#then follow up for a warp bomb | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vyzz-undercover · 4 months ago

Text

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

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

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

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

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

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to give it to you.

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

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

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

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

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

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

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

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

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Water," he says abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you huff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What reason?"

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

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

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He insisted?"

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

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

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

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

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

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

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

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

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

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

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

"Groxshit," you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's got your attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it," he pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine, well beyond words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato stays quiet, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, sinker—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's practically vibrating from elation.

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

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

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

Still, he plays along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

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

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superectojazzmage · 3 months ago

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Among my mounting bad/unsure feelings about Arcane season two is a feeling of... I don't know, weirded outness over how Jinx is being handled. Just the way they seem to almost be trying to pretend like she wasn't depicted in season one as basically a sadistic, bloodthirsty, would-be school shooter who did shit like shooting animals for fun or blowing up buildings to try and impress her dad.

Like, the narrative of this season seems to be going out of it's way to handle her with kids gloves in a way that season one didn't, treating her as if she's just a "lol so quirky" kind of character or even a genuine revolutionary hero to be idolized as Zaun's leader compared to season one's "oh this lady is genuinely dangerously unstable and a threat to everyone around her". She's not treated as a villain - albeit a tragic one - she's treated like she's a flawed hero at worst.

Hell, I mean, you see it with the whole plot of Zaun following Jinx as a symbol of revolt. Because all throughout season one, Jinx's relationship with Zaun in even the most charitable light amounted to everyone except Silco being fucking TERRIFIED of her or outright hating her guts, and with good reason as she did nothing but make everyone's situations worse by being a mood-swinging killer who attacks anyone and anything around her at the slightest provocation and constantly goes into violent, hallucinatory fugue states at even the most mild of stresses. But than she blows up the council and suddenly everyone is literally equating her with a god worshiped in Zaun? Imagine if you saw people claiming the Unabomber was the Second Coming and you get an idea of how bizarre that is.

Everyone regarded Jinx as a walking bomb in season one. Even a lot of Silco's allies - from Sevika to Marcus - spent said first season saying Jinx was out-of-control and that killing her would be doing Silco a favor, and that was objectively true, especially considering Jinx ends up directly murdering Silco in yet another fit of blind rage and panic. Now we get season two and anyone who seriously opposes Jinx seems to be treated like either a jerk or a burgeoning extremist for not liking a terrorist who kills people because the voices in her head say to do it, and some people who despised Jinx in season like Sevika now act like they're just mildly annoyed by her childishness and weird behavior (something else that was played in a very creepy light in s1, but now seems treated like it's harmless).

Her crimes from season one and even this season are kinda brushed over; there's tepid acknowledgment that she killed Caitlyn's mom and two other councilors, but that's it and nobody really dwells on the fact that she basically did fantasy 9/11. And likewise, Caitlyn is treated as if she's becoming a violent zealot for shooting at Jinx while Isha is near, but nobody so much as comments on Jinx outright murdering numerous children through Grey-bombing Piltover or literally shooting a teenage Firelight in the back in season one just because she looked like Vi.

Speaking of Isha, I hate to say it, but she really does feel like she has no reason for existing beyond making Jinx look better. No themes of Jinx perpetuating the kind of abuse Silco inflicted on her by raising to be the monster she is, no acknowledgment of how dangerous somebody like Jinx would be as a mother, no questioning of the ethics of Jinx's actions, and Isha watching Jinx murder people is framed in a silly, comedic light compared to season one's blunt depiction of how Powder being exposed to violence from a young age warps her. Isha throws straight KILLS HERSELF via suicide bombing and it's framed as a heroic, beautiful act and not a horrific sight of a child being so radicalized by the terrorist that raised her that she thinks killing others and eve herself "for the cause" is good. The series dangles her and Jinx being friendly with each other in front of you like a parent jangling car keys at an infant. "Oooh look at Jinx and Isha dancing and dying their hair haha it's so cute don't think about bad things, Jinx is nice now!".

I just honestly am not a fan of this "Harley Quinnification" of Jinx after season one went out of it's way to tear down that kind of character. Such a big part of Jinx's portrayal there was ripping apart the idea of this manic pixie terrorist who is Totes Awesomes and only hurts bad guys as part of it's larger themes of the ugliness of violence and the dangers of valorizing it. And I really feel like we're losing that. Not even just with Jinx, but with Zaun as a whole, this season feels like it's going full "everything is Piltover's fault, Zaun didn't do nothing wrong, those Piltover babies should just shut up and let themselves be attacked for being big stupid oppressor doodoo heads!!!!" which feels very counterproductive to the series' messages and like frankly shit writing.

#arcane #arcane s2 #arcane season 2 #arcane league of legends #arcane season two #league of legends #netflix #netflix series #tv shows #animation #fortiche #jinx arcane #jinx #jinx league of legends #arcane critical #it's hard to describe but i'm very quickly souring on this season #the animation is as gorgeous as ever but the writing has taken such a massive step down now that we've got more to work with

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stars-obsession-pit · 1 month ago

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I’ve seen this idea mentioned sometimes that the Joker has something set up where if you kill him, he infects you with something that tries to make you into another Joker. I have no idea if that has any basis in the comics - it hasn’t turned up in any of the stuff i’ve read - but either way imagine using that with a “Danny kills the joker” story.

He might be partially protected thanks to not being fully human, but he doesn’t know. All he can tell is that he’s at least somewhat affected. It’s not like he knows of any examples of this happening before. Maybe his powers saved him, or maybe the toxin wouldn’t be fully effective on a normal person either. Or perhaps it just acts slowly, or it prevents him from realizing how far it’s warped him. He can’t tell.

He’s getting paranoid, he knows. But what else can he do? He can’t just ignore it and give in. He hates this. Why did this have to happen to him? Is there some force in the universe determined to ruin everything for him? Is his whole life some cosmic joke? He should burn it all down, then they’ll see who’s the joke—

no.

He refuses to do that. He doesn’t want to do that. He is was a hero, right?

But he was hated then, too. And now he doesn’t even have a respite. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him whenever he goes outside. He knows they’re judging him, waiting for him to snap. The one that try to help are clearly just trying to avoid him targeting then first. He hates it. He hates them. If he makes them fear him, maybe their stares will stop. No, no, he’s trying to avoid that. It is true that it might be safer for his loved ones if he drives them away though…

Maybe he should turn himself in. That could keep them safe. But what if they try to study him again, cut into his brain and see what makes him tick just like the GIW did?

Jason reaches into his jacket and begins to draw his pistol, readying for a fight. Neither hide nor hair of the Joker has been seen in days, and he’s constantly on edge. And he just heard the distinctive sound of sobbing laughter of a Joker Toxin victim. Part of him wanted to rush in guns blazing, but he forced himself to move slowly, carefully. He was not walking into a trap again.

Peaking into the room, he saw a single figure sitting within; a person, curled up in the corner with head in hands. Shit. He re-holstered his gun and began to approach slowly.

They didn’t seem to notice him, even as he stood right beside them and took in their appearance more closely. It was a boy, probably not much younger than him but looking much smaller in fear. His fingernails were chewed bloody, with more blood staining all around his mouth. His skin was incredibly pale, and Jason couldn’t tell if it was from a natural pallor, fear, or some sort of chemical effect. Jason reached out to touch his shoulder, and the boy suddenly jerked back and scrambled away, only seeming to notice him now.

“S—stay back!” he yelped. Jason thought his eyes flashed green for a moment, but he assumes it must have been the light. More importantly, the bloody lips clearly weren’t just from the boy’s hands; there were sizable wounds in his cheeks, presumably from more chewing.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” Jason said, showing his empty hands and trying to be reassuring.

“Stop lying! That’s what they all say! No one ever actually cares.”

“I promise you I’m telling the truth. Here— I’ll take a step back now. I’m not going to attack you. But you do need medical attention—I can get you an ambulance.”

“No– I can’t– no hospitals,” the boy hiccoughed. “Not safe.”

“How about a private clinic? I know some that won’t ask questions.”

“No, it’s not them! I’m not safe! I’m a ticking time bomb! I killed—” he broke himself off. When he spoke again, it was quiet, almost a confession, “I– I can’t, I refuse to be like him. I won’t follow in his footsteps.”

“Like who?”

“The Joker.”

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dcxdp #danny phantom x dc #danny phantom x dc crossover #danny fenton kills the joker #danny kills the joker #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc prompt #dc x dp prompt #dcxdp prompt #is this coherent? idk

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daretolovemyrambling · 2 months ago

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ARCANE: unreliable narrators (Silco and Vander focused) PART 1

I haven't really been in this tag/fandom before the season 2 finale, but can we talk about how both Vander and Silco are unreliable narrators? Especially when it comes to their flashback scenes?

