#swaddle and robe set

[comfymommy]

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[queenlucythevaliant]

We see him come and know him ours

Russia: "Carol of the Russian Children," traditional // Kenya: The Nativity, Elima Njau // France: "Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella," Nicolas Saboly // Haiti: Madonna and Child, Ismael Saincilus // Australia: "The Three Drovers," William James // China: Tryptic by Lu Hongnian // Canadian/Algonquian: "Huron Carol," Jean de Brébeuf

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[adore-laur]

SKIN

— a blurb from the dadrry universe 🤍

——

Harry's skin must be woven with threads of magic. There has to be an otherworldly magnetism entwined in his veins, bestowing captivating warmth on anyone who touches him. Or perhaps there's an underlying spell coursing through his bloodstream, effortlessly soothing deep-rooted aches and vociferating cries. 

It's been said before, but it bears repeating: Harry is a natural when it comes to being a lover. He has been by your side through every trial and tribulation life has cruelly thrown at you. He has willingly taken your pain during grief-stricken times and selflessly shared the burden. You've navigated the rollercoaster years of dating, marriage, and parenthood with him, all the while watching him adapt to each role with unwavering patience and grace. 

Witnessing him be a dad makes you firmly believe it's what he was made to do. It was written in the stars.

When you wake from a deep slumber—a long and uninterrupted one at that—the house smells like blueberries and homemade bread. Well, if four hours of sleep count as uninterrupted. You'll be the first to admit that you haven't missed the lack of sleep involved in caring for a newborn. 

You slowly make your way to the kitchen, surprised by how quiet it is except for the sizzling sounds of breakfast being cooked. Your tired eyes regard Harry swaying by the stovetop, a spatula in his grasp, and his one-week-old baby girl cradled in his opposite arm. She's wide awake, her swaddled body cuddled perfectly in the crook of his elbow as she mesmerizingly stares at her dad skillfully take a loaf of bread out of the oven. He has on his favorite fleece robe with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair— that's getting quite long—is flatly pushed back due to him restlessly tossing and turning all night. 

It's baffling how whenever Harry holds his daughter, she's completely content as long as her skin touches his. You don't quite understand it. You're well aware that skin-to-skin contact is essential, but it's wondrous how much she loves it with him already. 

You stand still and watch him for a few more moments, thinking about how, nine months ago, you observed him from the same spot as he made pancakes with his eldest daughter. Back when the baby he's holding now was just a tiny bump he would fawn over, growing rounder each month and getting plenty of kisses each day. 

Eventually, you refocus on the present and shuffle over to where your sleep-deprived husband is yawning and shutting the oven door with his hip. The both of you got a dreadfully short amount of sleep last night, but you think it isn't so bad when mornings look like they do with him. 

"Hello," you say, making your presence known before appearing next to him.

Harry loosens a golden-brown blueberry crepe with the spatula and sets it on one of three plates. "Morning, sweetheart." 

"When did she wake up?"

"'Bout an hour ago," he replies, his voice hoarse. "Just little whimpers, so I took her to the backyard for fresh air. She told me she wanted to make breakfast with me." 

You amusedly tilt your head to the side. "Oh, she told you that? I didn't know you could translate her baby sounds." 

"I can, actually. She also told me she wanted milk." He looks over at you and raises his eyebrows. "Pronto, preferably." 

"Here, give me her. She's definitely hungry." You take her from him and kiss her soft, munchable cheeks. "Thank you for making food, by the way." 

"That's my job," he says melodically as you walk over to the couch. You sit and slide the strap of your silk pajama top down, then remove the white swaddle from the baby's body. She instantly latches onto your nipple, causing you to wince as a dull ache initiates. 

As you feed her and zone out, you hear Harry plate the food and open the fridge several times before you sense him coming up behind you. He leans his torso over the back of the couch and rests his chin on your head. Breastfeeding has never been uncomfortable around him since you know he's appreciative of what a woman's body can supply and how draining it is to be the supplier. Often, like right now, he will silently observe his daughter fall into a state of tranquility as she suckles. It's beautiful to nurture another human using your body, and even though it's terribly time-consuming, the special bond formed during it is always worth it. 

"I'm going to get dressed," Harry says after a while, squeezing your arm.

You turn your head and pucker your lips for the first kiss of the day. He grants you several soft pecks that taste like blueberries, each with a satisfied hum, before leaving a long, dramatic kiss on his daughter's head.

A few minutes later, he comes back just as you finish breastfeeding. He's wearing a patterned jacquard-knit sweater and loose denim jeans with ripped holes near his knees. He stands before you and takes his baby girl from your arms, kissing and blowing raspberries on her full belly until she's screeching happily. 

"Who's ready for tummy time, hmm? Is it you?" She coos with a toothless smile, and Harry pretends to eat her cheeks. "I think it's you." 

He gently sets her on the blanket on the living room floor, then lies on his stomach next to her. You grab your phone from the coffee table and snap a quick picture of the sweet memory. 

After five minutes of encouragement and tracing every feature of her face, Harry picks her up and burps her. Meanwhile, you wander into the kitchen, grab the plates, and then slide the patio door open with your shoulder. You head out to the backyard, with Harry following closely behind. You're not too worried about your other daughter since she'll definitely be cranky if you wake her up this early. 

As you set the plates down and sit in the wicker lounge chair, Harry passes the baby over and settles beside you, chewing and swallowing a bite of bread. He says, "I was thinking of going to the beach later and swimming with the girls. The water is pretty calm today." 

You nod and pick at your crêpe. "Yeah, go ahead. I'll probably take a nap or something." 

"You don't want to come with us?" he asks, scrunching his eyebrows. It's gorgeous out." 

"I don't really feel like swimming. I'm not feeling my best." 

He leans closer to you and places his palm on your forehead. "What do you mean, love? You feelin' okay?" 

"I'm just tired," you lie partially. "Don't worry about me." 

"Hey, look at me." He takes your hand in his. "I'm going to worry about you. You just gave birth a week ago. Gotta tell me how you're feeling mentally and physically. Otherwise, I don't know how to help you." 

"I know, but I swear I'm—" A fussy cry cuts you off, and you sigh as you start rocking the baby. Harry soothingly massages the back of your neck, leaving a comforting kiss behind your ear. 

"We'll talk about it later, okay?" he murmurs. 

You just weakly smile and hope he'll forget about it. 

——

The sun has just begun to set, and the evening sky is a bright, beautiful orange that makes the ocean glimmer. All of you are on the beach to spend time together before an early bedtime. Harry had made dinner and is now shaking out a blanket so the both of you can sit on the sand. Your eldest daughter is distracted with her beach toys, talking to herself as she toddles along the shoreline in her swimsuit and floaties.

There's no time for peaceful watching, however, because once you plop down on the blanket with the baby snuggled to your chest, Harry sits right by you and clasps his hands over his bent knee like he's about to give a lecture. He jerks his chin and says, "You know what I'm going to say." 

It's impossible not to roll your eyes. "Do I have to?" you mutter with a sheepish grin. 

"Yes. You're legally required to talk to your husband and baby daddy." 

You just groan and prepare yourself to vent about all the postpartum feelings that have been swirling in your pessimistic brain over the past seven days.

"I'm scared of losing myself," you say, exhaling heavily. "I remember the first time I became a mom and how I didn't even recognize myself some days. It took so much energy out of me, you know? With breastfeeding, being up all night, and trying to get my body back to normal, I guess I just don't want to fall into that dark mindset again." 

Harry nods understandingly. "Do you recognize yourself right now?" 

"A lot more than last time," you reply quietly. "I mean, we're both more experienced with how to handle a newborn. That definitely helps." 

He swallows, and his serious expression reveals that he sees right through you. "Can I know the real reason why you didn't want to go swimming earlier?" he asks with a gentleness that could break you if you dwell on it for long enough. 

You sometimes wonder if your skin is made of glass or if he knows you well enough to notice all the cracks. 

"If I talk about it, I'll start crying." 

He tuts and nudges your foot with his. "And what's wrong with crying?" 

Shrugging, you defeatedly mumble, "It makes me feel like a little kid." 

