poorly and he just make out your smile and if it splits his chest in half, there’s no one to care. Its so domestic, so normal and yet, something in him sparks and roots his feet to the ground. He’s too drunk to try to comprehend it or deny himself the indulgence. If he stands there for an abnormal amount of time looking at you, well, worse things happen on the streets than a gentle appreciation of someone’s beauty. if he took a photo to remember it by, it’s no one’s problem, nothing worth any sort of alarm. His memory of doing so is hazy, and well, no one is very reasonable when they’re drunk, are they? It’s not a crime for him, in his inebriated state, to default to trying to preserve the moment.

Kyle gets back to the flat assigned to him, the air tastes like regret and he kicks his shoes off by the door and chugs tap water for thirty seconds. He doesn’t sleep in the bed, but lays facedown on the couch, shutting his eyes hard, dragging the golden glow of that window into heaven into his sluggish mind. He dreams of his own flat, warm and familiar, filled with a soft laughter that seems to emanate from the walls before his hand slips into another’s.

When he wakes up, it’s not weird of him to look into where he was. Maybe he really liked that bar, or just wanted to call and check in to see if Ghost wasn’t feeling vindictive enough to leave Soap laying around blacked out. If you were looking over his shoulder, you wouldn’t even be able to tell he was getting the address of that apartment building. He was just getting to know the layout of the city, and if that left room for a few logical leaps, it isn’t creepy to not look into something. It isn’t.

[fernandopiastri28]

quand c’est part 8?

I’m literally in love with it

quand c’est - part 9 ~ ln4 x op81

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8

She places her hands on the table in between them, her fingers interlaced, “So, Lando, how are you feeling this morning?” 

Lando chews at his bottom lip, pursing his lips to the side to break the habit, “Uh, yeah- fine,” He nods the question away, wanting to move away from it. Her look at him tightens, untrusting. He knows he shouldn’t lie- there’s no use of trying to get help if he’s not willing to accept it. “I’m tired,” He looks away for a split second, then back at her, “All the time,”

Warnings: sickness, illness, cancer

Lando stands in the doorway of his Monaco apartment, blankly staring in at the surrounding space. It’s weird to be back, as so much of his time is spent bouncing between races and soulless hotel rooms- his own brightly decorated and very personalised place just feels so out of place.

Oscar walks in behind him, shuffling around him cautiously as Lando takes up most of the door’s entrance, just standing completely in the way. “How’re you feeling?” Lando’s pretty much fully over what happened on the plane- the feeling and discomfort practically gone. 

Lando takes a few steps forward, leaning into a wall so he can nudge his shoes off. “Uh, tired,” He hums mindlessly, his eyes bleary and his bones achy. “Kinda need to nap,” A smile stretches across his pink lips, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. 

Oscar nods, rubbing his hand over Lando’s shoulder. He squeezes it slightly, like he needs something to do with his hand. “You just rest up- I’ll unpack everything,” Oscar replies, kissing Lando’s cheek softly as he walks past him and into the living room properly, carrying about three bags on him.

The way he says it makes Lando feel bad- like he’s being rather mocking and snarky. ‘ I’ll unpack everything’, like he’s frustrated that Lando is a useless, lazy slob. No consideration of how sick Lando is right now, just judging him because he feels like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Like he’s the one with all the hardships weighing him down.

He doesn’t understand that Lando would kill to be in Oscar’s position right now.

“Lans?” Oscar’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, “What’s wrong? You’re looking.. very spacey,” He’s careful with the way he speaks to him, like one wrong word will send him teetering off the edge- even just his tone.

Which, technically, is true, because in reality- Oscar wasn’t being passive aggressive or sarcastic when he offered to clean up- he was being genuine in his attempt to help make Lando’s life just slightly easier. 

“I’m okay,” He furrows his eyebrows, pinching the skin between them. “I’m gonna go now, gotta be up early tomorrow,” He forces another smile onto his face. He’s got his first consultation with the doctor in Monaco at 9 tomorrow morning, so he’s gotta be positive and ready for a chat, or the whole ordeal is just going to be far more unpleasant.

Oscar doesn’t look convinced, but he’s a naturally wary looking person anyways. “Alright,” The word brushes past his lips like a forced out noise, used only as a way to not stay silent. “Love you, Lans.” Lando gives a curt smile and mumbles the phrase back in return before scuffling off into their room.

He looks at the bed, then at the ensuite bathroom where the door is slightly ajar. He should take a shower- he hasn’t had one all day and he probably stinks of hospital and airport. Yet, he can’t quite manage it, so he strips down to his boxers and crawls into bed- falling asleep to the noise of Oscar moving around outside.

The next morning is an unpleasant rush to try and get to the appointment. Lando feels like he can’t move, his joints unmoving and his body heavier than a literal F1 car. It’s agony trying to move around, tackling the mundane tasks of getting dressed and brushing his teeth.

Oscar tries to get him to eat something for breakfast, but he pushes away every option. Oscar finally convinces him to have a strawberry protein shake- just something with a solid amount of calories and protein to keep him going for the morning.

The clinic is pleasantly decorated, on the beige side of the colour spectrum, but definitely nice. Lando sits with his left leg crossed over his right, his hands clasped in his lap- Oscar’s right hand in the mix of his own two. They both remain silent, out of respect for other patients and lack of conversation topics.

“Mr Norris?” 

Oscar turns his head to look at Lando, “Do you want me to come in with you?” His voice is barely there, trying as hard as he can to stay practically silent. Lando shakes his head and stands up, wiping his sweaty palms down against his jeans before following the reception lady into a small room. 

The door clicks shut behind him as he takes a seat across from the doctor. She looks mid to late forties, thick rimmed glasses and salt and pepper hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s rather pretty- reminds him of his own mother, who he really wishes was here right now.

 It’s nice always having Oscar around- honestly. He’s the luckiest guy in the world to have him, despite being in the shittest situation. Yet, he misses being a kid, being carefree and cared for by his parents. Sometimes, when it’s really late at night, and he’s buried under masses of blankets with Oscar’s arms loosely wrapped around him- he feels like a kid again. 

It’s embarrassing, but it’s true. Even when he’s got to front up and be brave to the world, pretend he’s okay after a crash or another race incident, even when he’s choking back tears in front of a million cameras, Oscar makes him feel like a kid- in a good way.