I don't get why i've seen so many take the flashbacks we got in the show at face value. The show makes clear time and time again that when we get a flashback from the point of view of a single character, they are an unreliable narrator.

some examples of other characters:

on the left: biased/not the reality (character's memory/pov) vs on the right: unbiased/reality (our, the viewers, pov)

I'm going to use video clips and transcripts of the memories because I can't just gif like 5 minutes of scenes. Since you can only have one video per post, I will have to post this in several parts.

Let's start with Warwick's memories from 2x5:

We see that the memory of Warwick in episode 2x5 is all over the place, memories from the past 15-20 years come flooding back in bits and pieces.

In the first moment of this scene we see Warwick running through the mines, then we see Singed who has experimented on him, we see the Monkey Toy aggressively banging it's cymbals against each other, then we see a younger looking Silco about to swing something at an enforcer, for a split second the Monkey's face replaces Silco's, we see that it was a bottle bomb and set that enforcer on fire.

I think this represents Silco's almost obsessive nature when it came to their fight for Zaun's freedom, the Monkey overwhelms you with it's loud noise the same way Silco likely overwhelmed Vander with his ruthless actions.

the next scene, Silco looks horrified at Vander and we cut to Vander drowning Silco, then back to the moment Vander (and likely Silco) discover Felicia's lifeless body.

We see a moment of Vander punching an enforcer with his gauntlets from 1x1, cut to the Monkey's face again, then we see Warwick's perspective of the prison fight with the enforcers in 2x4 (we see him choke one of them out with his claws) and slashing several more of them brutally.

Finally, we cut back to the mines were he hallucinates a toddler-aged Powder crying her little eyes out (it looks like something that actually happened. I think this might be a moment shortly after he takes in the girls. Powder looks like she just woke up from a nightmare, her body language is shy and scared). He softly wipes the tears away with his left hand (same hand he used to choke Silco and an enforcer just a few moments earlier)

Powder's face turns into Jinx and then pre-teen Powder and we follow Powder's lifeless gaze to Felicia dancing at the Jukebox, before finally, Vander images a Silco shortly after the murder attempt, this Silco is still dripping wet from the lake (and he uses his signature glass) but smiles at Vander invitingly (likely a moment that actually happend but was warped by the many nightmares Vander likely had about what he did).

The idea that Silco escalated the Bridge Riot and thus caused the death of many Zaunites, including Felicia and Connol, is definitely supported by this short memory, but it's *not* the only way you can read the scene. Vander's memories are evidently completely scrambled, he is remembering the worst moments of his life all at once.

It's just as valid to say that Silco was not there during the Bridge Scene in season 1 episode 1 as to say that he was!

That is what makes unreliable narrators so interesting, we can make assumptions to what happend, but if we don't get an unbiased view at a scene, we don't know for sure if it happend the way the narrator imagined it.

Examples where we have unbiased flashbacks would be flashbacks like Mel's childhood in 1x8 and the Bar scene with Felicia in 2x5. In these scenes we don't follow the pov of one character, of course information is still omitted from us to an extend, but we can make our own assumption instead of seeing the biased/narrow pov of a single character.

#arcane #arcane details #arcane analysis #silco arcane #arcane silco #vander arcane #arcane vander #vander x silco #zaundads #vanco #unreliable narrator #arcane season 2 spoilers #dare's rambles #hopefully my rambles made sense here. not 100% statisfyied with what I wrote.

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sparklingjay · 10 months ago

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Here is the whole Sonic X Shadow Sonic channel translation for you just in case you haven't read it before or if you want to read it again:

I got the translation from here:

Beneath the light of the full moon stood the trendy business and shopping district of Mission Street. Sonic perched atop a storefront that overlooked the block, stargazing.

He came here tonight to witness a celestial event.

As usual, Sonic arrived with time to spare, so he turned to watch the hustle and bustle of the city below — when he spotted a black hedgehog engaged in fierce combat behind a back alley… Shadow.

Shadow was one of Sonic's most formidable foes, rivaling his abilities in every way.

He didn’t always choose the dark side, but his ruthless “ends-justify-the-means” attitude had a dangerous unpredictability that sometimes put him at odds with Sonic and his friends…

What was Shadow doing here?

Curious, Sonic dropped to Shadow's side.

Before them lay the wreckage of several G.U.N. Beetle surveillance drones, spewing black smoke and sparks. This was serious.

With an accusatory tone, Sonic asked:

"Yo, Shadow. Looks like you're having a fun night?"

"This is none of your business. Stay out of my way."

Shadow responded curtly, then disappeared into the darkness — but Sonic wasn't one to be left behind. A high-speed chase ensued as they weaved through the twists and turns of Mission Street.

They ran along walls and leaped between buildings, coming to blows as they sped through the rumbling highway into the tunnel… After some time, Shadow kicked out his heel with fearsome agility, but Sonic caught it with both hands.

I'm ending this…

I couldn't dodge it…

They paused in blade lock until Shadow jumped aside, seething in frustration.

"Why are you following me?"

"I don't want anybody pinning your crimes on me again."

"Ha, aren't you paranoid? I'm busy. Farewell!"

Shadow pointed at Sonic, a flickering stone in his hand… A Chaos Emerald.

"Wait! Hold up!"

"Chaos — Control!"

There was a brief flash of blinding light! And when it cleared, Shadow had vanished.

Chaos Control… This was Shadow's signature move, wielding the power of the Chaos Emerald to warp time and space.

To perform this technique with a weakened Chaos Emerald, after exhausting his own power in the previous battle, was an impressive feat for Shadow. Left alone, Sonic could only stare up at the night sky.

"Shadow…"

☆ ★ ☆

Later…

A few blocks away, Shadow had silently infiltrated a suspiciously large bank. The wreckage of a newly-destroyed Beetle rolled at his feet.

"Here. I'm sure of it."

He dispatched another armed Beetle that emerged from the back and proceeded to the second-floor vault, incapacitating the guards who dared fire upon him. As he reached the reinforced vault door, he saw —

Sonic, standing with a smirk, twirling the key card between his fingers.

Using the energy detector he borrowed from Tails, he tracked Shadow’s location and snuck into the bank through an alternate route.

The fact that there were military Beetles all over town, that not one of them sounded an alarm after being destroyed, that they open-fired without warning…

Well, Sonic thought there was something unusual about the whole thing.

"So, what are you willing to exchange for that key card? …No, stupid question. You want the full story of this situation."

With a dour sigh, Shadow lifted his head and recounted the evening’s events.

"This place looks like a bank, but it's a fake… It's actually some sort of a G.U.N. research facility. They're conducting experiments on a mysterious electromagnetic capsule seized from the Doctor's base after our last battle. Now I fear they're using this place as a front to develop even deadlier weapons within the city."

Shadow slowly approached Sonic, continuing:

"I received intel that this capsule is a disguised time bomb set to explode at midnight tonight. If true, it has enough power to obliterate half the city. I tried to send a warning, but they failed to heed it. That's why I came here. What do you believe?"

Shadow paused in front of Sonic, glaring at him interrogatively. Several seconds passed.

"I don't know what to say."

It was a lot to take in. As Sonic worked out his reply, the detector picked up a sudden energy spike and sounded a loud BEEP! Whatever it detected was inside the vault.

"But I know I trust Tails' device."

Sonic grinned at Shadow as he slid the key card through the card reader on the vault. A heavy metallic clanging echoed from within.

Undeterred, Shadow placed his hand on the vault when…!

BANG!

The vault door swung open from the inside, and a group of researchers frantically rushed out.

"Get out of here!" "It's about to explode!"

Emergency sirens wailed as people fled the scene. The whole facility was in a frenzy.

When Sonic and Shadow burst into the lab, they found that it was much larger than they expected, and at the center was a glass-encased capsule about 6 feet tall, protected by an electromagnetic barrier, emitting intense light.

A swarm of armed Beetles spotted them and unleashed a barrage of bullets, despite the imminent countdown.

"Talk about a work ethic! Shadow, you get the bomb!"

“…!”

Sonic easily cleared out the three guard robots before him. Shadow leaped through the ensuing blast toward the capsule. The electromagnetic barrier sensed his approach and emitted an electric charge — then deactivated just before Shadow touched it. At that exact moment, Sonic found and destroyed the barrier generator. And then…

"Chaos — Control!"

A halo of light erupted from Shadow's Chaos Emerald, enveloping the surrounding area. And when the light subsided… There was no trace of Shadow or the bomb. Then, seconds later…

A massive explosion filled the sky above Mission Street.