"You're my wife, not some stranger to me," he stresses with a soft laugh. "I hate that you think crying in front of me will put me off. Please be vulnerable with me. I don't want you to keep your feelings bottled up." 

Your lips wobble, and a teardrop escapes as you look downward. "I don't feel good when I look at my body. I don't think I could put on a swimsuit and have you see me." Harry scoots closer and wipes your tears away, a sympathetic frown on his lips. "And I spent so long trying to accept it last time I gave birth," you add, "and now having to bounce back again seems exhausting." 

"I don't expect you to bounce back," Harry says gently. "I don't expect anything of you that involves changing your body. It's your body. Do whatever you need to make you feel good, and do it at your own pace, all right?" 

Your heart lovingly falters at his statement. "Once we can finally have sex in five weeks, it's going to be terrible. I'll probably cry." 

He laughs, and you let one out too. "Is that really what you're worried about?" 

"No." He gives you an unamused look with a hint of a smirk. "Okay, maybe. I just don't want you to look at me. I could blindfold you or something." 

"Can you look at me right now for a second?" Harry asks earnestly. You adjust the baby in your arms and meet his eyes, which sparkle in the sunlight. I look at you and see a goddess," he says, holding your free hand. "A mother to two beautiful girls who make me smile every single day. You're my safety blanket. The body you think I don't want to see is the one that grew life. That is so precious to me." 

He begins tracing his fingertips across the light striations on your thigh as he continues, "The stretch marks on your skin are there because you grew two humans, which to me is the most powerful goddamn thing I could ever watch you do. And you've done it so effortlessly that I can't help but fall in love with you more and more each day." 

In that moment, you wonder why you were ever doubtful in the first place and how the man sitting next to you can always easily drag you out of any momentary insecurity. 

Harry suddenly stands and carefully pulls you up with him. He then kneels on the blanket and spreads his arms out. "Look at you," he says over the crashing waves. "You're literally glowing in front of me, holding our baby girl that you brought into this world all by yourself, and making my heart pound just as hard as the first day I met you." 

"Stop, Harry," you tell him, heat expanding across your face. 

"No, because look at you!" He exhales sharply and lowers his arms. "I worship you. Everything you do or say, every smile and laugh, every time you look at me... I'm hooked for eternity."

You kneel in front of him with tears threatening to spill over. He cradles your cheeks and kisses you with an intensity similar to the evening waves pelting the shore. Is there a way to thank the ocean for bringing him to you? 

As the sun says its routine farewell, you bask in Harry's glow that cascades from the solicitous words he speaks and the tender touches he gives. Skin that's unquestionably loved by him, and skin that you will love at your own pace. 

——

[braidlottie]

NOTHING’S GONNA HURT YOU, BABY.

pairing: lottie matthews x gn!reader

summary: lottie comforts you after a nightmare.

wc: baby fic 723 :(

tags: h/c (hurt/comfort), you live with lottie at sunshine honey, mommy!lottie sneak?!, lottie is super duper sweet to reader as always :3

title inspired by nothing’s gonna hurt you baby by cigarettes after sex

“somebody’s ready for bed, i see,” lottie smiled as you slipped into bed, wearing your new pajama set she bought for you. you rested your head against her shoulder, covering your mouth as you yawned. “such a sleepy little one. you had a big day, didn’t you?”

you and lottie and the rest of the adults went out for a nice friendly outing, staying out later than usual. going to ihop, and the fair, even driving out of your local area for a game of mini golf (that shauna suggested of course). you had so much fun, you wished you could redo the day all over again.

nodding, you snuggled into lottie’s pillow, feeling so warm and comfortable already under the white duvet. “aren’t you going to work in your office?”

“just for a bit. you think you’ll still be awake when i’m back?”

“nuh-uh.” you slurred. lottie just chuckled, grabbing her laptop, her glasses and patted your leg. she slipped on one of her kaftans that was hanging up in the closet. “that’s okay if you aren’t, sweetheart. i’ll be twenty minutes. tops.” she kissed you twice, once the nose and the lips before walking down the hall to her office.

the night got quieter and quieter at the compound, until nothing but the swaying of the trees from the wind was heard. you tried to wait up for lottie, so you put on a movie but unfortunately fell asleep within the first minutes.

***

“please, let her go, please! don’t-”

“shut. up.” you heard a man’s voice behind you. he walked over to lottie, pushing her down to the floor. she grunted and sighed, looking back at you with a bloody lip. “it’s gonna be okay-” she was cut off by the man kicking her in the face. you screamed, trying to get out of the ropes that restrained you down to a chair. “stop! stop hurting her, please!” the man pulled his pistol out from the back of his jeans, pointing it at lottie’s head and cocking it back-

“baby? baby, hey,” you were shaken away by lottie. when you were fully aware of where you were, you looked at her, she was completely unscathed, not even a single drop of blood from her lips. you didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt lottie’s hand on your cheek, wiping your tears away.

“i heard you shouting from down the hall, sweetheart. did you have a nightmare?” you nodded at the question, letting out a sob when you remembered the awful scenario. you rubbed your teary eyes against the fuzzy blanket you were swaddled in. “oh, little one,” she held out her arms for you.

“c’mere.” she helped you sit up, her hands under your arms. she pulled you into her chest, feeling your tears already soaking into her robe. she wrapped you up in the blanket tighter, planting a sweet kiss on your temple. “do you mind telling me what happened in your nightmare, baby?”

“there was a man, ‘n he was hurting you but i couldn’t stop him, ‘nd- and he was gonna shoot you, but i couldn’t stop him because-” you sobbed and lottie’s heart broke, your words fast and jumbled, along with your hoarse voice.

“we’re safe, angel, okay? it must’ve felt real at the time, but it’s not. what’s real is just me and you right now. he’s not gonna get us, i promise. mommy’s here, baby.” lottie brushed your fresh set of tears away, your cries making an abrupt stop at what lottie called herself. “there you go. you’re okay, honey.”

you felt her pull away, but heard the bedside lamp click on soon after, lighting up the room. lottie knew you didn’t like the dark that much, she just didn’t want you to be more scared than you already were.

“i’m scared to go to sleep again.” you nuzzled closer to her, trying to fight the sleep you were scared to succumb to. “you don’t have to, sweetheart. you wanna walk down to the kitchen with me? mommy’ll make you some tea, cocoa. anything you want, my baby.”

“cocoa.” you whispered, wiping your nose on your sleeve. lottie smiled, picking an eyelash off by the corner of your eye. “yeah? there’s my little one. c’mon,” she grabbed your hand, helping you out of bed.

[comatosebunny09]

Inspired by this post.

Kyojuro, but waiting for you on the porch one drowsy, snowy evening, bathed in the incandescent gleam of the porch light.

He’s wrapped in an oversized blanket, donning a thousand-watt grin. If he had a tail, it would surely be wagging, thumping loudly against the wooden bench.

Your shoes crunch soundly while you traverse the steps to meet him. Kyojuro darts up, unruly tresses puffed out like feathers, arms splayed wide for a hug.

You catch sight of taut, warm-ivory skin; the only things protecting him from the elements under his makeshift robe are his briefs and house slippers. You fix your mouth to admonish him for his lack of attire, but—

His voice is dulcet as he says, “Welcome home, my love,” its usual excitement replaced by gentle fondness.

There’s a youthful twinkle in his eye as he watches you like something to be exalted, a blissful chuckle leaving his throat.

Your confusion melds into a soft snort as you survey the porch, gaze landing on the wine bottles nestled in the snow a little ways off. A set of glasses and a bottle opener on the table glimmer in your peripheral.

So he was listening when you said it was that outdoor fridge kind of weather. 

You look at him with hands on your hips, shaking your head and biting back a grin. He is often the biggest romantic, effortlessly melting the ice castle erected around your heart.

Your bag plops onto the floorboards before you step into the safety of his arms. And he wastes no time cocooning you, evoking a content exhale from your nostrils.

He’s warm, like the summer. He carries the scent of sea sprays and toasted marshmallows crackling over a bonfire. You smoosh your cheek against his sinewy chest, draping your arms around his middle.

Kyojuro stamps the crown of your head with an adoring kiss. Sways your body to the symphony of distant insects and the soft texture of the wind, littering your hair with pleasant humming and assuring words.