“Good Morning, Mr Norris,” The doctor smiles warmly at him, her long nails clacking against her keyboard, “I’m Dr. Button, I’m the oncologist who will be discussing all of your treatment plans with you,” 

Lando leans forward, shifting around in his chair. God, he’s sweating all over, “Morning,” He smiles as warmly as he can muster up to. “You can just call me Lando,” He added. She extended her hand to him, which he shook- a strong and definite one. He wasn’t weak, he was a fucking F1 driver- he had mastered a good handshake that always impressed without fail.

She places her hands on the table in between them, her fingers interlaced, “So, Lando, how are you feeling this morning?” 

Lando chews at his bottom lip, pursing his lips to the side to break the habit, “Uh, yeah- fine,” He nods the question away, wanting to move away from it. Her look at him tightens, untrusting. He knows he shouldn’t lie- there’s no use of trying to get help if he’s not willing to accept it. “I’m tired,” He looks away for a split second, then back at her, “All the time,”

She opens a small spiral binded notebook and a pen, noting something down under where she’s already written his name and a brief summary of his situation. “I know a few of these questions may seem very straight forward and obvious, but I’d just like to ask that you answer all of them truthfully as it helps us to understand you better,” 

He nods, “Of course,” He slides his hands underneath his thighs, the rough material of his jeans rubbing awkwardly against his palms. “Yeah, all good,” He’s speaking for the sake of speaking, for the sake of not seeming incompetent or rude.

“So,” Her pen bleeds ink into the page as it lets it rest on the end of a cursive s. “Would you say the tiredness is physical, or mental?” Lando frowns, unsure of how to answer. She quickly notices his confusion and clarifies, “Is the exhaustion like you really need to sleep and lounge around, or is your mind just weak and over all of this?”

“Both,” He doesn’t give another moment of consideration to the question- it’s so easy. “I- I can’t pick which one I’d say it is more so,”

That statement is clearly worthy of a mention in her notebook. “Would you say you’ve noticed any other typical symptoms associated with brain tumours?” Lando’s embarrassed to say he really hasn’t done that much research into the usual symptoms that come along with his illness. He’s just been putting it off for a while, too scared to find out something that will throw him into a dark pit of depression. 

“Uh, headaches?” That seems like a safe bet and they definitely have been pretty bad ever since he got the diagnosis and the days leading up to it. “I-” He puffs his lips out, blowing a raspberry. Oh god, why is he so awkward all of a sudden. “I don’t really know a whole lot about all of this, admittedly,”

“That’s all alright, Lando. That’s what I’m here for,” She makes a note down in her book, probably about how Lando’s a disorganised wreck who can’t even manage a quick google search to find out about the disease that’s fucking killing him.

He wouldn’t blame her- he is a fucking wreck.

They discuss his medical history next, which is pretty lacklustre. They move on to talking about his actual diagnosis from there, which he makes sure to pay extra attention to. He’s been lacking on giving any attention to his own sickness, leaving that to Oscar. He needs to take things into his own hands now. 

His tumour is operable, but it's obviously cancerous- so it probably won’t just go away after the surgery. He’s probably going to have to go through a fair few rounds of chemotherapy before it’s gone, or atleast small enough. The type of surgery they’re going to be performing is a craniotomy.

The lists of surgery related risks seemed never ending; infection, bleeding, blood clots, seizures (at least more often then he already had), brain swelling, memory problems. 

Paralysis. He’d never be able to drive again.

He’d become a shell of the man he once was- not aspirations, no goals, no will to live.

All throughout the time Dr Button spent discussing recovery, Lando goes blank. He reminds himself to occasionally nod and hum out yes every once in a while, just to keep up the illusion that he’s paying attention. In reality, he can’t quiet wrap his head around fucking paralysis.

Never walking again, never being able to touch Oscar again- feeling Oscar’s touch either. He’d never win another race, and he sure as hell would never win a world championship.

He’d- he’d rather die than see a future like that.

“I- sorry, where’s the bathroom?” He stands up, his heart in his throat and his heart throbbing. She gives a sympathetic look before guiding him to a nearby stall. He has to walk through the waiting hall to get there- meaning he sees Oscar on the way.

He doesn’t have to say a single thing as he walks past, Oscar shoots up, acting off instinct, and follows Lando. They get to the bathroom and Oscar helps Lando onto the floor, ignoring how unhygienic that probably is, before locking the door behind them.

“Breathe, Lando, breathe,” 

Lando has to force it manually, guiding each inhale and exhale, the expanse of his chest with each breath. He has Oscar’s voice in his ear, asking him a million questions, Oscar’s hands on his trembling body, trying to find out what set off this reaction.

It’s a lot of things, it could've been anything- but he’s worse than usual this time.

“I’m gonna die,” Oscar’s features cloud over- dark and unreadable. 

“No you’re not,” He’s insistent, then his voice wavers, “Did she say you would?”

Lando shakes his head furiously, shifting to lean his head on his head, half covering his forehead. “No- she, she just told me about all the- the risks,” He spat out, his body shaking against the cold, marble floor. He wishes he could melt into it, feel nothing for a bit. “I could be fucking paralyzed .”

He meets Oscar’s eyes, who looks confused as if he’s missing something, “That doesn’t mean you’re going to die though,” His fingers brush over Lando’s cheek, his knees awkwardly all up in Lando’s face from how he’s squatting. 

“Paralysis is basically as bad as dying- I’ll never drive again, never walk, never have sex again,” His voice strains with the last one, like someone’s going to hear him say it. 

Oscar turns a bit red, but smiles at the same time. It pisses Lando off- why the fuck isn’t Oscar taking him seriously? “And did she tell you that you’re gonna be paralyzed? ‘Cause the chances are very low- it’s really unlikely, Lando,”

Lando looks away, just buries his face further into Oscar’s shirt. “I don’t wanna be sick anymore,”

Oscar swallows hard, sitting down properly. Fuck, he doesn’t want Lando to be sick anymore either. He lives each hour and each minute in constant fear and anxiety. Lando’s everything to him- he was the boy that Oscar made a constant effort to be the first like on his instagram posts almost a decade ago, he was the boy that Oscar wanted to be more than anything when he was announced as a McLaren driver. He was the boy that Logan would tease Oscar over for having such a fat ‘celebrity crush’ on the youngest 2019 rookie.