The fireball was so huge that it eclipsed the moon. The soundwaves that followed shook the surface of the earth. Sonic saw it as he leaped from the bank and gave a cheerful thumbs up.

Meanwhile, Shadow, already outside via Chaos Control, looked on with frustration. He had intended to teleport the bomb into space. However, he could only do so much with a malfunctioning Chaos Emerald.

Shadow pulled out the Chaos Emerald and tossed it to Sonic.

"Shadow…?"

"This is no better than a fake emerald. If I give it to you, maybe your soft nature will restore it."

Sonic shrugged as he caught the Chaos Emerald with one hand.

"I was gonna say thanks, but I take it back…"

☆ ★ ☆

"Why are you still following me?"

Shadow asked without turning back as Sonic trailed him down a deserted road outside Mission Street. Sonic wrapped his hands behind his head and gazed into the night sky.

"I'm the one who should be asking the questions. Since when did you become such a guardian of peace?"

"I don't care about peace. I don't care about these people. What I can't stand are the fools of this planet who believe they can get away with whatever they want — whether that's the Doctor or anyone else, including you. So don't misunderstand me."

A few seconds of silence followed. Shadow scowled, but Sonic kept grinning.

"Okay. I getcha. I'll do my best. But I think some people out there would wanna thank you for what you did today."

"Nonsense. Who would —"

Fed up with Sonic, Shadow stopped cold and finally turned back to shut him up…

"…!?"

Sonic stood with his arm outstretched, the lights of the distant city behind him, pointing up at the full moon shimmering out in space — and floating just above that, staring down at them, was the Space Colony ARK.

The sight of this spectacle left Shadow speechless, the ARK appearing otherworldly in the glow of the moonlight.

The ARK… An ark of hope and pain. The place where Shadow was born, where he gained and lost so many precious things and so much time. A tomb lost in the void with nothing left to sacrifice for this planet.

Once a year, there was a night when the orbits aligned, and the ARK was visible directly above the full moon.

Mission Street was one of the best spots to see it, and Sonic loved the view of the two cold, majestic “moons” against the sea of warm city lights.

Shadow silently watched the ARK.

Nobody knew how many memories or secrets of the past remained in his heart or how he felt about them to this day. But to Sonic, his silence seemed like an answer.

As if in response, Sonic slowly lowered his pointed finger.

Shadow traced Sonic’s gesture downward with his eyes —

— until it landed on Sonic’s own smirking face.

"Enough…!"

Shadow dismissed, then straddled a hidden motorcycle in the bushes at the side of the road. It was a heavy G.U.N. bike. He must have prepared it there ahead of time.

The engine revved to life, drowning out any further comments from Sonic…

"It looks better on its own anyway."

Shadow sped away at full throttle. Sonic didn't chase him this time, but as he turned away, there was a hint of disappointment behind his smile.

☆ ★ ☆

Beneath the light of the full moon stood the trendy business and shopping district of Mission Street.

Beyond the peaceful glow of the city, a lone shadow drifted away as if it was exiled.

The shadow was indistinguishable from the darkness — except to the moon, hanging over the bustling metropolis, watching the shadow from above, always… ★

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #shadow the hedgehog #sonadow #sonic channel #I like this translation more than the one on sonic channel #this story is a masterpiece #and a gift to all the sonadow shippers

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geevesthevieve · 6 months ago

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Deleted scene/alternate opening from "Back to Back" ch. 2

The times when his brain betrayed him by flinging him back into that hell begotten warehouse were always at the worst possible moments.

It started with him removing his helmet, which was also horrid timing. The filters had a nasty habit of clogging if not regularly cleaned out, which caused the thing to overheat. He’d been sweating as the stuffy air practically had him choking for the past ten minutes. So he’d taken the first opportunity he could and unfastened it, tucked it under his arm, and took clear, blessed breaths… Or as clear as one could at an old, musty factory left to decay with the useless ‘Keep Out’ signs doing nothing for the homeless and the addicts just trying to stay out of the cold or get their fix in peace. Clearing them out while they’d been doing a sweep for the latest wannabe supervillain’s traps that she’d left around this side of town had taken way too long and now Jason just really wanted a cigarette.

Then he heard the beeping.

Maybe it was the tone or maybe it was how it started soft and got louder and faster with each tick. But Jason’s heart-rate followed suit, ratcheting up.

His vision darkened around the edges and the crumbling plaster and chipped stone became desiccated wood where he was barely managing to drag his mangled body across the floor, his shattered bones shifting as they scraped along the warped, splintered surface. Every fiber of him screamed. His mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood, shaping around nonsensical words that had probably been some pointless desperate plea to anyone that might be around to find him.

The only reply he got was the ever increasing beeps.

“Hood! Get down!”

Louder and louder, high pitched, grating down on his ears. More insistent like it wasn't the only thing pulsating through Jason at that very moment…well, there was always the laughter. The maniacal laughter and the thud of metal against his ribs.

It was going to stop soon and then the burning would envelop him. Blisters would form and burst in a matter of milliseconds. His eyes would melt and the world would go dark, but the lightless fire would continue to devour him. It would be fast, but it would take eons.

“Jason!”

Then he’d be gone again.

Something hard slammed into his side, knocking him behind a pillar, right as the last beep sounded, and the blue and black figure that had shoved him to the ground blew past him as the bomb exploded.

It was bright and hot just like before, and then there was nothing.

Nothing.

Then…

Ringing.

Piercing ringing replaced everything else, rattling against his skull, making him tremble. Jason blinked hard and coughed as more dust and smoke filled his lungs. He waved his arms in front of him and rammed his elbow into something hard, sending a tingling shockwave through it. He cursed, but his tongue tasted like chalk and dirt. He also was aware that he hadn’t even heard his voice when he’d spoken.

Pushing past the raucous coughs, and spatting out the powdery taste in his mouth, he managed to somewhat settle the hard thrumming battering against his chest. The constant chiming continued going strong against his eardrums. He clapped his hands over the sides of his head and waited until other sounds started to wash the ringing further back. Then he opened his eyes again, letting them adjust to the new darkness. He squinted around for his helmet, but it was nowhere within his current view. There were only fallen columns and the crushed rusted machinery from whatever had used to be assembled here.

Jason slowly eased himself up, dodging around the cracked pillar he’d been sheltered by, and gasped as a sharp pain shot up through his abdomen, along with a harsh creaking from his ribcage. His clanging head pounded, and the air hit an open wound at his scalp. He brushed his fingers along it and stared blankly at his bloodied hand when he brought it back around.

He’d just had to take his helmet off.

Blinking hard, he again tried to do a scan for it in the rubble. It had his comms in it. He hated the little earpieces that went directly in his ear, but he was regretting not having one as a back-up. He needed to let the others know what had happened. Most of the bats were on the other side of the city. It had just been him and—

An icy wave poured down Jason’s back.

“Oh, shit.” He stumbled. He wasn’t sure if it was over some debris or just from his still spinning head. He just managed to catch himself on an overturned conveyor-belt—or what once might have been a conveyor-belt. He barely took the moment to clear the lingering vertigo that had his stomach flipping over too. Bracing himself on his elbows, his eyes raked over the landfill of a factory with much more fervor, the cold flooding through his veins with the force of a burst dam. “Dick!” He yelled out into the dark—screwing protocol.

There was no reply.

Jason's heart thudded loud again, warring against the remnant ringing. There was enough awareness in him to recall his brother slamming into him. Dick might have actually been speaking to him before that, probably shouting at him to move or something before he’d jumped into action. A blur of the Nightwing suit being flung away seared across Jason’s mind’s eye.

“Dammit.” His chest rose and fell too rapidly. “Dammit!” Shoving himself off the conveyor-belt, he staggered over in the direction he thought he’d seen Dick fly.

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

---This is just what the title says. It's from my fic "Back to Back". This was initially how I'd started the second chapter, but I realized it wasn't paralleling the first chapter like it was supposed to. So I scrapped most of it an kept some of the pieces. It's not much different. I just sort of skip this part and summarize it in the actual fic 😁 But I was going through a few things, while working on a few other new fics (I really hope to be able to post soon) and found this. So... figured I'd post it for fun!---

#jason todd #red hood #dick grayson #nightwing #dickibird and little wing #best brothers #hurt/comfort #whump #fic rec #batman #deleted scene #meep

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bwat5-blog · 3 months ago

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In Defense of Caitlyn Kiramman (Spoilers for all of Arcane)

This will be kind of long I apologize- **again spoilers for all of Arcane season 1 and 2**

I'm sure among the various posts this has been discussed and documented already but man people are driving me crazy. Caitlyn's Arc in season 2 while rushed (because the whole season is rushed) just gets better the more I think about it.