His heart thrums a cadence beneath your ear as he guides you towards the bench. Tugs you onto his lap until your thighs frame either side of his hips. And he’s hot beneath you, like simmering coals lazily branding your skin through the thin material of your slacks.

He swaddles you in the toasty confines of the blanket, large hands perched on the bend of your waist, eyes studying you.

Curtained lashes quiver while his gaze skitters to your parted lips. He coaxes you forward with a hand at the small of your back until your chests meet, your mouths but a hairsbreadth apart.

You cup his cheeks, the flesh balmy and tinged red. You’re kissing him without a second thought, an amalgam of emotions rushing forth into his waiting body.

A raspy groan is dribbled between your lips, desperate hands scrambling for purchase around the apples of your bottom, drawing you impossibly closer.

You break away from the kiss, your sodden panting transitioning into breathless giggling at the sight of Kyojuro’s crestfallen face.

“Wine first,” you say to ward off his confusion, alongside a quick tap to his nose. A grin cresting over your lips, you promise, “And then you can have your way with me.”

Masterlist

[meganelixabethh]

Ok so we all agree watching the violent murder of your mentor and best friend while trying to save your friends baby and prevent yourself from also being murdered is a rough time. We also all agree that Marcia had to get over that very quickly because she had the tower to run and the Heaps to keep safe and the Supreme Custodian to keep in check. But here is what I think the run of events was like from the moment she leaves the palace to the moment she goes to bed that night

She absolutely pegs it down wizard way, pressing Jenna against her front so not to jostle her too much, and taking full advantage of her very long legs. When she bursts through the doors of the wizard tower all the wizards are gathered there, excited to see Alther and Marcia back from visiting the the Queen and the baby. Marcia bursts in, her hair is wild, she’s holding a crying baby, the amulet is hastily thrown around her neck and she is COVERED in blood. I’m talking soaked into her robes, splattered on her face, smeared on Jenna’s swaddling; she looks like she dressed up as Carrie for Halloween. All the wizards immediately think she’s done something to Alther; they can’t help but think about what happened to DomDaniel and wonder if it will become tradition for the apprentice to kill the master to supplant them. Marcia tells them what’s happened and who the baby is in a quick and panicked voice. She stopped crying on the run down the way, and she can feel the tears drying into her cheeks and making her skin feel stiff. The wizards immediately feel bad for doubting her and horrified at what she witnessed, they know how close she and the Queen were.

The wizards begin to cast protection spells around the tower and Endor, who is older than Marcia, comes over and gives her a bottle for Jenna, who is crying the entire time while Marcia rocks her and gently tries to shush her. She’s not called Jenna yet, and Marcia calls her Mattie, because Cerys was going to call her Mathilde after her mother. When Jenna goes to sleep, she thinks about putting her down but can’t face it, opting to hold her instead. When the spells are cast, the wizards reconvene around her. She’s sat on a chair looking at Jenna sleeping, and she looks up, a splatter of Cerys’ blood still on her nose, at the expectant faces of the wizards, and realises that it’s her that has to deal with this now. She’s in charge. It’s her. She looks down again and, even though she always imagined Jenna would grow up with her near, she knows she can’t stay here. She thinks of who can have her and her mind leaps to Silas. He did over half of the apprenticeship she just completed, and he left it all behind to look after his children. She knew Jenna had lost so much that day, but Marcia couldn’t bear the thought of her losing all the love she was going to have too- because this baby was going to be so very loved. She told the wizard she was going to take the baby to a safe place and got up to leave. Endor stopped her and reminded her that she looked like she had just witnessed a double murder and that she couldn’t just walk to whoever she was leaving the baby with and pass them over, it would be too suspicious. Marcia told her who she was was going to leave the baby with and Endor set off to find a way for Marcia to pass the baby over covertly.

When she left, Marcia took the stairs up to the rooms her and Alther had lived in so happily. She walked in and placed Jenna on the sofa, awake now but contented, and squarely ignored the door to Althers room and the bowl of half eaten porridge he’d left on the table. When she looked in the mirror, she startled at the sight of herself, and in panic performed a QuickClean spell. She knew she wasn’t meant to use Magyk for comfort, but Silas would never take a baby off her if she looked like that. She also needed to wear the ExtraOrdinary robes. If she was wearing her green robes Silas would 100% insist on talking to Alther and she wasn’t going to have time to explain everything that had happened today. She knew that the robes appeared on the wizard when they accepted their role as ExtraOrdinary. She looks in the mirror and says ‘I accept the role of ExtraOrdinary wizard’ but nothing happens. She tried to think it to herself, say it out loud like an affirmation, look at her exam results, but nothing happens. She’s still wearing her green apprentice robes. While she tries, she feeds Jenna again, who promptly falls back to sleep and Endor comes back. She tells Marcia that Silas has gone into the forest for herbs and will be back around when it gets dark, which is soon. Marcia knows nobody will be on the forest path that late, and that she can leave Jenna by the side of the road and Silas should Sense her. Endor makes it clear she needs to go now, and Marcia knows she’s right. The acceptance of her role sweeps through her and her robes change to the deep purple robes of her new position. She’s never worn Althers robes before, and they feel deeply powerful around her.

She hurries to the gate to get out to the forest path, her robes drawn around her and Jenna tucked out of sight inside. Dusk is just falling as she finds a bush and leaves Jenna there. She double checks that she can Sense her heartbeat clearly from the path, and she definitely can. Feeling as though she is ripping her heart out of her body, she walks away from the baby and goes to wait in the shadows of the lane she knows Silas will take once back in the castle, distractedly pressing a half crown into Gringes sticky palm as she passes. She waits longer than she would like, worrying about Jenna more and more every passing minute. Maybe she’s expecting too much of Silas, and Jenna will die of hypothermia by the side of the road. Cerys would come back from the dead to kill Marcia with her bare hands if that happened, and Marcia can’t quite bring herself to complete any thought that begins with her vibrant friend being dead. Just as she’s about to scurry back out the gate herself, she sees Silas hurrying down the lane, cloak pulled protectively around something and she knows it’s going to be okay. As he approaches her spot she sweeps out in front of him ‘tell nobody you found her, she was born to you, underhand?’ Is the best she can come out with before Transporting herself back to the tower. She couldn’t bear him asking questions.

When she gets back to the tower, everyone is in bed, even Endor, so she steps onto the stairs and unfocuses her eyes for a moment as the stairs lazily curl upwards on their slow night time mode. Her arms feel odd and empty without Jenna. She realises she forgot to tell Silas that the baby was called Mathilde. Another way she failed today. When she gets into her rooms she walks to her bedroom door in a daze, desperately tired and dreaming of falling into bed and never waking up. She walks straight into the door and no matter how hard she rattles, it won’t open. As she’s pushing at the door, Althers door opens with a creak, and Marcia realises that her new role isn’t just a set of robes, it’s a room too. There is no longer an apprentice, so the apprentice room is locked. She will not sleep in his bed. Not tonight. Not when he’s lying cold on the floor of the throne room. She casts an UnLocke on her door and rattles it again, nothing. She tried a different UnLock. Nothing again. She cycles through every spell she knows that might help and then makes some up and the stupid door will not budge. She tried a thunderflash, it doesn’t even dent it, she tries to shapeshift the door into an ant, it just stares back at her. She loses her temper and screams that she won’t sleep in his bed while she beats the door with her fists and her palms. She sobs, she screams, she throws the porridge bowl at the sofa and splatters the nice cushions with oats. She eventually ends up on the floor, laying on her side, tears sliding straight over her nose and onto the floor without her even blinking. She fuzzes out of the world for a while; the table legs blurring out of focus as she settles into the pleasant feeling of nothing mattering. She’s not sure how long she stays there but there wasn’t light when she left her mind and there is when she comes back. Her limbs feel heavy and she doesn’t want to move even though she knows she must. Endor will knock on her door soon and nobody can see this. Endor will knock on her door and patiently wait to be called in. If Marcia never says ‘come in’, Endor never will. Alther is gone. Cerys is gone. Milo is gone. There is nobody coming to pick her up off the floor and she doesn’t have the luxury of dying of thirst right in this spot. She heaves herself up and pick up the jagged parts of the broken bowl she threw earlier. She performs a Clean spell on the sofa but the stain won’t come out. She’s going to need a new one.