Oscar is new for Lando, beginning in 2023 at their first race together. For Oscar, Lando’s been a constant- all the way from 2016.

He doesn’t know what the right thing to say in this situation is, so he stays silent, and presses his lips to Lando’s head.

And for now, it’s enough, it’s enough that they both care enough to stay fighting for one another.

[monsterswithimagines]

Undisclosed Desires - Part 24

Joe Goldberg x female!Reader

Summary: Twenty minutes before he would have met Guinevere Beck, Joe meets you instead. You intruige him, but it will soon become clear that there is something off about you.

Words: 873

Masterlist

The flight to The Netherlands is long and annoying.

There is a fat man next to me, taking up all my space, and a baby in the row behind me is crying the whole time. I can't sleep at any part during the eight hour flight even though I really should, and I can't focus on Sky full of elephants - a book which you recommended to me - either. Also, I feel dehydrated, so I drink a lot of water, but then I just have to pee every ten minutes.

I feel disgusting when I finally get off the plane, and Amsterdam airport sucks. It takes forever until I can get my suitcase and it takes even longer for the one line (one!) that is open at customs to let all the non-European Union travellers through.

But it's all worth it, (Y/n), because when I walk into the departures hall, you are waiting for me.

You don't care that I'm sweaty, or that my shirt stinks. You just about crash into me and hug me. Then you kiss my lips and then my nose and then my lips again. I kiss you back and I forget all about how uncomfortable I am.

“Hey, you,” I say.

“Hi,” you answer, smiling against my mouth.

You have lost weight, even in just the five days I haven't fed you. Don't people usually gain weight when they spend a lot of time with their grandparents?

You're wearing a red woollen hat with a puffball on top that I only know from Nadia's Instagram. It makes you look like a little elf.

“You look cute,” I tell you.

You make a face.

“It's 42 degrees, I'm dying in all this shit.” You gesture down at your attire: an unzipped, light blue puffer coat, a sweater that goes to your knees and skinny jeans. “Thank you, though.” You eye my suitcase. “Lemme take that.”

“Isn't the guy supposed to carry his girlfriend's stuff?”

“You were just on a plane for eight hours, and we're about to get on a train for two more. It's not fun. Let me carry your suitcase for you, mister macho man.”

I laugh, and I let you.

On the train, I should look out the window at all the new things I’ve never seen before. But all I wanna look at is you.

We're sitting in a spot for four people, even though enough spots for two are open. These trains are nothing like the ones in New York. I expected to have to stand uncomfortably for two hours, but this is alright. The seats are nice enough and there isn't too much litter. There are some teenagers loudly playing their music and talking, but when you're used to the New York transit line, that's nothing.

Your legs are stretched sideways. You are typing on your phone and I want to ask who you're texting, or to say anything to you at all, but you are frowning. You are not in the mood for idle questions, so I wait for you to talk to me, first.

Eventually, you put your phone away and smile at me.

“Sorry about that.”

“Is everything okay?”

“It's just my grandparents. They want us to come by their house right away and I thought I already made it clear that wasn't going to happen, but now my grandma's on it again and I'm having real trouble relaying through my uncle that you've just been on a long ass flight.”

“We can go by their house.”

“No.” You shake your head firmly. “I'm going to save you from yourself here. No.”

You know when I just want to please you, and I love that you know to stop me when it's too much.

“Okay then.”

“Trust me. You're going to take a shower and fall into bed and you are going to crash hard. I only just got over the jet lag, myself. It's much worse this way than back.”

Back. You consider New York going back because that's where I am.

“I believe you.”

I want you to bring up Mitch, but you don't.

I ask: “is your mom still not going to be there, by the way?”

A complicated emotion crosses your face. Then, you go carefully blank. You shake your head.

“That's too bad,” I say.

“Apparently she thinks I told her I don't want to talk to her,” you tell me. “I never said anything like that, but it's not the first time she's made stuff like that up.” You shrug. “Anyway, she's not coming if her boyfriend's not allowed to come, and apparently she's not taking the news that you are allowed to come very well, either.”

You cross your arms, and you cross your legs and your body is closed. You are hurting and I don't know what to say to you to make it better.

We are silent for a moment.

“Anyway,” you say, taking a deep breath. “When we get to the AirBnB, you should take a shower and I'll go out and get some food.”

“That sounds great.”

“What're you hungry for?”

“You grew up here. You probably know what's good better than I do.”

“I'll figure it out then.”

[jodithann827]

He Said What?!?

Rated: General / Posted on Ao3 / @today-in-fic

Summary: What would happen if he heard something he wasn’t supposed to?

Huntsville, Alabama

December 18th, 1998

Motel 6

The slow and steady hum of the radiator vibrates across the cramped confines of the not quite dingy, but not quite pristine motel room. The sun, having set hours before and taking what little warmth the day offered with it, left the room dark, save for the two beside lights and the standard desk lamp which emits a soft glow. The sound of water gargling flows through the closed bathroom door while Assistant Director Walter Skinner sits on one bed, waiting to wash the stink of the day off. Shaking his head slowly, he thinks back to the previous morning. His commute had been a breeze, his secretary was finally back after a detestable stomach flu had held her captive the week before, the Director of the Bureau was in a relatively good mood, and all of the agents under his watch were performing as needed. Yes, it had been the perfect start to the day. Perfect until Fox Mulder barreled into his office (he really needs to put a stop to that) spouting off about alien abductions and mysterious disappearances. The day went so well until 9:48. Why he entertained Mulder’s crazy ideas is beyond his comprehension. Well, that’s not entirely true. As strange as Muder is, Skinner genuinely likes him—not that he would ever divulge that tidbit of information—and, crazy or not, Mulder has proven himself to be an exceptional agent.

As Mulder spouted and Skinner listened, removing his glasses ever so slowly and rubbing his temples at the thought of the impending headache, he thought back to the previous weeks. Weeks in which Mulder killed a man and faked his death, only to reemerge and blow one giant metaphorical hole right in the center of a government conspiracy. That’s not to mention the almost-death and then amazing recovery of Agent Scully, which Skinner still isn’t sure he understands. He’s just thankful that Agent Scully is at home recovering, and will be ready to get back to work in a matter of weeks. Unfortunately, he knew he wouldn’t have the same luck taming the beast that is Fox Mulder as Scully would.