Season 1:

When we meet Caitlyn in Act 2, season 1 she is in her early twenties. She is hopeful, idealistic, and bright. Her very first interaction with Jinx is when Jinx detonates the bombs that kill the other enforcers while she steals the hex gem. Then of course we watch her journey with Vi as the two grow closer and learn from each other. Of note during that time:

While clearly nervous and afraid, she never mistreats or disrespects the citizens of the undercity while there

She gives up her prized weapon to save Vi's life

She hugs a shimmer mutated stranger with no sign of disgust or disrespect

She then has her second interaction with Jinx. Jinx is manic and violent, threatening both she and Vi before the brawl with the firelights kicks off. Following this, Caitlyn is cooperative, caring and respectful towards Echo and his people, willing to work with them even after they abduct her and Vi. Leading to her third interaction with jinx, the fight on the bridge in which Jinx kills many enforcers, and almost kills Caitlyn, Vi and Echo. Following this, we still see her try to convince the council of Piltover to make peace with the undercity and help deal with Silco, his shimmer production and his violence. She then has her fourth interaction with Jinx. Being abducted from her own bathroom and made to be a part of jinx's dinner party. This whole incident in the story is extremely intense and frightening for all the characters involved. Keeping in mind again, before this all started, Caitlyn was an idealistic happy young woman in her early twenties who has never had an ounce of negativity toward the undercity. Caitlyn has an opportunity to take the shot at Jinx, and doesn't because of her feelings for Vi. Her mercy, and attempt at understanding is rewarded by her fifth (second half of fourth I suppose) interaction with Jinx in which Jinx murders her mother and two other members of the Council, wounding the rest.

Season 2:

We pick up with season 2. Caitlyn is grieving, trying to hold it together, but is still advocating in defense of the undercity, testifying to the surviving council members that its only Jinx who was responsible. She is actively standing against invasion or occupation of the undercity. It is only after the memorial attack FOR HER MOTHER that she starts to go down that darker path. Leading the strike team, asking Vi to be an enforcer and weaponizing the grey. Of note:

Before asking Vi to put on the uniform Caitlyn states explicitly she is afraid if she does this without Vi, she or Jinx will be killed.

Piltover retaliation is guaranteed before even the memorial attack, even more so afterward. The alternative to the strike team was going to be a full military incursion.

While Jinx did not appear at the memorial attack, Caitlyn had just finished assuring the council that the undercity were still decent folk and this was all the fault of only one person. Only for a group of several undercity assassins to strike almost killing her. There would be no way to keep Jinx separate from the incident mentally, and I would say it would have been reasonable for them to assume Jinx had sent the attackers at that point in the story.

The use of the grey while of course wrong, and a heartbreaking warping of her mother’s good work for the undercity, is not fatal. We see multiple examples of that. And as Vi explains it was primarily used to keep the innocents off of the streets and out of the fighting. This doesn't make it right of course. But all the people talking about her using "Sarin" on the Zaunites and such comparisons are completely full of it.

Of course we come to her fifth interaction with Jinx, the battle in the Chamber of Janna (what I'm calling it). She has a vicious fight with Sevika, sees Jinx trying to kill Vi and her, after hearing Jinx say she plans to do so. This of course ends in that heartbreaking sequence of events ending her saying Vi is no better than jinx due to the blood in her veins and striking her with her rifle stock. This is heartbreaking, and the rage and hate in her eyes when it happens is terrible. But I reiterate that she is still in her early twenties, has lost her mother from a person who has essentially terrorized her. And now the woman she loves (even though it was the right thing to do) has stopped her from satiating that dark, hungry need for revenge that has been growing in her.

And finally we come to the real focal point of her descent. Her becoming "The Commander" under Ambessa's tutelage. As the commander she is culpable in the abuse, imprisonment, and you would have to assume death (probably not personally but certainly through policy and decision) of innocent Zaunites. As well as the full scale occupation with military checkpoints and martial law in place in Piltover and Zaun. These things are all wrong, that is not in dispute. However there is a much deeper conversation here that people are seemingly going out of their way to ignore:

The prevailing ignorance that is being directed toward this character is something to the tune of "Zaunites live in constant oppression, death and fear and Caitlyn gets to lose her mind because one family member died?! Kuklux Kiramman!". This is idiocy of the highest order. Grief and loss are not a competition. Before becoming entangled in these events Caitlyn has grown up in peace, prosperity, and yes privilege. And while she is very wealthy, that’s not what I mean in terms of privilege. She has always had her family. Yes its horrific what the people of Zaun go through in no small part due to the neglect of the wealthy elite of Piltover. But if you grow up surrounded by death each day, it does not shatter your world in the same way as experiencing it for the first time as a young adult. And at the hands of the woman you love's sister who has terrorized you, and who you may have stopped no less. Again, its not that the suffering of Zaun is irrelevant as a whole, but it is irrelevant to how Caitlyn is processing her suffering and grief. For any of you who have stuck with me this far, I would ask you. The last time you lost someone you loved, did you berate yourself for being devastated because someone somewhere has it worse? No. That is not reasonable. And it’s not human.

Taking all of that into account. You have a young woman in her early twenties, she has been terrorized and nearly killed by the focal point of her rage repeatedly. She feels betrayed by the woman she loves. Her mother is gone. And along comes a smart, ruthless, charismatic WARLORD (A literal leader of men) telling her "Hey, come with me. I'm gonna get you justice, all you must do is follow my lead". And Caitlyn takes the bait. OF COURSE SHE DOES. She's only human.

When we pick back up with her in Season 2 act 2 we are watching her journey to redemption from that point forward. This show is immaculately animated for a reason and its clear from when we see her with Maddie on that she is not happy. She is frequently cast in shadow, her expressions pained and her movement stiff and cold. She questions Ambessa's decisions, and you really get the sense she is aware she is not in charge and that Ambessa is. The first big topic from this point to the end is she and Vi's relationship. I, like all of you would have liked to see an actual conversation between them on her wrong doing and an apology. I suspect the primary reason we did not comes down to how rushed the second season was. But there is also an argument to be made for she and Vi being people of action, not words. And looking at it from that point of view:

She helps to save Vander as soon as she and Vi reunite.

When she sees Jinx, she is clearly angry but makes no move to harm or arrest her

As she explains, she did not arrest Jinx after the battle of the commune. Jinx surrendered herself.

During the conversation with Vi about Jinx's arrest Caitlyn admits she knows she let Ambessa twist her up.

During her conversation with Jinx she says "No good deed can erase OUR CRIMES". She knows she messed up. She also admits how she has hated herself.

She opens the way for Vi to try and break Jinx, the woman who murdered her mother out of jail.

She fights on the frontline of the battle against Ambessa during the last episode. Ambessa is a noted warlord who people fear all over the world. Caitlyn sacrificed her eye to give Mel the opening to take Ambessa out. By the end Caitlyn is who we know her to be, fearless and selfless.

I think the show did itself a disservice with the rushed pacing in terms of fleshing out Caitlyn's redemption, but it was there. It just went too quickly. But all it takes is the slightest effort to see the nuance in this character to see that all of these simplistic stances people are taking are non-sense. To cap it all off, I am not seeing nearly enough conversation about she and Jinx being each other's parallels. And it’s not to say that her losing her mother as a young woman is comparable to the suffering powder went through. But bear with me here:

1. Both suffer an unexpected shifting of their entire reality due to death and loss

2. Both of them are "taken in" by an older cleverer role model filling the same parental role as what they have just lost (Powder loses Vander, gets new dad in Silco, Caitlyn loses her mother, gets new mom in Ambessa) who takes their grief and rage and pain and directs it toward their enemies

3. Both must learn the lesson of "Breaking the Cycle". Jinx of course has the whole vision of Silco, and then realizes the only way she and Vi can know peace is if she leaves Piltover (yes i know its suicide at first but we all know she’s alive at the end and that’s why she didn’t tell Vi). While Caitlyn tells Jinx she doesn't have the energy to keep hating her anymore and it must end. They literally suffer the same sort of altering experience, and have to learn the same sort of lesson to get back on track.

I know this is long and I apologize. If you actually read it I appreciate it. Also, if you just don't like the character I get that to! But I'm afraid if people keep completely missing the mark in terms of media literacy studios will give us even less content with beautiful, nuanced and complex characters.