I warned you @septimus-heap

[wellthebardsdead]

*the following day after the fall of Alduin*

Marigold: *ankles and knees ballooned and swollen, broken bones bandaged up and healing with great difficulty despite the potions and taliesins best efforts, now trying to pull himself out of bed to get on with his day*

Taliesin: *rolls over hearing whimpering and feeling his lovers weight shift* hm?… Marie no, *reaches up grabbing the ribbon barely containing the other elfs mane of ringlets and curls, setting them free with a gentle tug* come back to bed, you’re meant to be resting.

Marigold: *looks back at him tearfully, the sunlight shining through the window catching against his golden skin and nut brown hair and making his honey eyes glow like amber as tears of frustration and pain fall freely down his cheeks* I-I need to use the washroom, I- I can’t get up.

Taliesin: *slides out of bed without hesitation and pulls on his robe before swaddling the smaller high elf in the duvet and furs* shhh I’ve got you. *lifts him up with ease and carries him out and downstairs*

Kaidan: *steps out of Caryalinds room to sneak back to his (doesn’t want to wake the whole house)* …

Taliesin & Marigold: …

Kaidan: Don’t give me that look you and I both know we were just cuddling.

Taliesin: where’s your shirt then?

Kaidan: over his pillow.

[azems-familiar]

20. cuddles while reading to each other.

Lelesu/Hythlodaeus, set in her normal comboverse in the immediate aftermath of Ultima Thule!

-

Hythlodaeus is definitely not supposed to be in bed with her.

Sharlayan’s chirurgeons take their jobs very seriously, especially when their patients are the Warriors of Light, who have so recently saved the star. Lelesu has been under their care for a little over a week now, though she spent the first few days of that time unconscious - and Corrain still is, from what little she’s managed to find out about him. No one wants to tell her just how bad his condition is, afraid of worrying her too much or afraid she’ll try to drag herself out of bed to go see him (she’s considered it, admittedly), but she’s listened to Hades and G’raha quietly discussing him with Artoirel, when they thought she was asleep, and she knows even Hades doesn’t know if he’ll wake up. It isn’t just the injuries that’ve left him nearly dead, but something more, some burden on his mind and soul that’s left him in a coma, and all they can do is wait.

She wants to go see her best friend, badly, but her glasses are still broken from Zenos - not only is her injured eye still swaddled in bandages (they saved the eye, according to the chirurgeons, but they don’t think they could save her vision), but without a replacement set of glasses what she can see is fuzzy and useless once it’s more than six inches from her face. And just because she didn’t take a scythe to the spine doesn’t mean she wasn’t badly injured by all the fighting either, so- for now she’ll behave, if only because she doesn’t think she could make it to Corrain’s room without collapsing.

Hythlodaeus has hardly left her side since they returned from Ultima Thule, apparently. He’d managed to convince the hospital administration to bring a cot in for him, and she knows the only times he’s left since have been when Hades has managed to convince him to go refresh himself at the Annex. Now that she’s awake, she appreciates the company; she’s tired and uncomfortable and bored.

And this is why Hythlodaeus has brought a veritable mountain of books back to the room from the Annex. He’d crawled into the bed with her about an hour ago, helped her find a comfortable position curled up against his chest that didn’t irritate her injuries, and cracked open a cheesy romance novel he’d apparently found in G’raha’s room. It’s certainly not high art, but he’s just as confused and amused by the cliches and the….questionable erotica as she is, and he turns reading it into a little performance that has her desperately trying to muffle her laughter in his robe (the last thing she wants is for one of the chirurgeons to come check on them, drawn by the sound). His arm is warm and heavy around her shoulders, and she can feel the steady rise-and-fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the quiet echo of his heartbeat underlying the words he speaks.

It’s only, really, been a few days since her memories of her life as Seleukos fully returned - a few days since Azem’s summoning invocation and Hydaelyn’s last gift together brought Hythlodaeus back from the Lifestream and gave him a body. She’d gotten close with the shade of him left behind in Amaurot-beneath-the-sea, and even with only vague, half-torn memories she’d loved him that week she and Corrain spent in the past, but now - now that she remembers everything, from their first meeting as young students enrolled at the Akadaemia Anyder to the last words they exchanged in the direct aftermath of the Final Days, it’s like all of the emotions Seleukos would have felt are hitting her at once. Not just the love, but the grief too - for his death to Zodiark, a message delivered by crystal just after Helios’s own sacrifice, a loss she hadn’t had the time to grieve. (Nor the inclination, if she’s honest with herself; she knows now, far too well, how she reacts to loss, and Seleukos had been no better. They’d taken Helios’s Sundering spell to Hydaelyn as he’d asked them to, and then they’d gone home - like Hades asked, but without telling him they were, because they couldn’t stop blaming him for Hythlodaeus’s death - and immersed themself in the bright memories saturating their bedroom until the world splintered into four and ten shards.)

Now that he’s alive again, in a place she can touch him, all Lelesu can think of is that he was gone, just like Haurchefaunt, and it’s…strange, to feel like grieving someone right in front of her. It still hurts. She’s tried not to think too much about it, especially given Corrain’s condition, especially given the fact that just prior to Hythlodaeus’s resurrection she watched her friends sacrifice themselves for her and if she thinks too much about that she might just crack, but it’s hard to avoid when she has so little to occupy herself with.

Hythlodaeus pauses in his reading and looks down at her for a moment, then marks his place and sets the book aside, shifting to rest a hand on her head and gently tug on her curls. “I am here, marigold dear,” he murmurs, and the nickname draws a small smile from her - it’s different from what he’d cheerily called Seleukos, but she appreciates that, she thinks; they’re not quite the same person, after all, even if they are in all the important ways. “I shall not repeat the same errors again - our dearest Emet-Selch has already quite thoroughly taken me to task for them.”

Lelesu huffs a little and reaches over to tangle her fingers in his; he squeezes her hand and smiles warmly down at her, and she finds it in her to return the expression. She shouldn’t be surprised, she thinks, that he knows what she’s thinking about, but it’s still a little shocking that he can read her as easily as he read Seleukos. “I believe you,” she says quietly, then sighs, tugging the hand she’s holding closer so she can lean her face against it. “It’s just…Seleukos never had time to grieve you, and now that I remember their life, I’m getting saddled with all their baggage, too. And- well- Corrain and I did lose you, when Kairos erased your memory. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but-”

Hythlodaeus hums, brushing her hair back from her face. “I am here for you, should you need to reassure yourself,” he promises, all deep sincerity, and leans down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “And I am sorry, that I forgot you. ‘Tis truly a miracle that Kairos was able to erase the recollection of one such as you from my soul.”

“Sap,” Lelesu accuses, tucking her face into his hand to try to hide the blush his words bring to her cheeks, and he laughs, a bright, ringing sound that she thinks could never cease to bring a smile to her face.

Things- aren’t completely alright, not yet. Corrain is still locked in slumber, and they don’t know if he’ll wake up; she can’t forget the Scions and their last stands, or the awful memories of the end of her first life, a horror she has yet to process and will probably struggle with for the next few months. But for now- for now, Hythlodaeus is here, and alive, and reading to her, his laughter a salve on the wounds of her soul, and she thinks she can make do with that.

[dont-blame-it-on-the-kids]

Sky Bison Entry

AU, timeline.

Cw childbirth, labor, pregnancy

Lin watched as the earth moved further and further away from her as she sat in the very back of the saddle. The air family was safe, for now. Amon’s reinforcements had yet to reach Air Temple Island and Korra and her friends were safe underground for now.

General Iroh would be here soon. Lin frowned deeply as she remembered holding his little pudgy hand while he learned how to walk, she couldn’t imagine calling the little boy she once knew to fight in this war. To fight against Amon, knowing what was at risk for him. Age seemed to settle into her bones once again as she realized that man was already thirty seven. Her thoughts were interrupted as Pema gasped and cried out in pain. Her attention snapped to the young woman as her kids gathered quickly.

“Mommy? What’s wrong?” Ikki asked worried.

“Pema? What���s going on back there?” Tenzin asked turning back as he steered Oogi away from the city.