When Mulder finally got to the point and asked Skinner to sign off on the 302, Skinner could hear Scully in the back of his head. Don’t let him go, Sir. He shouldn’t go alone, Skinner. You know what’s going to happen if I’m not there. He found himself nodding at her words, though Mulder mistook his nodding as permission granted. He profusely thanked him and, with the look of a kid on Christmas morning, mentioned something about booking the first flight out and going home to pack before Skinner realized what had transpired. So, out of respect for Agent Scully and a concern for Agent Mulder, that’s what brought him to Huntsville; a crazy X-file with an even crazier agent. Of course, Mulder’d booked the trip so quickly that the only vacant motel in the area had one room, which is how Skinner finds himself with a roommate.

The bathroom door opens, tugging Skinner from his thoughts. Mulder walks out, thankfully dressed in plaid pajama pants and an old shirt, as puffs of steam follow him.

“Bathroom’s free,” he announces, striding over to the black duffle bag placed haphazardly on the side table chair. He rummages around for a minute, then steps back and falls onto his motel bed.

“You know I could have handled this one on my own, Sir,” Mulder insists, as he had the whole plane ride to Alabama, the car ride to the local station, and again on the way to the motel. Skinner glances in his direction and makes a weak attempt to raise his eyebrow like Scully does, which Mulder of course doesn’t notice..

“Two days, Mulder. I’ll give you two days,” Skinner responds, once again shaking his head, as he gets up and departs for the bathroom.

***

Later, as they lay in their beds, not quite ready for sleep, Skinner looks up at the pale white ceiling of the motel room and sighs. “I know you could have handled this on your own, Mulder,” he admits. Even though it’s dark and he isn’t looking in his direction, he knows Mulder is smiling.

“You promised Scully you’d go with me,” Mulder half asks, half states. Skinner chuckles, or at least as much of a chuckle as he’s willing to emit in front of an agent. “I understand, sir,” Mulder assures him. “I know she worries when she can’t be there to have my back. I know I sometimes make rash decisions…” he pauses when Skinner huffs. “Okay, maybe a lot of the time. Thank you, sir, for being willing to come with me instead of denying the case. I appreciate it, and I know Scully does as well.”

“How’s she doing?” Skinner asks, carefully, as he doesn’t like to speak of agents who aren’t present.

He’s been concerned about her since her remission. She called him a week and a half after her discharge, indicating she was fine and ready to be back at work. Skinner had to bite his tongue from saying something he would regret, like Have you completely lost your mind, and then told her in no uncertain terms that she is not to grace the doors of the Hoover building for at least another four weeks, and only then with a doctor's note. She’s still so weak, physically. Even when she returns, he knows she won’t be ready to be in the field right away. He makes a mental note to check for any upcoming conferences he can send them to upon her return, maybe ease her back into work.

“She’s getting stronger every day. I’m pretty sure she kicked her sweet and well-meaning mother out of her house by the second week of her recovery,” Mulder laughs.

Skinner is amazed and wonders how the agents accomplish anything, being two of the most stubborn individuals he has ever had the pleasure of meeting.

“That’s good,” he tells him, then adds, “It’ll be good to have her back. Well, goodnight, Agent Mulder.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

***

Hours later, Skinner awakens to a sound. Unable to identify it at first, he lies motionless, straining his ears. He hears it again. After a few moments, he realizes it’s Mulder, whimpering in his sleep. Recognizing the agent is dreaming and they aren’t in imminent danger, he rolls to his side and tries to go back to sleep. As he’s about to doze off, Mulder’s whimpers become more frenzied.

“Please, no,” Skinner hears from the next bed. He raises his head a bit, checking to see if Mulder has woken up, but the man’s closed eyes and pained expression assures Skinner that he is very much asleep. Unsure of how much longer Mulder’s dream will go on, Skinner attempts to sleep, but is incapable.

“No… can’t. Please… understand,” whines Mulder. Skinner wonders what is going on in that brain of his. He’s using a voice Skinner has never heard. He sounds scared, young, unsure.

“Mm lost,” Mulder continues, and Skinner hears a hitch in his voice. He wonders if Mulder will start crying in his sleep. Maybe he’s dreaming about his sister.

“Without you,” Mulder states.

Nope, Skinner immediately knows who Mulder is thinking about, and he longs for sleep. Of course, he’s suspected it for years. But without evidence, he never wanted to make a big deal out of it. He knows there are tons of wagers and bets floating around the bureau regarding the status of Mulder and Scully’s relationship, but he usually doesn’t pay too much attention to those things.

“Need you,” Mulder's voice pulls Skinner from his thoughts. “Best friend… No die. No happen”.

Skinner realizes Mulder is thinking back to the cancer. He wants to wake him, tell him it’s all okay; Scully is fine and she’s not going anywhere. But he also doesn’t want to startle him or cause him any embarrassment, though there isn’t anything to be embarrassed about, at least not yet.

“Promise me,” he mumbles, followed by a string of gibberish from Mulder’s dream-induced mouth. “Scully… please…love you… me.” Skinner prays sleep takes him that very instant. He knows more than he needs to, more than he should. Apparently, something in Mulder’s dream has calmed him, which Skinner doesn’t care to know, nor does he want to speculate. He realizes Mulder’s breathing has evened out and he is slumbering once more.

Unfortunately, Skinner is now wide awake and can’t get his agents out of his mind. Now that he knows, even though he tells himself there really isn’t anything to know, he quickly decides not to do anything about it. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, as much of a pain in the ass as they—well, he— can be, are his best agents and their dynamic is something not to be messed with. He rolls over again, imploring that he’ll forget every word by morning, but knowing the sounds are burned into his brain forever.

***

Skinner wakes the next morning, wishing and hoping it was a dream, but upon seeing Mulder exit the bathroom, dressed in his suit and ready for the day, he knows it was anything but.

“How did you sleep, sir?” asks Mulder, a look of complete innocence on his face.

“I never sleep as well on the road as I do at home,” Skinner replies, sitting up and stretching. The morning sun is attempting to peek through the drawn curtains. Well, now or never, Skinner thinks to himself. “Hey, Mulder,” he says, his voice strong, but slightly tentative, as if testing the waters. Mulder looks in his direction, eyebrows knit, waiting for him to speak. Oh to hell with it, he thinks. “Mulder, did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Mulder’s eyebrows reach so high they almost touch the top of his forehead as his eyes bulge from their sockets. I’ll take that as a no, Skinner muses. Mulder stares at his boss for a minute, and Skinner almost feels sorry for him seeing the terrified look of pure dread adorning his face.