#arcane season 2 spoilers #arcane season 1 #caitvi #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn arcane #arcane

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cozzzynook · 10 months ago

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IM GETTING ANYTHING I CAN TAKE 🙏🙏

shockbee or bee x elite trine?? pls. 🙏

I’d tip you but I don’t got money 😞 but your writing is so awesome!!!!!!!

Thank you so much 😭 i appreciate you i really do 😭

Small headcanon time-

Bee is most comfortable flying with Thundercracker because he never really shows off too much and always holds him the tightest out of the three. Up there Thundercracker feels like the war can’t touch them, he can think thoughts of poetry and ideas about plays aloud to bee who he knows won’t judge him. Up in the sky at night is when they mostly fly together and its up there they feel at peace and one with the stars.

Bee loves to warp with Skywarp. He enjoys the rush and loves to see the wicked grin on Skywarps face when they prank a bot and make a hasty retreat that none of the others can follow. They enjoy pranking others together and its really become their private thing that helps them both bond and speak on trauma they otherwise wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing.

Out of all three seekers Bee has known starscream the longest. Its oddly easiest for the two to connect and share problems using crude humor and words while softly touching the other with a displeased expression on their face plates. Bots outside the trine think they get along the least and that Bee made a huge mistake spark bonding to all three mechs but in all honesty Bee is closest to Star and Star is closest to Bee. Star likes to tease them about it within reason but when he does Bee pulls at his wing.

—

Shockbee tfa moment where Bee knew Longarm was Shockwave but he learned by accident.

Shockwave didn’t offline Bee because they knew each other during the war. Bee wasn’t in the war and he’s far older than the other bots think.

He dodged the draft like Prowl did but it was because he was half seeker half grounder and sparklings from such pairings were offlined even if they weren’t decepticons.

They met during battle when an autobot bomb went off even though civilians were still present and it crushed Bee’s wings leaving him stuck in too much pain to move.

Shockwave had a moment of compassion and brought Bee and his destroyed wings to his lab where he repaired Bee.

He gave Bee the ability to hide his wings by retracting them. He also fixed his horns but they would be painfully sensitive and Bee would have to keep others from touching them.

Shockwave admired how the mini could go from cocky jokes to being a sweet spark. He may have even tried coaxing bee into becoming a decepticon or staying with him.

Bee didn’t accept joining but he did stay with him for quite some time.

They were a shocking couple to those who saw them. Bee was hyper and a brat but somehow sweet and thoughtful, such a lil cutie really while Shockwave was terrifying and a cryptid that scared even Megatron at times.

Bee knew Shockwave was like this and he wasn’t naive enough to try and change him. All he asked was that he never touched innocent bots unless provoked.

Shockwave could agree with that and Bee was happy with it.

Of course they merged sparks but not long after they were separated because autobots infiltrated their hide out and Bee was literally ripped from Shockwave who was holding onto his neck and back cables during the retreat.

Since he didn’t have a brand the autobots figured he was captured especially since they saw Shockwave with him. Bee was able to play his fear of the autobots into fear of his “captured days.”

He was able to slip away during transfer and went looking for shelter and a way to contact Shockwave.

He wasn’t able to find safe shelter he could permanently stay at for years.

Bouncing from place to place with no shanix made him resort to working in shady places he would like to forget.

He lived like this for almost two million years until the autobots launched a “cleansing” that got rid of shady bots and used the others for their military.

He was able to escape once again but it came at a cost.

He caught the attention of a bot named Sentinel who frequented the bakery fueler he worked at.

The mech did not take no for an answer and often tried to corner him. He was thankful for his quick pedes and flexible frame but it could only do so much when the mech followed him to the run down half broken building he recharged at saying there was no record of him.

That got his spark thumping and his processor buzzing only to plummet when the mech said that could just be a systems error so long as he joined bot camp and helped service him.

Bee managed to get out of servicing the mech but he couldn’t get out of bot camp.

So they slapped a life cycle on his new record, gave him the designation B-127 and forced him into camp.

He did his best to get kicked out and keep Sentinel from having an interest in him but that was quickly ended when Wasp and Sentinel himself cornered him and taught him a lesson.

For a long time he just laid in berth in the medical bay recovering and missing his mate. There was one sweet bot he could be himself around and that was a bot named Bulkhead. He considered him a friend and even agreed to be enlisted as a space bridge technician since Bulkhead could tell he had no interest in being apart of the elite guard let alone fight for the autobots.

So when he’s released from the med bay and hears of a new bot joining that wants to he apart of the prime council he rolls his optics and decides it best to stay away from them. He waits for Bulkhead back in their barracks and falls into recharge knowing the next day would be long.

Its in the middle of the night cycle when every bot is in deep recharge does he feel himself be touched and he onlines quickly darting a servo out to punch the offending bot thinking he was on the streets again.

Only he’s met with the sight of a bot he’s never seen before. Teal, gray, white and black with an oddly familiar red orb on his helm above his optics.

He can’t help staring at it for longer than he knows is safe before realizing he wasn’t in the barracks and the bot was holding him close like he knew him.

“What the -”

He’s cut off by the mech smiling at him with a leaking optic.

His blue optics didn’t leak but the red orb above them did.

He watched mesmerized as the mech set him down so gently and he felt himself lean forward for that warmth he didn’t even realize seeped into his frame before watching the mech before him shift and change into the very mech his spark pulsed for.

“Shockwave!”

Bee didn’t know he could jump that high or move without even realizing but he did.

He wrapped his arms around Shockwave who wrapped him tight in a hug. His corrupted spark beating for the mech in his arms that he couldn’t bare to put down.

“I’m so sorry my love.”

“I’ve missed you, shocky.”

That nickname made the one opticed mech laugh and he nuzzled Bee as if to kiss him and Bee did it back before kissing his lower jaw.

“I didn’t know how to call you. I didn’t know how to get in contact with any of you without it alerting the autobots! Wait..Shocky what are you doing here?”

“Undercover my love. I took this mission to find you. I’d heard word of you being here and I came as soon as I could. I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you my dear but now that I’ve found you I’ll never let anyone bot come between us.”

His lone red optic glowed and Bee knew his mech did something terrible to the mech who separated them. But he couldn’t bring himself to care or want to know any of the details.

“I dodged the autobots for as long as i could but…”

“I’m proud of you my spark. You dodged for millions of years and they don’t know who you really are. I am so happy.”

Bee looked Shockwave in his optic and kissed him.

That led to Shockwave touching the tip of Bee’s horn which made Bee full frame shiver before they became a mess of slick and transfluid.

A carefully crafted note from Shockwave who posed as “Longarm,” and the two had a few days working somewhere else in the camp. They had far more private time and they were able to catch up on what they were doing during their time apart. Among other physical things that left Bee stuffed with a small belly and limping slightly. Nothing desk work couldn’t cover, even though he hated sitting for so long.

Their return to bot camp was far too soon but Shockwave was happy to know Bee would be out of danger when he graduated earlier than himself and the others.

Meeting the others wasn’t as bad as he thought it’d be. Optimus was definitely a carrier hen judging by the way he fussed over them and especially Bee himself. Ratchet was a grump but Bee could tell it was from the war leaving its mark and Prowl, well the silent mech seemed like he was in pain a lot so Bee didn’t really bother with him.

More than anything he just tried to stick with Bulkhead and occasionally mess with the other mechs with pranks but nothing serious. Oddly enough Prowl came around and pranked him back which he was completely surprised about but it was welcome.

He spent a lot of time on a personal datapad talking to Shockwave. He made sure to be alone and off ship in an open area to see any bot coming.

Things were going well until they landed on a rock where the space brushes malfunctioned and they found the All spark.

Bee didn’t have any time to try and tell Shockwave because a large familiar ship entered the atmosphere and Megatron came abroad ready to take it.

Of course they recognized each other and of course Bee played off being too terrified to move when Megatron grabbed him and the all spark.

When they were far away enough he told him where the ancient relic was hidden and that he better give him and Shockwave plenty of time alone after this.

Megatron gave him a little shake but rolled his optics in a manner that was almost fond.

“You’ll get your time yet little bee.”

Megatron was almost out of the ship with them both when Optimus came and took both the all spark and Bee back.

It happened way too fast for Bee.

One nano klik he was with Megatron about to be with his spark bonded the next his servo was out reached towards Megatron who was falling to his death.

Optimus brought Bee into a stasis pod where they spent fifty years in recharge.

The first thing Bee did when he onlined was purge his tanks. None of the other bots did and Ratchet assumed it was because of his run in with Megatron and processor shock.

Bee tried to scramble to find his data pad to call Shockwave but Ratchet wouldn’t let him leave the med bay and then they had to help a species called humans.