“The baby is coming!” Pema gasped as she fisted her hands tight through the contraction.

Lin stood and made her way over.

“Jinora get me a blanket, two if you have them, Ikki I’ll need some water do we have a waterskin? And Meelo, hold these, do not drop them.” She said as if it was of upmost importance and handed him her gauntlets to keep the cold metal away from the delivery. Meelo nodded once taking the order well and sitting eventually curious and inspecting the metal armor he had been handed.

“Lin?” Tenzin asked nervous.

“Calm down Tenzin, do you know how many emergency deliveries I’ve assisted on scenes?” Lin scoffed the assurance even as the stress of the situation settled a vice grip in her chest.

She may have delivered a baby or two in her time. But she had healers on the way, a team of adults by her side, it wasn’t her ex’s wife and child, and she wasnt hundreds of feet in the air.

She gave Pema one nod before she knelt between her bent legs to see how far along the labor was.

Pema cried out with another contraction as Lin settled the blankets over Pema’s knees and one over her own lap for when the baby arrived she could wrap him and clean him.

The screaming with contractions was not helping Lin’s nerves and she leveled Pema with a stern glare.

“Oh stop screaming Pema, you’ve done this more than enough times by now.” She said sharply.

Pema glared at her angry and in pain. “More than- more than enough times?!” She repeated shocked to have been spoken to that way. “I’m giving birth on a Sky bison! Beifong!” Pema snapped back.

Lin scoffed and used the water to give her hands a quick wash before turning back to Pema.

The young woman was natural and soon a baby boy slid into Lin’s hands. Lin quickly cleaned the baby off from the blood and birth debris. The newborn was tiny in her hands as she gently welcomed him into the world. Strong warm hands holding him securely even with so much chaos around him. A moment of peace, as she guided this new life into this world. Even if though his family was being hunted by a madman at the moment.

Lin cleaned his face and a strong cry sounded above the wind whipping past her ears.

“It’s a boy.” Lin said as she swaddled him and grabbed the knife she cleaned to sever the chord and tied it off. After another few minutes the labor had concluded in full and Lin helped Pema clean up before wrapping them both in clean blankets.

“A brother! It’s about time!” Meelo set the gauntlets aside as the three kids hurried to crowd around the new baby.

“Oooh! He’s cute!!” Ikki squealed.

“Are you okay Mommy?” Jinora asked wanting to make sure her mother was alright.

Lin called her gauntlets back to her and once Pema was settled she carefully climbed up to sit next to Tenzin, holding to his robes to help balance without the edges of the saddle.

“How is she?” Tenzin asked worried.

“Pema’s fine, she did well. The baby is a little boy…” Lin stared dead ahead her face emotionless for a moment before it softened. “He’s perfect Tenzin.” She said gently.

“Rohan, his name is Rohan.” Tenzin smiled as tears filled his eyes.

Lin smiled softly, her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She glanced back at the family and her smile vanished.

“They’re following us, go faster Tenzin.” She said seriously as she stood and hurried to the back of the saddle just in time to deflect a net coming for them.

[comfymommy]

Get Cozy and Stylish with Comfy Mommy Shop - Best Maternity Robe and Swaddle Sets, Matching Dad Shirts, and More!

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[crithitprincess]

Come Undone- Kas!Eddie fic Part 1-

****** WARNING 18+!!!!!!!!!!!!- mention of blood, blood kink, period seggs fic, smut*********

To Say that Eddie was having some trouble adjusting to life after the UpsideDown was an understatement but he was still him underneath it all.

He had developed a super human level speed as well as sense of smell in addition to his sharp pointy canines that retracted. 

Eddie couldn't always control when they came in, though he learned it usually was caused by an insatiable pang of hunger rising from his lower stomach and continuing up to his heaving chest .

_________________________________

  Eddie's battered combat boots stomped up the front steps of the trailer. You perk up from your blanket swaddled position on the couch, hearing the screen door creak open and then a key turning the lock. Eddie boots clunk on the tile inside of the trailer and he sighs. Eddie had come home exhausted after his first day at the Hawkins Steel Factory.

  You can't help but notice the way his hair is in a tousled mess of dark sweaty curls tied up in a messy bun that must have fallen lower and lower throughout the day. His cheeks were stained with soot where he had wiped the sweat away with his work shirt, a battered navy blue button up with a frayed red and white circle patch, " Munson" emblazoned on it. 

  He wore a tight fitting sweat- drenched white tank top that smelt of cigarettes and hot coals, it clung to his body tight enough to make out the outline of his navel which you traced with your eyes. Seeing his tatted arms framed delicately contrasting the tightness across his chest made you shiver, it was almost too much to take in.

  Continuing your assessment you note the pair black sooty jeans adorning his hips, spread tight in a way you could almost make out a bulge in his underwear. Oh and of course his old battered black combat boots that he always wore.

  Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched from beneath the hooded robe you created by wrapping yourself snug in a blanket. You pulled your "cloak" impossibly close to you hoping to hide your slowly quickening heaving chest as Eddie pulled his green army sling bag off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. 

  Eddie rolled back his aching shoulders, moaning as they popped and creaked back into place. He carefully stepped out of his work boots and set them off to the side piling his blue work shirt on top of it. 

  He hadn't even noticed you peering over at him from your seated position on the couch. Hearing the key turn in the door had you turning to sit sideways, able to greet your man and congratulate him on his first day at the new job, but you were practically at a loss for words as you watched the greasy achy hard working man that entered your shared home.

You sat transfixed and waited for Eddie to say something. Maybe then you could find your way with words. Eddie cleared his throat and his eyes lifted to find you in your dazed state of bliss.

It was cliché but you always did love the classic "manly man" coming home exhausted from a long day of being "strong and manly" look. Even though that wasn't Eddie..until now that is. Maybe you could help him "unwind" from work, you thought as you winced from a sting of pain in your abdomen.

  A soft chuckle escaped Eddie's lips as noticed you all bundled up. " Hi Honey l'm home." Eddie joked as he sauntered over and gently sat himself on the edge of the couch cushion closest to you. His dark brown pooled eyes gleamed despite his tired appearance. 

  "Sorry I'm late, Sweetheart," he took your hand in his and pressed a kiss into it. " It's been a hell of a day. I'm just glad to be back home. Uncle Wayne still isn't back from his trip yet so I guess until then it's just the two of us." He smiled sheepishly.

He hoped his uncle would be okay with you crashing there for a few weeks even though it was such short notice. Plans fell through and you were left without a place to stay for a few weeks until you could get your apartment out at Hawkins Haven. 

  You and Eddie had been going steady for a while now and had your fair share of flings here and there but after the craziness of the UpsideDown and Eddie and the gang paired with Wayne working extra hours to help Hawkins get the city straight after that whole "vecna mess" Eddie had become rather distant.

You were never fully sure exactly what had happened, Eddie never really spoke of it and you didn't want to press but had heard all the tales from the people of Hawkins.

The town officials called it an earthquake but you knew that was a lie. Your best friend Robin Buckley had told you enough to know that some guy named "Vecna" was behind it all. You wanted to ask for more details but you were just blessed everyone in your family was safe although; the same couldn't be said for thousands of Hawkins residents. 

Buckley did mention a few other things though when she tried explaining you lost track of what was being said. Time travel? Mind powers? Basically demons running through Hawkins? Vampire? Eddie Munson? A vampire?

  Even with what Robin told you, you still couldn't wrap your head around it although, as much as you didn't want to admit it you had to shake yourself out of multiple sharp toothed fantasies of Eddie Munson completely ravishing you as a vampire. Robin was probably getting your goat you thought, she knew of your obsession with Lost Boys lately.

  After all, you started working at Family Video after she saw you, a customer, having a full on debate about why Dwayne despite his very small amount of dialog is essential to the movie (and your favorite, with a dark silent persona that matched his long flowy hair) and how Lost Boys is a classic must watch.

Robin watched the way your eyes lit up knowing you would be a great fit on the store with all your classic movie knowledge. A job at Family Video wouldn't be half bad, you thought. Maybe it would give you a chance to grow a better friendship with the rest of the gang.