“What did I, uh… did I say anything, uh…” he fumbles over his words, trying to find the right ones to ask.

Skinner smiles slightly and decides that as much fun as this could be, he’ll go easy on Mulder, just this once. “You said a few words and mumbled a bit. I’m surprised no one has mentioned it to you before. I just thought you should know.”

Lifting himself from the bed, he staggers toward the bathroom to get ready for whatever this ridiculous day has in store for him. He turns slightly to look at the younger man. They’re idiots, these agents of his, but they’re his idiots, and for now, Mulder's secret is safe with him. He’ll be ready whenever Mulder feels free enough to talk about it.

[asterjennifer]

Hide and Seek

Joseph x Reader

Fluff

750 Words

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You sprinted down the hall to ensure he couldn't see where you went.

For some reason, the tingling sensation inside your veins' a different feeling from anything you've ever experienced.

Sometimes you wondered what happened in your life for it to turn out this way. Was it fate? Did something like fate even exist..?

Your hands clenched around the corner in order to stop yourself from slipping. It's softer in noise. Not that he would catch you.

All of it took place quicker than you're able to process. One day you're on vacation, enjoying the cool weather of England, and the next you sat in a plane on your way to New York.

A huff escaped your lips, which you tried to tone down by placing the hand over your mouth. Every single sound's going to give away your whereabouts.

Meeting him wasn't on your bingo card. Nor learning about his crazy friends and family. Life handed you a ticket to a new chapter without your awareness. And you'd taken it.

Your knees cracked after kneeling. Cursing the volume of it, you went back to peeking through the keyhole. Hiding in the storage room's not the most creative, but certainly smart.

These tiny walls held a lot of stuff. Some of it you didn't even recognize. Like someone collected trash off the streets, just to place them here. At least it didn't stink.

That faithful day, when you ran into him, the feeling hit you immediately. He looked into your eyes for a short second, offered a slick smile, saw you blush and decided to ask you out to a coffee.

Later you learned that it's quite uncommon for him to simply ask girls out on a date. Yet he did with you regardless. Did it make you lucky?

The shadow falling over the keyhole caused your breath to hitch. Swearing you're able to smell his scent, you crawled back a little. If he'd look through the small hole, you'd be busted.

Whatever the reason had been – you learned in a short period of time how witty albeit insidious his character truly was.

The doorknob wiggled with the crackling sound of wood. Your heart stopped beating as you only could taste the bitter defeat on your tongue.

He told you crazy stories about his adventures. Things so out of place that no normal person would believe a single fraction. Yet you never once doubted the truthfulness of them.

Vampires, Evil, Breathing that controlled energy of the sun. It's insane enough for a person to bring him into a psychiatry.

Your nerves tingled after the door was opened. Eyes stared up into the one's of the person who'd finally found you. Nobody moved an inch.

It's like danger was drawn to him. Apparently his dad died when he was young. But his grandfather, he was the person where the whole curse began with. Or was it is great-grandfather? Sometimes you confused elements of the story.

»I found you«, he said and leaned the arm onto the doorframe. »You thought you can hide? From me?«

With the sound of your butt hitting the ground, you finally let go all the tension. A shrug's the only answer you had.

He raised an eyebrow before laughing. The sound's rather contagious, therefore you joined him in less volume. But now that the hide and seek game was over, it indeed felt funny.

You then stretched your poor legs. »I thought maybe!« the confidence in your voice came out.

»But you always find me under ten minutes. It's almost like you cheat.«

He crossed his arms, a little frown on his face. »That's such a cruel allegation, (N). I'm just damn good at games.«

The little sparkle around him made you roll your eyes affectionately. You held out your hand afterwards. He wasted no second to help you back to your feet.

Being closer to his body, you saw a slight hint of red on his cheeks. Probably from running after you. So much for being effortlessly good at hide and seek. It had you smirk regardless.

»Alright then, you won.« You let go to brush past him with a smile. »Time to go back and clean the kitchen.«

»Ugh... When did my life go from slaying Vampires to unloading the dishwasher?«

»Since you decided to live with your partner, you dumbass. Now let's go, haha!«

[forasecondtherewedwon]

lullaby for a rottweiler

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rating: G Word Count: 1116

Summary: There isn't exactly a Protector's Handbook with a chapter on what to do if you find yourself trapped in Cerberus's mouth, so Grover decides to tackle the problem the best way he knows how: by singing the consensus song.

What Grover never mentioned to the others—what he never felt he had to confess might be a better way to say it—is that there’s a reason he was glad they didn’t take a plane to California. Another reason. A reason that has nothing to do with the three of them spending the flight huddled anxiously in the bathroom until lightning bolts blast the wings off and Percy has to save them with airplane toilet water. Which Grover, who may have dreamed that exact scenario on the train to St. Louis, doesn’t doubt Percy could have done. For the record.

The other reason he was happy not to take a plane is turbulence. He’s super not into it. Rough travel can be fun when it’s his hooves over uneven ground. It’s not even the worst, in terms of messing with his inner ears, to be on a bus during a Fury attack. Or on a train with a rampaging Chimera. A car being rammed by a Minotaur! If Grover were to explain, if he had to tell Annabeth and Percy, he has quite the portfolio of turbulent travel situations to use as proof that he’s fine 99% of the time.

Boy, it really feels like the gods are laughing at him for managing to skip the plane only to end up bouncing along in one of Cerberus’s three mouths.

This is a heavy dog, and he takes big leaps. Grover is lofted up against the solid roof of the dog’s mouth, then dropped back down on its warm, rubbery tongue. And the whole place stinks. Hades can’t get in here with a toothbrush every once in a while? It smells like Cerberus has been using the Styx as his own personal water bowl. (The scent is misery with base notes of the abandonment of all hope.) Numbed by the stench, all Grover can do at first is subject himself to a mental montage of the greasy diner food and convenience store snacks he’s been living on. Not even the good stuff, like soda cans and tins of peanuts with the peanuts dumped out.

What breaks through his fixation on the contents of his churning stomach is one word: bumpy.

Because he’s not really big on self-pity, Grover scrambles to his knees between bounds and does his best to brace himself inside Cerberus’s mouth just enough to feel like he has a little bit of control. Hey, he feels less nauseous already!