By the time things settled, it was a few days into their arrival on Earth and Bee waited until he was alone at night to call Shockwave.

The mech answered immediately and Bee broke down at the sight of him still in disguise.

Telling him everything that happened and delivering the news he knew would crush his spark bond.

None of the other bots bothered him when they saw he was on his data pad.

When he came back they assumed they would need to comfort him and that his mechfriend had moved on but when he said his mechfriend hadn’t they were more than surprised.

Bee really didn’t like calling his conjunx his mechfriend but he couldn’t arouse suspicion.

But his plans to keep things low were completely thwarted when the elite guard came down and with them was his spark, Shockwave.

Or should he say,

“Longarm.”

#shockbee #elite trine #elite trine x bumblebee #starbee #skywarp #thundercracker and bumblebee #thundercracker #shockwave #thunderbee #skybee #tfa #idw

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brian-in-finance · 18 days ago

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We don't know for certain yet about Claire's mother TT back. However the pictures from the set with Jamie Roy and Hermoine in costume on a wagon seem to hint MBR is overlapping the love stories. So as you say anything is possible. I was not interested in BOMB but now I am more interested in it than S7 or S8. The TT element has been the most interesting part for me and if MBR is returning to a focus on it, it's a good puzzle. Appreciate you mull my questions and comment. Appreciate your posts. Love Caitriona's work.

Thanks for the follow-up message, Anon. 😃

Until I see Julia Moriston onscreen in the 1700s, in the Beauly-Inverness-Lallybroch triangle, I’m stationed at Camp Mistag… as in the sound guy mistagged Hermione (Julia) and we’re seeing Harriet (Ellen MacKenzie) with Jamie (Brian Fraser).

For anyone lost, this is the image we’re referencing. A crew member posted it on Instagram in July 2024, and made his account “private” soon after.

Image: Pete Blaxill

You’re a rare breed, Anon, anticipating BOMB while meh-ing Seasons 7 and 8 of the Mothership. The uproar is deafening when there’s not “enough” Jamie and Claire in Outlander, and there will be none in BOMB. May the force be with you. (And with me. I’m very excited about BOMB. 🍿)

Time travel is fascinating, if not horrifying (I don’t like getting lost in a parking lot or in a stadium crowd), and hopefully we’ll learn why Claire et al can do it and I cannot. (I originally typed “we,” then realised that’s presumptuous. Any of the Tumblr bloggers I chat with regularly could be time-travellers. 😳) If we don’t get answers in BOMB, maybe Matt will come through in Season 8… or Diana will in Book 10?

I appreciate your kind words. And, should I see Julia Moriston onscreen in the 1700s, in the Beauly-Inverness-Lallybroch triangle, I’ll be following up on your original message, linking it to this one, with a humble mea culpa. A few Outlander storylines haven’t gone the way I expected.

Remember… time travel used to be thought of as just science fiction, but Einstein’s general theory of relativity allows for the possibility that we could warp space-time so much that you could go off in a rocket and return before you set out. — Stephen Hawking

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #Inbox #Anonymous #Follow-up #Outlander #Outlander: Blood of My Blood #BOMB #Pocock sisters’ mother?#Received/Responded 24 January 2025

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prettyboykatsuki · 3 months ago

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what is your skull cavern strat? i feel like i spend way too long in there to ever really get enough loot (i’ve already done the related quests i just wanna get perfection already 😭😭)

okay im gonna try to sum it up in key points so its easy 2 follow.

you need to go on highest luck days only.

you need your axe to be upgraded, at MINIMUM, gold. but you shouldnt be using it often though but if you do need to use it - it needs to be fast.

you need to bring bombs and you need to bring a good weapon. if you dont have the galaxy sword, spend the 25k gold and get the lava katana from the adventurers guild

YOU ABSOLUTELY NEED TO BRING FOOD. i think this is obvious but not just food, drinks too. goldstar cheese or salads from gus are preferred.

your main stats are +luck and +speed. you can only have one food buff active at a time, but you can get buffs from drinks. my combo is the spicy eel (available at dessert trader in exchange for rubies) and a triple shot espresso (takes three coffees to make) but you can do things like a lucky lunch, a pumpkin soup, a ginger ale etc

personally though i think spicy eel and triple espresso work best and they're pretty easy to get up to this point in the game.

you need to get there as EARLY as you possible can. im talking you need to forfeit your day plans and drop everything to go do a run. the desert trader has warp totems for calico desert in exchange for omnigeodes, buy them BEFORE your plan to run- they are always available.

(you'll also want a warp totem for the farm so you can pass out closer to home. you could pass out in there but the former is easier for me lol)

as for strat itself - the key thing in the skull caverns is that you're trying to get as far down as you can possibly go.

now, there are some ways to do this to circumvent having to find shafts and holes to jump in. specifically - people make sheds of crystalarium with jades to trade for staircases at the desert trader. but this takes sooooo much fucking set up lmao so i dont often bother with it. if you want to get down quickly in one go, its a good method but it takes a long time to get up and running.

but you can get pretty far down if you just focus on getting down as far as possible. don't clear floors unless you're really really low already. if there's a spot with a shit ton of ore thats easy to blow up, then you can stop and do it then but for the most part time is money.

it seems counterintuitive but you will accumulate a lot of stuff simply breaking rocks with bombs and picking them up while you get down. it is not like the normal mines so its best to just ignore any ore that would take up a lot of time.

so the strat is place a bomb, find a ladder or shaft, jump in and repeat. stop to get easy ore but focus on going down. always take shafts over ladders and make sure to heal up because you do take fall damage.

also if you're struggling to find a ladder, try killing mobs. it is much, much more lucrative to do it in skull caverns and the drops are extremely good depending on the monster.

also keep in mind that time runs about 25 percent slower in the caverns compared to a normal day so try not to stress too much.

its pretty easy to have a good run if you just keep all of this in mind. the hardest thing imo is getting bombs

personally i don't like buying them so i usually just craft them but if you buy them it gets costly fast. you can always replenish your reserve for ore but money can be tricky. thats just me.

ANYWAYS. GOOD LUCK 🫡🫡

#return to sender #ari plays sdv

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kurominiiiz · 5 months ago

Text

SERIES: Bomb's Away!! - Chapter 5 : So Thank You and Goodnight

Masterlist

Join my discord!

A/N: tried my luck at a fight scene with Sukuna! I hope I did this right. Let me know your thoughts! Also, tags added to reach people!

The night air feels heavy around you, thick with the tension that always signals something’s wrong. You’re used to the weight of cursed energy, but tonight, it feels different—heavier, more suffocating. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara move ahead of you, stepping cautiously toward the abandoned temple, unaware of the true gravity of what lies inside.

You’ve been here before, in places where the cursed energy is so dense that it warps the air itself, turning it cold and electric. But this? This feels like walking into a storm just before the lightning strikes.

You know better than to let your guard down.

“Let’s get this over with,” Nobara says, her hammer twirling in one hand, but even she doesn’t sound as confident as usual.

Megumi is silent, eyes sharp as he surveys the temple. “The energy feels off. More than one curse maybe, or something stronger than it’s letting on.”

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling of dread. Your cursed energy buzzes at the back of your mind, wanting to be let loose. You’ve been holding back for too long, and part of you welcomes the idea of unleashing it tonight, if necessary.

“Stay sharp,” you warn, your voice low. “Somethin’s not addin' up.”

Yuji, always the optimist, cracks his knuckles, trying to mask the growing tension. “Doesn’t matter how strong it is. We’ll handle it.”

You want to believe that, but deep down, something in your gut tells you this isn’t just a routine exorcism. There’s a reason you were sent along to supervise. Gojo might play it off like you’re just babysitting the first-years, but you know him too well. He sensed it too—whatever’s lurking here is far more dangerous than anyone anticipated.

As the group enters the temple, the cold air shifts, growing heavier, almost thick enough to taste. The walls seem to bend with shadows, and that oppressive energy presses in on you from all sides. The cursed spirit is near. You can feel it watching.

Then, from the darkness, it emerges.

A twisted, grotesque mass of limbs and gaping mouths, its skin blackened and rotting, dripping with something viscous and foul. Its eyes, glowing a sickly red, lock onto the group, and it lets out a low, rumbling growl that makes the floor tremble beneath your feet.

“This thing’s…” Yuji’s voice falters.

“…not normal,” finishes Megumi, his tone sharp as he summons his wolves.

The curse moves faster than you expect, lunging at Yuji with claws stretched wide, aiming for his throat. Without thinking, you grab Yuji’s shoulder and yank him back, your own cursed energy flaring as you shove him out of the way.