   With all the chaos Eddie had endured with his family and friend life he had yet to properly introduce his girlfriend to Uncle Wayne. He hoped he would be able to soon, especially since this was the second night you crashed at his house. 

 "How's my baby today? How was work Princess?" Eddie grew concerned as he noticed your brows furrow. He could feel that familiar warm woozy feeling spread in his stomach like when he saw the dead deer on the side of the road the other day.

A deer was struck down not long before Eddie stumbled on it on his morning walk to clear his mind.  It's head was bathed in crimson, it's neck all mangled and twisted.

"Poor deer must have got hit head on," Eddie muttered to himself trying to walk away but instead found himself staring straight into the deers glazed over eyes watching the crimson liquid drip downwards from its forehead and slide down its nose.

He drew in a deep breath trying to gather himself back but it was too late. A warm feeling hit his stomach, radiating up his chest. His teeth ached as he lost all control of his thoughts.

  When he came to, he found himself face first into the mangled neck of the buck, using his sharp fangs to rip into its flesh and drain it of it's remaining blood Crimson color staining Eddie mouth and dripping down his chin. Eddie licked his lips, moaning at the sweet taste.

Blood.

Blood.

   Eddie snapped back to reality you sitting turned towards him now. "Eddie?" You snapped your fingers in his face and watched as his eyes centered back on yours.

Eddie knew what you were gonnasay before you ever did. He could smell it the minute he walked in, only it got harder to ignore sitting next to you

Blood.

  "Babe? You good? I was just saying a minute ago I called in today. Luckily, Robin understood why I couldn't make it today today...Ugh. I woke up with the worst cramps this morning, baby. And I'm so nauseous. I haven't eaten anything today but I feel so bloated and l just really don't feel good today." You gasp as another pain hits your side. 

   Worry stained Eddie's face as he tries to soothe you. His hand rubs circles into your belly without him realizing it. At first it startles you begin to relax as his soft voice cooes you into submission, "Shh baby. It's okay. You start your period? Hey listen it's okay I got some extra pads stashed in my bag and I think there is some of Wayne's chocolate ice cream in the freezer. What else can I do to help?" He asks, searching for an answer in your eyes. His mouth begins to throb. "Oh please God not now" Eddie thinks to himself as his hands reach up to massage his jaw. He could feel his fangs cutting in. 

  Eddie took a breath in trying to calm himself. He could smell the lust of your pussy throbbing, seeking release but he was determined to keep it together to comfort you, his girl. He leaned over and placed a kiss on your forehead. 

  " I think it's time for a movie and cuddles, Princess. Robin told me you liked Lost Boys. I could put it on and we could snuggle up together on the couch."

Eddie gave you a loving smile as he got up to fish for the tape he stashed away between a stack of other tapes. Robin gave him the tape so the two of you could watch it together as a surprise, something to take your mind off the awkward living situation. 

  You roll your eyes hoping it wasn't noticed by Eddie as you re-adjust the way you are sitting. Your pussy throbbing at the mention of the movie that sparked your latest wet dreams about Eddie Munson. "Go fuck yourself, Buckley," you think to yourself as you try and steady your breathing, preparing yourself.

You couldn't even focus on the film as it started, your mind wandering to a particular dream you had the other night in which Eddie had bitten and was sucking on your—

Eddie paused the movie noticing you were zoned out. He wondered what was going on, if Robin was wrong about your favorite movie. You seemed too far away in thought to be enjoying what his friend had told him was " her latest obsession. Eddie, she is gonna flip when she sees you with this tape!" Robin had told him. His eyes met yours as your realize minutes later that the movie isn't playing. You had been sitting on the couch staring into the white fuzz of the tv screen for a few minutes now. 

  "Babe?" Eddie whispered quietly trying to get your attention but not so loudly as to startle you. "Babyyy? " He said a little louder this time. "Y-yes Eddie?" You stutter out. He is on to you, you don't know how he knows but he is on to you.

"Everything okay, honey? He says showing some concern. "Y-yeah?" You question yourself, staring at him in the dark. You see something gleam in the light and rub your eyes trying to tell yourself it's a trick of the light. 

  The TV glow lights up to reveal Eddie fangs. He didn't even realize they were out. Maybe that's why it was harder to talk then before. "Oh shit! " Eddie curses in a loud whisper trying to cover his mouth with his hand. He hadn't had that conversation with you yet, thinking it would scare you away.

"Eddie?" Now it's your turn to question him. "You okay over there?" 

"Yeah I'm fine, just got someone stuck in my teeth. " He tries to excuse himself to the bathroom, covering his mouth as he makes a b- line for the bathroom. But you follow after him grabbing his arm, gently spinning him around before he can reach the bathroom door. 

  The old yellow light of the hallway gives it all away leaving nowhere left to hide. Eddie lets out a shriek "hey what was that–" Too late. You are now face to face with his sharp white gleaming teeth and you about faint on the spot. "Buckley wasn't jonesing me!" You say taking a step back. 

  Eddie automatically starts to apologize for not having this conversation with you sooner when your lips crash into his full force in the hallway. Eddie’s feet shuffle backwards hitting the baseboards of the wall leaving him there helplessly to take in your passionate kisses of fire. 

You pulled back, fear setting in your eyes. But not for the reason Eddie thought. No this was your wildest fantasy come true, and you owed Buckley a twenty and a cherry slurpee next time you saw her. Your breath stopped for a moment as you backed yourself into the opposite wall reaching out for the wall to catch you. 

  You landed against the wall with a thud. Eddie automatically leapt forward almost tripping as his feet lagged behind. "Babe I..fuck. Look okay I don't talk about it much because I want to just pretend like it never happened. I don't know how I survived but I did except not really..well something in me changed …"

He stared at you blankly as the gears in his brain turned, he mentally caught up with what you said under your breath. " Wait. Buckley? Robin told you?" He hissed under his breath with a sigh of relief. "Fuckkkk, thank god. Wait so if you knew why didn't you say anything?"

Hearing him say the word "fuck" under his breath did something to your insides. You felt instant warm spreading through your core, you tried to gather yourself as best as you could but you were slowly coming undone at the thought of hot vampire sex with Eddie Munson. As if he wasn't already your dream man. 

  Your finger presses against his lips and you hold gaze with his eyes. Oh fuck, it was getting hotter by the minute. "Robin told me..and I thought it was some sort of sick joke..because she knows I'm obsessed with Lost Boys.."

You paused for a moment and then a smile pulled up at the corners of your mouth. "But now that I know this is real, maybe you can do something for me.." You were panting as you thought of how you would tell the man standing before you, all of the dirty naughty thoughts you had been having about him as a vamp. "

Remember when you asked if you could do anything to help me feel better. Welll.." You leaned in closer to him. " I have a few ideas on how you could help me out. " For added effect though no one was around, you cupped your hands and whispered something in his ear that had him turning redder by the minute. 

 You noted how his fangs poked out from his mouth as he grinned back at you. "Oh? Really? I didn't know my baby could think like that" He lied. He knew you were secretly a freak from the minute you two met in middle school and years later the first time you two did it behind the bleachers while the basketball team had pep rally practice, it was proof. 

   "Are you sure about this hun?" He wanted to make sure he warned you. "I haven't been the best at controlling myself when I turn. Things could get messy. " 

You smiled, grabbing his hand guiding him towards his bedroom door. You were counting on exactly that. 

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

16th August >> Mass Readings (USA)

Friday, Nineteenth Week in Ordinary Time 

or

Saint Stephen of Hungary.

Friday, Nineteenth Week in Ordinary Time 

(Liturgical Colour: Green. Year: B(II))

Either:

First Reading Ezekiel 16:1-15, 60, 63 You are perfect because of my splendor which I bestowed on you; you became a harlot.