“Oh golly!” he shout-sings, and immediately regrets it; Cerberus cocks his head at the noise and jerks to a stop. Grover cringes as he’s tossed against the dog’s teeth.

“Sorry,” he says, softer. “I guess six ears are more sensitive than two, huh?”

Cerberus’s answering whine vibrates Grover bone-deep before the dog starts moving again—a jaunty walking pace that’s ramping back up into a full-out run.

“Let’s try this again,” Grover says to himself, getting situated between tongue and palate.

He clears his throat.

“Oh, golly, the road’s gettin’ bumpy ’cause I got me…” He considers the dark, reeking cavern in which he crouches. “…a hound dog who just won’t slow down. Oh, dear. When the heads are gettin’ bouncy, the trick to settled tummies is…”

Is??? Grover thinks, because it’s a lot harder to come up with rhymes when you’re lurching down the bank of the River Styx in something’s mouth than it is when you’re packing a bag at camp based on what you think your co-questers are most likely to forget.

“…a trip to singin’ town,” he picks up.

Percy and Annabeth never let him get to verse two (where you say nice things about each other, building goodwill on the path to consensus). Cerberus hasn’t spat Grover out or tried to swallow him, so, honestly, after having his friends interrupt his debut performance, he’s taking it as encouragement to keep singing. He claps a hand against his opposite arm steadily until the words come to him. It’s weird but either he’s matched his claps to Cerberus’s footfalls or the dog’s running to his beat.

“Oh, Cerby, you’re good at bein’ grumpy, you make a great guard dog, your fur’s all black and brown.” The last one’s more of an observation than a compliment, and Grover winces, hoping Cerberus is more affected by his happy tone than the exact words.

“Good boy,” Grover sings, not meaning it. “You don’t need to run fast. (In fact, slower’s prob’ly better.) A trip to singin’ town.”

His eyes widen as, miraculously, Cerberus slows. Grover lets his clapping trail off. The dog stops, he sinks. Though it feels like this mouth-elevator has reached the ground floor, he’s not opening up to let Grover out. Suddenly, a snore rumbles through him. Seems like it’s probably now or never; Grover wriggles out between Cerberus’s huge teeth, getting a thorough slime bath as he pushes past the dog’s slobbery jowls.

He's relieved to see Percy, but he directs his first words at Cerberus: “You are a bad, bad dog!”

And he is a good, good singer, he thinks, even after he realizes Annabeth has literally scaled the side of Hades’ hound to give the dog neck scritchies. And maybe Percy helped too, fearlessly standing his ground in the path of the charging dog. Three heads are really better than one! Grover glances sideways at Cerberus. Three heads are better in some circumstances.

There’s not much time, so he listens to the others’ plan, using the shoes to lift Percy off the ground and fly him up the cliff. But the dog’s getting restless; Grover can hear growling noises that do not indicate peaceful slumber. After a harrowing minute of separation and a squeak of the red ball, Annabeth joins them at the top of the cliff. She launches the ball and Cerberus gives chase. The three of them stand there for a moment, breathing hard. But Grover just can’t keep it in.

“I GAVE YOU COMPLIMENTS!” he shouts after the dog. “YOU DON’T JUST ATTACK A GUY AND HIS FRIENDS RIGHT AFTER THE CONSENSUS SONG!”

Still outraged, he turns to his friends.

“What was that thing the Oracle said about betrayal again? Percy?”

But Percy isn’t listening, so Grover looks to Annabeth for support. The scrunch of her eyebrows and the slant of her mouth say she has no idea why he’s bringing up the consensus song right now (and why would she? Grover doesn’t mind that a ride in Cerberus’s mouth is one part of this quest he experienced alone). Regardless, Annabeth pats him on the shoulder.

“Yuck,” she says, withdrawing her hand and staring at her drool-slicked palm.

Grover sighs.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

[spamtoon]

DCRC PKNA Week 11--Silicon Time!

thankfully our little book club break has meant i've had enough time to rest, get into what is potentially a new hyperfix, and feel motivated to read paperinik! ...and um ducks on the road. at some point that's not now.

you know what. im feeling ultra relaxation for this issue let's go to the cove. nevermind i got distracted and entered the pizza parlor

angus fangus cosplay

starting off and first of all i have to say dear lord. the airport experience is indeed horrendous as someone who has been on an airplane recently the sign "clogged toilets delay flights" baffled me. like i understand why but im also like okay. the toilet is clogged. there are two toilets per plane surely the line woudlnt get that long

im gonna be real i thought big nosed human guy was gonna be exclusive to silicon. like i didnt think he would just. also show up here

the idea that angus fangus hasn't had a day off makes me wonder like. was the new zealand thing last issue technically a work trip despite the fact he was there to save his tribe. because if so that rules

it's nice getting to see scrooge again despite the fact he's probably gonna be written out of the story. i missed him

thought he was wiping his sweat with his money for a second here i'm goign to be so honest. and in the second panel he's sillouetted for no reason it amuses me. i mean i know why hes threatening to ruin donald and uno's situationship but he doesn't know he's doing that

i love you chilling in purple shirt donald

i love their little dumb mirco-bickers. they're so domestic

rip to whatever italian pun was lost in translation here. unless there was no pun and donald is just like ughhhhhhhhhh because he does not care

hi little drink serving robot... these things did exist in the 90s but they were very very basic and mostly for flash. which is why it would absolutely get on the news when the only other news is its hot. donald's pose and uno's response is also so cute im. who would have expected comic silicon would have Uno Content

ohohohohoho... oh no, how tragic! how tragic it would be if a certain robot enjoyer skipped to the next town over for this specific day--nevermind he's on vacation too he's at the supervillain convention in florida (SORRY)

cog these car panels are cool... i am once again praising paperinik action moments

rest in peace all the computers at duckburg technofinancial im glad they at least got a viking funeral

it feels so werid to see angus fangus in a tank top and shorts. he belongs in a trenchcoat. and i just

the way he gazes into the distance makes this panel feel so much more contemplative than it actually is i love it

i love how the evronians have a whole division that's job is just. to deal with xadhoom. who is presumably killing evronians off camera all the time

i hope its a story where its the computer in the tower that did it like we saw in the start but he's just messing around. he's just like hi uno!!! :) remember when ducklair made you i was there when you were born uno and he's like oh BROTHER this guy STINKS !