“Stay on yer toes!” you snap, heart pounding as the curse screeches, its claws scraping the ground where Yuji had just stood.

Megumi’s shikigami charge, their jaws snapping as they leap at the curse, but it barely registers their attacks. They tear into its flesh, but the creature doesn’t even flinch, swiping them aside like they’re nothing more than flies.

“Damn it,” Megumi growls, his expression hardening as his wolves flicker and dissolve.

Nobara hurls a cluster of nails at the curse, her hammer cracking through the air as she follows up with a precise strike, but it’s no good. The nails bounce off its decayed skin, clattering uselessly to the ground.

“This thing’s built like a tank!” Nobara curses, her frustration evident.

You feel it then—the dark shift in the air, the telltale tremor that makes your breath hitch. The curse is stronger than any of you anticipated. It’s not just a regular cursed spirit. It’s something worse.

And before you can react, the curse roars again, and its body warps, stretching and twisting grotesquely. With a speed that catches you off guard, it swipes at Megumi, its claws aimed straight for him.

“Megumi!” you shout, rushing forward without thinking.

But it’s too late.

In an instant, the cursed energy in the room spikes dangerously, and you know, with a sinking feeling, what’s about to happen.

Yuji’s body stiffens. His energy shifts violently, like a dam breaking under pressure. And then, before your eyes, that cruel, twisted grin splits his face.

Sukuna.

“Well, isn’t this interesting?” Sukuna’s voice drips with amusement as he cracks his neck, taking in the scene with his usual air of arrogance. “You lot were struggling with this thing?”

Megumi takes a sharp step back, his face going pale. He knows what’s coming. You all do.

You feel your body go rigid, a familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through you. Your hand instinctively reaches for the knives holstered at your thigh. “Itadori” you yell, but it’s too late. He’s gone, buried beneath the monstrous presence of Sukuna.

Sukuna turns his head, looking down at the curse with a smirk. “Well, I suppose I could warm up a little.” Without warning, he’s on the curse, tearing into it with brutal efficiency. His movements are fluid, his strikes precise—each blow from his bare fists shatters bone and rips through the creature’s flesh like it’s nothing more than paper.

The curse doesn’t stand a chance. In less than a minute, it’s a writhing, bleeding mess, gasping for whatever cursed life remains.

But Sukuna isn’t done. His eyes slide over to Megumi, that wicked grin stretching wider. “Now, for something more interesting.”

You step between them before you realize what you’re doing, cursed energy crackling around you like a live wire. “Back off, Sukuna.”

Sukuna’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his grin falters, replaced by something darker. “Ah, (Y/n) (L/n). How delightful.”

You grit your teeth, eyes locked on him. “I’m not lettin' you hurt him.”

He chuckles, low and mocking. “I’d like to see you try to stop me. I have unfinished business with him.” Without another word, Sukuna lunges at you, faster than a blink, his fist aimed straight for your chest.

You barely manage to react, bringing up your arms to block, but the force of his blow sends you skidding across the room. The impact rattles your bones, but you hold your ground, summoning your cursed technique in an instant.

“Hellfire Detonation!”

Your body surges with energy as you release a cluster of bombs from your hands, their sizzling, red glow illuminating the dark space around you. You hurl them toward Sukuna, each one sparking with deadly intent. The air fills with the crackling hum of your cursed energy, a mix of heat and pressure building up.

The bombs explode as they hit their mark, lighting up the temple with a series of deafening booms. Smoke billows up, and for a moment, you think you’ve done it—you’ve actually hurt him.

But as the smoke clears, there he stands, unscathed, grinning that infuriating grin.

“Cute,” Sukuna says, brushing some dust off his shoulder. “You’re not holding back, are you?”

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the pain spreading through your ribs. “I haven’t even started.”

He lunges again, and this time, you’re ready. You drop a series of smaller bombs from your body, scattering them across the ground like mines. As Sukuna moves, the explosives detonate, forcing him to adjust his movements mid-attack.

You take advantage of the moment, flipping backward and launching a larger bomb directly at him. “Inferno Cascade!” you shout, the bomb igniting into a massive column of fire as it hurtles toward Sukuna.

He dodges, but not fast enough. The explosion catches him, sending flames licking up his arms. His cursed energy flares, smothering the fire almost immediately, but you see it—a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Not bad,” Sukuna mutters, his grin returning, though there’s a gleam in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “But you’re still not enough.”

He’s on you in an instant, closing the gap faster than you can react. His fist slams into your side with a bone-crushing force, and you feel something crack. Pain shoots through your body, and you’re thrown back, slamming into the temple wall. The impact leaves you gasping, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth.

You struggle to your feet, your vision swimming, but you can’t stop. Not yet. Not while Megumi’s still in danger.

Summoning the last of your strength, you force your cursed energy to spike again, gathering it into your palms. “Final Burst! ” you roar, releasing every last bit of power in a massive, fiery explosion aimed directly at Sukuna.

The temple shudders from the force of the blast, and for a moment, you can’t see anything through the flames and smoke.

But when the smoke clears, there he is. Sukuna, standing tall, barely scratched, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Impressive,” he says, voice calm, but there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “You’re stronger than I thought. However, not close enough to me.”

He moves faster than you can react, grabbing you by the throat and lifting you off the ground. His grip tightens, cutting off your air, and you feel the darkness creeping in around the edges of your vision.

Sukuna’s face looms inches from yours, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as his grip tightens around your throat. You can feel your windpipe compressing under the pressure, each breath becoming harder to draw. The world starts to blur, the edges of your vision going dark. But you don’t let it stop you—not yet.

“Such a waste,” Sukuna murmurs, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through the temple. “I thought you’d be more fun.”

Through the haze of pain and suffocation, you manage to glare at him, the fire of your cursed energy still flickering beneath the surface. You won’t go down like this. Not with Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara watching. Not while they still need you. You can feel your cursed energy pulsing, desperate to break free. Even as your strength fades, it burns hotter, more volatile. If this is the end, you’ll make sure Sukuna remembers you.

With one last surge of effort, you release another explosion from your chest, your cursed technique pushing your limits. The explosion is powerful enough to throw Sukuna back, his grip loosening just enough for you to drop to the ground. You hit the cold stone floor hard, gasping as air rushes back into your lungs. Your throat burns, your body aching from the impact, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Sukuna’s form emerges through the dust and smoke, still smirking, but this time there’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes—annoyance. You’ve managed to scratch that untouchable ego of his.

“Still got some fight in you, huh?” he drawls, his tone sharp. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

He’s on you again, moving faster than before, and you barely manage to summon a barrier of explosive energy to cushion the impact. The blast between you sends shockwaves through the room, cracking the walls and scattering debris. But Sukuna doesn’t relent. He’s testing you, pushing you to the brink, and even with everything you’ve thrown at him, it’s not enough.

Your body is screaming in protest, muscles straining as you keep up with his relentless assault. Your bombs explode around him, but his cursed energy shields him, blocking the worst of the damage. He’s not toying with you anymore. Now he’s trying to put you down.

You grit your teeth, blood dripping from the corner of your mouth as you hurl another volley of bombs at him. The explosions light up the temple in flashes of red and orange, the heat scorching the air. But Sukuna weaves through them with ease, his movements almost graceful as he closes the distance between you.

“Is that all?” Sukuna taunts, his voice a low growl as he dodges one of your bombs and lands a devastating punch to your gut.

Pain explodes through your body, knocking the wind out of you. You stumble back, clutching your side where the impact hit hardest, but you refuse to go down. Not yet.

“Shut the hell up,” you manage to spit, your voice hoarse. Your hand flares with cursed energy as you create another bomb, this one brighter, more concentrated. You hurl it toward him with everything you’ve got.

But Sukuna is faster. He dodges to the side, and before you can react, he’s in front of you again, his hand snapping out to grab your wrist. His grip is iron-tight, and he twists, forcing you to your knees with a sickening crunch as pain shoots through your arm.

“Stubborn,” he mutters, his face inches from yours now, his voice low and dangerous. “But pointless.”

His cursed energy flares, a suffocating wave of power crashing down on you. You try to fight it, to push back with your own energy, but Sukuna’s power is overwhelming. It crushes you, like the weight of a thousand tons pressing down on your chest. You can feel your strength slipping away, the last of your energy fading as the darkness creeps in around you.

But just as Sukuna’s hand tightens around your wrist, something shifts.

A voice—Yuji’s voice, faint at first, but growing stronger. It was threatening. You've never heard a tone quite like this come from Yuji before. “Sukuna!”