The word of the LORD came to me: Son of man, make known to Jerusalem her abominations. Thus says the Lord GOD to Jerusalem: By origin and birth you are of the land of Canaan; your father was an Amorite and your mother a Hittite. As for your birth, the day you were born your navel cord was not cut; you were neither washed with water nor anointed, nor were you rubbed with salt, nor swathed in swaddling clothes. No one looked on you with pity or compassion to do any of these things for you. Rather, you were thrown out on the ground as something loathsome, the day you were born. Then I passed by and saw you weltering in your blood. I said to you: Live in your blood and grow like a plant in the field. You grew and developed, you came to the age of puberty; your breasts were formed, your hair had grown, but you were still stark naked. Again I passed by you and saw that you were now old enough for love. So I spread the corner of my cloak over you to cover your nakedness; I swore an oath to you and entered into a covenant with you; you became mine, says the Lord GOD. Then I bathed you with water, washed away your blood, and anointed you with oil. I clothed you with an embroidered gown, put sandals of fine leather on your feet; I gave you a fine linen sash and silk robes to wear. I adorned you with jewelry: I put bracelets on your arms, a necklace about your neck, a ring in your nose, pendants in your ears, and a glorious diadem upon your head. Thus you were adorned with gold and silver; your garments were of fine linen, silk, and embroidered cloth. Fine flour, honey, and oil were your food. You were exceedingly beautiful, with the dignity of a queen. You were renowned among the nations for your beauty, perfect as it was, because of my splendor which I had bestowed on you, says the Lord GOD. But you were captivated by your own beauty, you used your renown to make yourself a harlot, and you lavished your harlotry on every passer-by, whose own you became. Yet I will remember the covenant I made with you when you were a girl, and I will set up an everlasting covenant with you, that you may remember and be covered with confusion, and that you may be utterly silenced for shame when I pardon you for all you have done, says the Lord GOD.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Or:

First Reading Ezekiel 16:59-63 I will remember the covenant I made with you and you will be ashamed.

Thus says the LORD: I will deal with you according to what you have done, you who despised your oath, breaking a covenant. Yet I will remember the covenant I made with you when you were a girl, and I will set up an everlasting covenant with you. Then you shall remember your conduct and be ashamed when I take your sisters, those older and younger than you, and give them to you as daughters, even though I am not bound by my covenant with you. For I will re-establish my covenant with you, that you may know that I am the LORD, that you may remember and be covered with confusion, and that you may be utterly silenced for shame when I pardon you for all you have done, says the Lord GOD.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Isaiah 12:2-3, 4bcd, 5-6

R/ You have turned from your anger.

God indeed is my savior; I am confident and unafraid. My strength and my courage is the LORD, and he has been my savior. With joy you will draw water at the fountain of salvation.

R/ You have turned from your anger.

Give thanks to the LORD, acclaim his name; among the nations make known his deeds, proclaim how exalted is his name.

R/ You have turned from your anger.

Sing praise to the LORD for his glorious achievement; let this be known throughout all the earth. Shout with exultation, O city of Zion, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel!

R/ You have turned from your anger.

Gospel Acclamation cf. 1 Thessalonians 2:13

Alleluia, alleluia. Receive the word of God, not as the word of men, but, as it truly is, the word of God. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel Matthew 19:3-12 Because of the hardness of your hearts Moses allowed you to divorce your wives, but from the beginning it was not so.

Some Pharisees approached Jesus, and tested him, saying, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife for any cause whatever?” He said in reply, “Have you not read that from the beginning the Creator made them male and female and said, For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh? So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, man must not separate.” They said to him, “Then why did Moses command that the man give the woman a bill of divorce and dismiss her?” He said to them, “Because of the hardness of your hearts Moses allowed you to divorce your wives, but from the beginning it was not so. I say to you, whoever divorces his wife (unless the marriage is unlawful) and marries another commits adultery.” His disciples said to him, “If that is the case of a man with his wife, it is better not to marry.” He answered, “Not all can accept this word, but only those to whom that is granted. Some are incapable of marriage because they were born so; some, because they were made so by others; some, because they have renounced marriage for the sake of the Kingdom of heaven. Whoever can accept this ought to accept it.”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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

Saint Stephen of Hungary   

(Liturgical Colour: White. Year: B(II))

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Friday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading Deuteronomy 6:3-9 Love the Lord, your God, with all your heart.

Moses said to the people: “Hear, Israel, and be careful to observe these commandments, that you may grow and prosper the more, in keeping with the promise of the LORD, the God of your fathers, to give you a land flowing with milk and honey. “Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD alone! Therefore, you shall love the LORD, your God, with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength. Take to heart these words which I enjoin on you today. Drill them into your children. Speak of them at home and abroad, whether you are busy or at rest. Bind them at your wrist as a sign and let them be as a pendant on your forehead. Write them on the doorposts of your houses and on your gates.”

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 112:1bc-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8, 9

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Blessed the man who fears the LORD, who greatly delights in his commands. His posterity shall be mighty upon the earth; the upright generation shall be blessed.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Wealth and riches shall be in his house; his generosity shall endure forever. Light shines through the darkness for the upright; he is gracious and merciful and just.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Well for the man who is gracious and lends, who conducts his affairs with justice; He shall never be moved; the just one shall be in everlasting remembrance.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

An evil report he shall not fear; his heart is firm, trusting in the LORD. His heart is steadfast; he shall not fear till he looks down upon his foes.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Lavishly he gives to the poor, his generosity shall endure forever; his horn shall be exalted in glory.

R/ Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

Gospel Acclamation John 14:23

Alleluia, alleluia. Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel Matthew 25:14-30 Since you were faithful in small matters, come, share your master’s joy.

Jesus told his disciples this parable: “A man who was going on a journey called in his servants and entrusted his possessions to them. To one he gave five talents; to another, two; to a third, one – to each according to his ability. Then he went away. Immediately the one who received five talents went and traded with them, and made another five. Likewise, the one who received two made another two. But the one who received one went off and dug a hole in the ground and buried his master’s money. After a long time the master of those servants came back and settled accounts with them. The one who had received five talents came forward bringing the additional five. He said, ‘Master, you gave me five talents. See, I have made five more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. Since you were faithful in small matters, I will give you great responsibilities. Come, share your master’s joy.’ Then the one who had received two talents also came forward and said, ‘Master, you gave me two talents. See, I have made two more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant. Since you were faithful in small matters, I will give you great responsibilities. Come, share your master’s joy.’ Then the one who had received the one talent came forward and said, ‘Master, I knew you were a demanding person, harvesting where you did not plant and gathering where you did not scatter; so out of fear I went off and buried your talent in the ground. Here it is back.’ His master said to him in reply, ‘You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I harvest where I did not plant and gather where I did not scatter? Should you not then have put my money in the bank so that I could have got it back with interest on my return? Now then! Take the talent from him and give it to the one with ten. For to everyone who has, more will be given and he will grow rich; but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And throw this useless servant into the darkness outside, where there will be wailing and grinding of teeth!’”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[nyandereneko]

Spare Blanket

Word Count: 701 Summary: “With a reassuring smile and a confident squeeze of the hand, Nova followed Qifrey’s lead as the pair set off to find a cozier nest to settle into for the night.” Author’s Note: Day 5 of the prompt list I’ve been working from, Qifrey brain descended out of nowhere but I’m not complaining lol. Thank you for reading as always!

*****

She always seemed to catch him dozing in the most peculiar places. Slumped over a chair in the kitchen here, passed out at the drawing table there, squirreled away in who knows what kind of nook that she just so happened to be passing by at the time. As the hushed hours of night settled over the remote atelier, Nova could hear subtle notes of the evening’s ambiance ebb and flow through the halls, suffusing the air, caressing her ears with the comforting hum of the surrounding wilderness. The crackle of a fire or the stirring of pots had developed into a similar kind of comfort for her, much as she’d come to recognize the distinct rustle of a certain witch’s robes or the deft glide of his nib staining parchment.  

Qifrey wasn’t as transparent with his exhaustion as his warmhearted Watchful Eye tended to be, but Nova was more than shrewd enough to notice which days seemed to hang over him like a cloud. And that didn’t even account for the episodes of agony that struck him from time to time, symptoms of some insidious malady that she was still somewhat apprehensive to treat. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help him, more that she suspected he may end up resenting her aid more than he appreciated it. It was easy for him to justify her intervention in the moment, but when the fog cleared she wasn’t as confident as he seemed to be that his gratitude was genuine and unwavering.