:// i know the computer literally said the evronians might be useful but like i saw computer wanting to use the spore hatchlings and i was so dissappointed. especially disappointed that he wants to shut uno down. i think. at least i assume its a computer hence the name silicon if it was silicon and it wasnt even a computer there was a guy in front of it i would be SO dissappointed but im pretty sure its the first ducklair sentient technology at this point

i have absolutely zero thoughts about this robot rhyno thing its just an important enough detail i have to bring it up. actualy i do have a thought and its look at him. he's so fucking stupid looking. neutral connotation ITS FUCKING DUE AGAIN? FUCK OFF DUE. i gaslighted myself into thinking we were gonna get a different computer but no. okay. alright

of all the villains to figure out donald's secret identity im so. two. of course. not that he's going to get it i dont know if they'd go that route but

im gonna be so real after his introduction issue i fulyl expected them to never use due again

this panel si so dramtic (i LOVE the rainbow windows) but out of context its just like TWO !!!! im so mad

i know its the 90s but i like how it was confirmed later in ducktales 2017 if due did launch donald like that it wouldn't have done anything as long as he thought about the triplets (or maybe uno in this case) hard enough. our bravest man on two worlds... (yes i know they're different donalds)

IM SO MAD donald just kinda handwaving away the duck avenger's inveolvement. they hate each other so much

im so mad the way he's just. at channel 00 news now. due and the evronians deserve to be fighting each other for a while i think

and that was silicon!! i enjoyed seeing more of uno but i was disappointed the computer turned out to be. due again. but maybe im just a little loser who always wants a new robot OOPS i miss lyla lay hopefulyl we see her next issue considering we're going back to channel 00. hoepfully she had a really good vacation while this was all giong on

[pretentious-art-love]

Film Reviews #11 - Memories

Memories an anthology film with three anime shorts released in 1995. They are all a bit more style than substance, but I did like some things in each one of them that I want to document.

Magnetic Rose lasts 40 minutes and is an a-bit-on-the-nose film about memories. Two astronauts find a distress signal in a wandering ship and they decide to look for survivors. Sometimes you feel the film is spelling out things way too much too you, you see where things are going and say, okay, I get it, the woman is stuck on her memories, that was enough! But there are lots amazing sequences and scenes that get close to the plane of surrealism. This one reminds me a bit of the ideas that Solaris, the soviet movie of 1972 explores, like exploring what you appreciate more, a fake memory you can hold onto, or the real thing. The difference is that Solaris is a very dry and slow film, closer to something like Kubrick, and Magnetic Rose does it with a lot of style and pyrotechnics, there are some wonderful animations here in there even when I found the woman of Magnetic Rose hard to sympathize with at all.

8/10

Stink Bomb is my favorite one and that's because its hilarious! An oblivious guy with the flu takes some experimental pills from his boss' office (that were intended to help soldiers with biological warfare) but the pills react with the flu shot he just had that morning and turn him into a weapon of mass destruction that kills everyone around him with his stinky smell! A lot of destruction ensues! It is basically a comedic version of Akira, oh and the music is fantastic too.

9/10

Cannon Fodder is the shortest of them all clocking at 22 minutes and it doesn't have too much plot aside showing the every day life of a boy and his father in a city where they are all working and studying to launch a cannon towards an enemy we never get to know. The ritual of launching the canon is also shown in excruciating detail. There are two things that I love in this short, the music and the coloring. Like.... dude, just like at that, it's just a bunch of industrial machinery, but that red contrasts the dead green and yellow tones of the rest of the city, just look at it, it's so good, so so good! The art style is also more designed to look like a painting than a contemporary anime and it has some resemblance of... I'm not sure, soviet cartoons? Either way, it looks very stylish and the coloring is spectacular.

Now, the reason I think Cannon Fodder is still worth watching is the music, like sure, I have saw a lot of criticisms about it and how it was trying to be deep without giving that much of a meaning to its anti war message, but the music is so good, it is almost like a very cool music video and I feel that if they went further with the music direction it would have come up as even more original and special. The music sounds out of a carnival at times, it has so many mischievous and bright tunes filled with joy which you will imagine contrast a lot with the setting. There are is also a more atmospheric piece that is hard to describe and I really enjoyed too.

One thing that also stuck with me is its depiction of the influence that has environment. Like sure the whole canon metaphor is a bit too plain, but I think it's works more than just an anti war statement. It works also as a statement about the construction of environments. Look at the kid in that short, he only knows the city working for the canons, his dream is to be able to push the canon button one day, he is nothing more than canon fodder. It is something that makes me terribly afraid because it makes me think, am I just a result of the things that have been given to me? How much are my dreams and aspirations built based on the objectives of the country and/or environment where I live and was raised in? I could very well be fodder, just for something else that I am not noticing, because that's all what the world that contains me shows me it is possible to do.

7/10

[toomuchracket]

i just typed out like 14 ross hcs/requests but i’m gonna take a deep breath and not annoy tf out of u so. here’s one

something a little angsty a little hurt/comfort he’s just having a rough time on tour like maybe he’s tired it’s catching up to him and he strikes me as the type of person who’s guilty that he’s sad (“i’m supposed to be the happy friend” type beat) and when he calls you hes just ugh i’m getting old it’s getting hard i just wanna come home to you point is he’s just so DOWN and you feel so bad you can’t do anything about it and then you and the guys plan a surprise visit for you to wherever in the world they currently are and you just. comfort him. maybe bring some home To him yanno