Sukuna freezes, his expression twisting into a scowl as Yuji fights to regain control. For a moment, it’s a tug-of-war between the two, their energies clashing violently inside the same body.

“Yuji,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you watch the struggle unfold. You’re barely hanging on yourself, your vision blurring and your body feeling heavier with every passing second.

Then, with a snarl of frustration, Sukuna’s hold weakens. His grip loosens, and suddenly, Yuji’s face is staring back at you. Wide-eyed, panicked, and horrified by what’s happened.

“(L/n)!” Yuji’s voice cracks as he falls to his knees beside you, hands shaking as he reaches out to help you. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—I—”

You try to wave him off, but your arm feels like lead. “Not your fault,” you rasp, wincing at the pain lacing every word. “Just… stay in control next time.”

Yuji’s eyes are wide with guilt and fear, his hands hovering over you, unsure of what to do. He’s a kid, terrified of the monster inside him, and now you’ve paid the price for it.

Megumi and Nobara rush over, their faces pale with concern. Megumi kneels beside Yuji, his usually stoic expression strained with worry. “We need to get her out of here.”

Nobara stands, her hammer still in hand, looking like she wants to kill something. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “We didn’t sign up for fighting Sukuna.”

You let out a weak laugh, coughing up a little blood in the process. “Tell me about it.”

Your body feels like it’s been through hell—bones bruised, muscles torn, cursed energy nearly depleted. But you’re alive, and that’s what matters. You did what you needed to do. You kept them safe.

Yuji, still pale with guilt, looks like he’s on the verge of tears. “I’m so sorry, (L/n). I—”

“Stop apologizin' ,” you cut him off, though your voice is weak. “Just… make sure next time ya keep him 'n check.”

Yuji nods, his face grim, and you can see the resolve building in him. He won’t let this happen again.

As Megumi and Nobara help you to your feet, you wince at the sharp pain radiating through your ribs. You can barely stand, but you grit your teeth and lean on them for support.

“Let’s get out of here,” Megumi says, his voice steady but laced with concern. “We need to get you to Miss. Ieiri.”

You nod, your head swimming from the effort, but you manage to take a few shaky steps forward, determined to walk out of this temple on your own two feet.

As you leave the temple behind, the weight of the fight starts to settle in, and exhaustion pulls at your limbs. The first-years stay close to you, their expressions a mix of worry and newfound respect.

You did your job. You protected them. But deep down, you know that the next time Sukuna surfaces, things could be much worse.

And for now, all you can do is hope you’re ready for when that day comes.

The trip back to the school is a blur of pain and exhaustion. Every step feels like fire racing through your body, but you force yourself to stay upright, leaning heavily on Megumi and Nobara. Yuji follows closely behind, his eyes filled with guilt, but he’s silent now, his expression hardened with the weight of what happened.

By the time you make it to Shoko’s office, you’re barely holding on. Your legs threaten to give out as you’re lowered onto the exam table, your body finally succumbing to the beating you took. The sharp, sterile smell of the room cuts through the haze of pain, but you’re too tired to care.

Shoko walks in, her eyes scanning you with a practiced coolness. "You look like hell, (L/n)."

You manage a weak grin. “Feel like it too.”

Shoko doesn’t waste time. She moves quickly, her hands glowing with cursed energy as she begins healing your most critical injuries. The warmth of her technique is a welcome contrast to the ache that’s been gnawing at your bones since the fight. You can feel her mending the worst of the damage, knitting together your broken ribs and torn muscles, but the fatigue remains.

Yuji stands awkwardly by the door, wringing his hands. Nobara and Megumi sit nearby, their worry palpable. You watch them through half-lidded eyes, too tired to say much, but you’re grateful for their presence. Despite everything that happened, they’ve stuck by you.

"She'll need some time to rest," Shoko says as she finishes. "But she'll be fine. I’ve seen worse."

"Thanks," you mutter, feeling the weight of her words sink in. You’ll live, but you’ll be out of commission for a bit.

As Shoko finishes, she gives the first-years a nod. “You should let her rest. She needs it.”

The three of them hesitate, looking at each other before Yuji speaks up. "Actually… we were hoping to stay with her. If that’s okay."

Shoko raises an eyebrow, glancing at you. You blink, surprised by the request, but you don’t argue. Maybe it’s their way of dealing with what happened, or maybe they just don’t want to leave you alone. Either way, you’re too exhausted to object.

“Fine,” Shoko says, waving them off. “Just don’t do anything stupid. She needs to rest.”

With that, she leaves the room, and the first-years all turn to you. Megumi, predictably, stays quiet, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall. Nobara pulls a chair up beside the bed, her sharp eyes flicking over your injuries like she’s mentally cataloging every bruise.

Yuji, though—he’s the one that looks the most wrecked. He sits at the foot of your bed, hunched over, his eyes fixed on the floor. You can tell he’s been carrying the guilt of what happened all the way here.

"Yuji," you croak, your voice still hoarse from the fight. "You need to stop blaming yourself."

His head snaps up, his face twisted with anguish. “How can I not? Sukuna—he—he almost killed you.”

You let out a weak chuckle. “He didn’t though, did he? I’m still here.”

“But…” Yuji starts, but Nobara cuts him off with a sharp elbow to the side.

“Listen to her, idiot,” Nobara says, glaring at him. “She’s fine. And if you keep sulking, I’ll make you wish Sukuna did finish you off.”

That pulls a weak smile from you, and you watch as Yuji sighs, rubbing his arm where Nobara hit him. “I just… I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me.”

“It’s not about you, Yuji,” Megumi says from the corner, his voice calm but firm. “We’re all in this together. We knew what we were getting into. And (L/n) knew what she was doing.”

Megumi’s words hit harder than you expected, and you glance at him, grateful for his understanding. He’s right. You made the choice to step in, to protect them. You knew the risks, and you don’t regret it.

Yuji lets out a long breath, looking more at ease now. He still seems unsure, but at least the weight of guilt has lightened a bit.

“Thanks,” Yuji mutters, giving you a small, sheepish smile.

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, shifting a bit on the bed to get more comfortable. Your body still aches, but it’s bearable now, thanks to Shoko.

The silence stretches out for a moment, the tension from the mission still hanging in the air. You can tell they’re all thinking about the fight, about what happened. But instead of dwelling on it, Nobara decides to break the quiet in the only way she knows how.

“So, (L/n),” she says, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “Since you’re stuck here recovering, you might as well tell us some stories. I’m dying to know more about what you were like before we met you.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “Stories? 'bout what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nobara says, her grin widening. “Maybe about your time with the others? Or Gojo? You must have some wild stories from your time as a third year.”

Yuji perks up at that, leaning in as well. “Yeah! I bet you and Maki got into some crazy stuff.”

You snort, a small laugh escaping you despite the soreness in your ribs. “I could tell ya some things, sure. But most of them aren’t exactly… school appropriate.”

That earns a few chuckles, even from Megumi. The mood lightens a little, and you feel the tension ease as the three of them settle in, waiting for you to share something.

“Alright, alright,” you sigh, shifting again to get more comfortable. “I’ll tell you about the time Hakari and I almost got expelled. It’s a long story, though, so don’t blame me if I pass out halfway through.”

Their eyes light up with anticipation, and you start to recount the memory, your voice low but steady. As you talk, you notice the way they’re all listening, hanging on to every word. It’s strange, really. Despite everything that just happened, they’re here, bonding with you, wanting to know more about you.

It feels… nice.

The story goes on, with interruptions from Nobara’s sarcastic comments and Yuji’s wide-eyed reactions. Megumi stays quiet, but you can tell he’s listening intently, his usual stoicism hiding a genuine curiosity.

By the time you finish the story, you’re completely drained, your body sinking into the bed as fatigue washes over you. But there’s a warmth in your chest now, something that wasn’t there before. Despite everything that’s happened—despite the pain, the fight, and Sukuna’s overwhelming power—you’ve bonded with them. They’re your students, sure, but now they feel like something more.

Like friends.

“Alright,” you murmur, your eyes starting to droop as exhaustion takes over. “That’s enough storytelling f' tonight. Get some rest, you three.”

Yuji nods, giving you a sheepish grin. “Thanks, (L/n).”

Nobara stands, stretching her arms above her head. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

Megumi says nothing, but he gives you a small nod, his way of showing his gratitude.

As they file out of the room, you close your eyes, letting the exhaustion finally take you. Your body still aches, but the warmth in your chest lingers, and for the first time in a long while, you feel… content.

You’ve done your job. You’ve protected them. And now, for the first time since returning to Jujutsu High, you feel like you belong.

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