Magic wasn’t the only thing she had to offer him, of course, and apart from playing his occasional partner in crime she took it upon herself to look after him to a certain extent, as much as she safely could. And as much as he would permit, stubborn as the snow-haired witch was. Sometimes that took the form of something as simple as covering his sleeping shoulders as he slumbered at his workspace—much as she was doing now—being careful to extricate some of the more uncomfortable items from beneath his resting head as she fussed about. She closed up his books, compiled his scattered notes, and neatly stored his arsenal of tools for casting. She didn’t dare to encroach upon him any further as he slept, more than aware of the depth of discomfort and agitation he tended to exhibit when someone invaded his personal space without warning.

But just as she was turning to leave, something unexpected snagged her wrist. The woman let out a startled yelp, fur fluffing up like she’d been shocked, and she buttoned her lips as swiftly as she could as her cry faded into the air. There was no doubt she must have disturbed the fatigued witch’s rest, but much to her own surprise Nova found a weak hand halting her retreat as a single bleary blue eye observed her over the soft curve of his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I was just—”

“I believe I’m the one who owes you an apology,” he corrected between yawns, releasing his hold as he sat up and stretched. “It wasn’t my intention to catch you off guard, I’m sorry for startling you.”

“No apologies necessary,” she replied with a smile. “However, I think you’d be more comfortable if you found somewhere a little softer and warmer to rest.”

“Am I to assume you have some such place in mind?” he asked with a playful edge, and Nova cleared her throat and swept a horde of unproductive thoughts into the darkest, dustiest corner of her mind she could find.

“Not necessarily, but it’s not like there’s a shortage of cozy places to curl up in around here.”

Qifrey rose from his seat, swaddling her in his cloak as she gasped and yielded to his embrace. “Let’s see what we can find, then, shall we?”

Nova simply nodded her agreement. She didn’t think she had the strength to voice a coherent reply, but her gesture of acknowledgement was more than sufficient enough for him. With a reassuring smile and a confident squeeze of the hand, Nova followed Qifrey’s lead as the pair set off to find a cozier nest to settle into for the night.

[witchlingsandwyverns]

Hello my dear giftee, it is me again, your jolly holiday gifter! You should know I'm thinking about you going into this holiday season. I know you've had a busy few months so I hope you are taking care of yourself, staying hydrated, and enjoying all the great parts of the season! Are you also getting ready for birthday celebrations? How convenient it's the first day of ACOTAR gifting as well!

Your gift is coming along nicely, with the usual struggles of final drafts and editing! But I am getting close and really hoping that you will love it! With that hope in the air I'm sending you a little snippet from the first chapter to tide you over until the next sneak peak!

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

“Please, Lady Feyre…”

The warden of the healing wing scuttled behind the female, her steps brisk, his own faltering as he rushed in his voluminous robes.

But both came to a pause in front of the wooden door, one of many in the hall of healing. A cold fog of darkness, whirling and flecked with stars, was pouring from the crack at the bottom.

Feyre Archeron, her face pale and jaw set, looked upon the tendrils of night now lapping up her feet. With a deep breath, she knocked loudly and opened the door.

She did not pause at the wave of cold night that washed over her at the threshold, nor at the brisk “What?” bitten out by the occupant. She only paused when the fog cleared and she saw the patient clearly.

The Prince of Night sat up in bed, framed by outstretched, massive black wings. The span of wings was echoed in swirling black tattoos on his expansive bare chest, split by a wound covered in bandages across his shoulder.  His face was fine, if a bit wan, and accompanied by a vicious frown. His glowing eyes quickly snapped to Feyre as she stood in the door. But it was the wings, gleaming iridescent in the light, that took her breath. It looked as if he sat upon a throne ensconced by those vicious and beautiful tokens of death.

Or at least, it did at first. Now that she took a breath she could see the way his wings were scaffolded by light fabric tethers and a framework of wooden dowels. Covered in bandages and oily with salves whose scent filled the room and filtered to her nose. Blood, too, dripped to the floor and across his white silken sheets, and bled through the starched bandages. She saw gashes and holes in the thin membrane of his wings, the skin raw and irritated and covered in healing ointments. Her anger and adrenaline paused for a moment as she felt a wave of pity for the Prince, wounded and swaddled in the fine sheets.

Feyre realized she had been frozen on the threshold of the room, staring at his body. Lifting her eyes, she met the menacing stare of the son of Night.

OMGOMGOMGOMG

Okay first thing, Santa, you are so kind to check in, thank you! Birthday preparations feel a ways out and to be honest, I think I'm just gonna have a quiet night in given how busy everything else (moving house, polishing my own secret santa gift) is. Just a nice dinner, cuddling my animals, and maybe doing some reading...

Which brings me to the second thing, Santa: I have not been able to get this snippet out of my mind since I read it yesterday. You took my fav pairing things and I can see how much they are gonna shine... like. I cannot tell you how much this catnip tease of a fic has squatted in my brain. The grumpy injured trope, the details, I cant wait to find out more! I have never had someone write something for me before, and I am overwhelmingly honored. I CANNOT CONVEY HOW EXCITED I AM TO READ THIS, WOW JUST WOW THANK YOU SANTA 💛✨️

[ablogintwoacts]

Yeshua, she remembers his dark eyelashes and crescent moon smile and the way he touched her back when she splashed him in the river water, playing as children do, but they were too old to play those games anymore so she watches him hungrily in the synagogue from afar, and she alone sees him on the outskirts of the village arms outstretched to the heavens, lips moving silently, holy words only Adonai is privileged to hear.And she still remembers the day he left Nazareth, his brown feet precociously bare and his carpentry tools left behind, his mother Miriam laughingly fussing over him even as tears spilled down her pillowy cheeks. She would have followed him to the border of Eden if he asked but he never asked. And when she hears the rumors, the stories of leper’s spots dissolving off and evil spirits jumping into the cooking fire flames and fevers broken and priests reprimanded and windstorms banished and dead girls opening their eyes blooming with new life and second birth, she doesn’t scoff or question or gossip, she only wonders why again the dead girl awakened with the graze of a wrist wasn’t her. In the three years of his ministry she is wedded, and sets up her own household, and is welcomed into the circle of women weaving stories at the well, and a baby takes root in her womb only to end in a mess of blood, and she wonders, she wonders if he were still here if that would have been different along with everything else. And then another baby grows in her womb and this time she doesn’t bleed, but labors and bears a tiny babe, a boy named for his father, and she sobs on her pallet at night. And when her husband takes a fever and goes down to Sheol i, she wonders if she is one of those demoniacs damned by the Lord because she does not grieve, she plans. She leaves her swaddled infant on her sister’s doorstep. And she sandals her slim brown feet and sets off without a backward glance. He may have left her, but she will seek and find him with all of her heart. But his infamy has grown and she blends into the stunned crowds of followers, the many who speak starry eyed of him mending their broken hearts and forgiving their sins, and to them he is Christ, but she doesn’t know that lofty Messiah, the parable weaving rabbi, the miracle worker, the savior, she knows his quiet laugh and silent understanding. She traipses along with the rest of the rowdy crowd to Jerusalem for the Passover, and every day she clamors forward hoping for a moment to steal with him, to ask him, do you remember the wood comb you carved and slipped into my sleeve on my birthday, and touching my back in the warm river water, my skin electrified under the dampness of my robe, and your eyes darker and warmer than they had ever been before you left in such a hurry? But she never has a chance, there is always some apostle more important taking up his time, and she is no fool, she knows that his time is almost up. And so she stands on the sidelines with her palm leaf, crying out Hosanna as he rides on the colt of a donkey, and she imagines for a split second his eyes meet hers in the crowd . What will his fate be? Days later she will meet him on the way to the place of the skull, dripping blood and carrying the wood of his execution on his strong back. He falls, and she rushes forward like she was carried by the current on the sea and kneels, and unwraps her veil, and says in the voice of her own self as a small girl again, ‘let me.’ She wipes his face and he gazes at her with such intensity in his eyes she can hardly bear it, and whispers her name. For the first time in a long time she feels numb. But later on she will wonder, for the last time, if he looked at her in that tender liminal moment, and thought of the warm river water and the life that could have been  with her, instead of the Bride he bled and hanged for. The swallows sang while he was on the cross, and the holiness was not lost on her. Just as the sanctity of those small moments in Nazareth were never lost for him.