i answered quite a similar vibe here but i didn't quite go into detail on ross talking to you so i'll do that! so he's got your candle lit and he's waiting for you to finish work to call him - as soon as he picks up and says hi, you know something's up. and you're like "baby what is it?" and ross is like "... i'm just so drained, love. and not just from playing shows with not a lot of time off in between - i miss you so much. have half a mind to just get on a flight and come home tomorrow". and you're so sad for him and shocked - ross would never leave tour like that, he loves his job and he loves the boys, so you know something's definitely up. you're like "have you not told the boys how you're feeling? i'm sure they'd help you feel better" and ross says "nah, i haven't. s'usually me doing that to them, i think they'd probably freak out if i needed reassurance haha" (a mirthless laugh), and you're like "oh baby, i wish i could be there" and ross sighs like "i wish for that too, more than anything. but i'll be ok, my love - anyway, tell me about your day, distract me a bit". so you do, and ross genuinely does cheer up a bit, but after you hang up to go to sleep he just sits on his bed and cries a little when the boys find him. and they know something's up - when matty sends you the cute pic of the boys the next day he also says "hey, don't wanna upset you but ross is proper struggling with being away. had your candle burning the whole day yesterday" and you reply like "ah fuck he told me he was down but i didn't think it was this bad. i hate it", and matty's like "look i know you guys agreed it wouldn't make sense for you to come on tour, but i think it's the best thing for him. up for that?" and you agree. you fly out the next week and jamie meets you at the airport and drives you to the venue so you're there to surprise ross when he gets there; you sit in the green room with a coffee, grinning as you hear the boys' voices increase in volume as they near the door, and wave as they all enter like "surprise!". and ross genuinely tears up when he sees you and just runs to grab you and hug you tightly - you're like "sorry if i stink i literally just got off a plane" and ross laughs and he's like "i'm lowkey sick of your perfume anyway i've been burning it in candle form for weeks", and you're jokingly like "oi!" and ross giggles like "never gonna be sick of the taste of your lips though. may i?" and you nod and he just kisses you so deeply (george is in the back oohing like a 12 year old but everyone else is cheering). and you just kinda sit with ross as he preps for the show, and stand at his side of the stage as he performs - he's so much more relaxed and happier with you there cheering him on and blowing kisses, and i think he doesn't let go of you at all from the minute the show ends <3

[orangeboulevard]

The Fruit (Oneshot)

Day three gangsters!! Actual smut (near the end), still ocs. We may have lost the plot kinda? we started ranting about the elite Dynamic: spy x spy, older male x younger male Content: public sex -> hold the moan moment -> hate sex Word Count: 1004

Objective: 'Enter the event. Locate the Person Of Interest. Dispatch the Person Of Interest without drawing attention. Leave event.'

Simple enough, Agent Red thought dismissively, he didn't even have to ponder what was meant by 'dispatch'. 

Red fished out a lighter from the pocket of his rented tuxedo, a vintage style: longer coat-tails, figure framing waistcoat and trousers, the whole nines. He flicked open the top of the silver box, the flame was steady as he held it to the paper, and he watched as it swiftly burnt up. No evidence, a swift trip in and out, and no witnesses to testify, a type of job he'd done plenty of times before, he really should think about retiring soon. 

His pace and strut were casual as he approached the event, an exclusive party, the elite kind. The historical New Orleanian manor was an aged white, it centred acres of rolling planes of grass, meticulously trimmed trees framed the long driveway, and the walkway was lit by olden Victorian street lamps. It was a handsome house, this kind of handsome in New Orleans almost certainly made you wonder if it had once been a plantation, the answer every time is yes.

Enough about architecture, Red chided himself, he should be concerning himself with blending in with the staff, his agency had supplied him with a matching uniform suit; his dark eyes followed a valet entering the building through a side door, too easy. 

The interior design is even more impressive than the high pillars and French windows of the outside: an Art Decó touch, large swooping parlour palm trees and monstera plants drape over the large sofas, with the warm tones and colours of a Tuscan building, the place was lighted by a central chandelier, one with actual candles that cast a golden flickering glow, and other dim lights line the floor. The elite kind of party, indeed.

He is aware of a live performance further within, the main lady's voice is sugar-sweet. The party go-ers are either standing around game tables or draped over the furniture, cigarettes and alcohol in hand as they idly chat with each other. Beneath the glam, there is a smell of rot. It permeates the air in the way these people are blissfully unaware of what's going to happen tonight, what goes on outside their bubbles even, ignorance. Their lives are the stinking fruit of the age, past their ripeness, transformed from what they used to be and what they used to represent. When did we as a people make space for rotten fruit? 

It's almost too perfect when he spots the Person Of Interest excusing himself to go to the restroom. Red should be suspicious, he is. He feels the gaze of another on the back of his neck. Red has learnt to see through his peripherals, you do this job long enough and you will, the watcher isn't aware that he's seen him. Michelangelo. Great. That tricky bastard. 

He's eyeing him from the lower floor, over a flute of champagne, over-indulgent bastard. He places it down and starts to make his way up the grand winding staircase. Red needs to move now. His steps are silent and calculated, he has control over every cell of his body. He has control. He will complete this mission-

Just as Red went to push open the door to the bathroom, skillfully picking the lock, the thunder crack sound of a gun echoes in the manor. Shit. There's silence before the screams start. There's no salvaging this, Red thinks before absconding through a nearby window. His feet just hit the ground when another body collides into him, they tumble down a small hill into the gardens of the house. 

He finds himself on top of Michelangelo, wild roses frame the other, his youthful face is flushed and wide-eyed before a devilish grin paints his lips, and boyish dimples line his face, "Hey there, Red."

"That was you, wasn't it?"

The younger male shrugs coyly. 

"Okay. I want you to listen closely to me when I say this," Red whispers into his ear, "Pull something like that again and I will kill you." The grin on Michelangelo's face falters at that. "I will hand deliver your head to your agency. Don't fuck with me. You're just a little boy playing games you don't understand."

 A deadly glint settles into the other's eyes and that smirk returns to his face, "You'd miss me too much."

"Wanna bet?"

"What was it you said last time I saw you?" Michelangelo's thigh comes to press against Red's crotch, "The best sex you've ever had? Oh, I'm sure you'll miss me." 

Red scoffs, his features contorted in thinly restrained rage.

"You look good in this," Michelangelo purrs, his hands snaking their way up Red's waistcoat. 

It's not long before Red is fucking him, right there in the dirt and flowers, their own garden of Eden, even if just for tonight. His hips snap into Michelangelo, a bruising and furious pace, he's given up growling at the other man to keep quiet- the distant sounds of police are an ever-looming threat- and instead swallows his cries and mewls with biting kisses. Michelangelo's nails run down his back like he's trying to rip him open, he wants Red to hurt. 

His legs wrap around the older man, tears starting to form at how hard he's fucking him; in a twisted sense, Michelangelo is proud, he's the one who managed to make Red like this, a man considered the epitome of blasé. Red leans back, his hands coming to wrap around Michelangelo's throat, pulling him impossibly further onto his dick. Michelangelo's eyes squeeze shut, the tears spilling down his cheeks, his brows are knitting together, and he's clenching around Red. 

Red leans down and licks the tears up.