#they've got a grit to them that makes them feel Real

[kermit-coded]

one reason i prefer ian and mickey over characters from more idk fluffy shows like heartstopper is they feel real. like don't get me wrong, i enjoy heartstopper too but at the end of the day the relationships feel kinda like. sanitized? and manufactured. like the conflict is at a minimum even at its worst. also, ian and mickey feel more like the teenage boys i've known. like they're gay but they're also teen boys who do dumb shit together.

[vyzz-undercover]

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

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

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

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

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

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to give it to you.

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

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

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

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

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

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

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

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

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Water," he says abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you huff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What reason?"

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

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

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He insisted?"

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

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

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

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

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

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

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

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

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

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

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

"Groxshit," you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's got your attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it," he pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine, well beyond words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato stays quiet, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, sinker—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's practically vibrating from elation.

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

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

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

Still, he plays along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

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

[infamous-if]

does botb have a good/respectable reputation in the music industry? i know mc’s parents kinda see it as clownery and are embarrassed, which like yeah is usually the perception when it comes to reality shows. i feel like the common music purist who see music as an artform/the professionals of the industry (exclusing misfit alley) would see a band competition with reality tv drama as trashy and not really respect/see the real value of the bands joining? (like, say, how influencers are looked down on by actors because they’re “not real celebrities”?) or maybe im wrong and botb is a huge achievement in a music career since it was stated that the show was big and there are magazines. because if my thoughts are true, like, i cant imagine how an art driven mc who is the most stuck up “ugh, the producers are trash where is the art, the life?” agree to join and compete 😭😭

it's honestly seen as trashy reality tv but it's entertaining trashy reality tv and it's super popular, it also has a lot of impact on big names in the music industry so even the artists that turn their noses up at reality tv culture can see the benefit in participating plus BOTB at least *try* to make it music focused even if they're doing it with gritted teeth since they like to focus on the drama

But yes, artists who took the more traditional route and clawed their way to the top through other means definitely do look down on bands who got famous from BOTB. And quite a few of Misfit Alley's peers believe they sold out and have gone commercial (which is dumb because MA is the most mainstream a band like them has gotten in this world lmao) but they've dealt with those claims since their first big hit so

maybe we'll see more of that wink wink

[archangeldyke-all]

hi! okay so im actually a mutual and a fellow writer of yours but im too shy to ask with my user visible. anyways i've been following you and reading your work on here and ao3 for a while but i didn't realize that was both you!! you're literally my fav sevika writer on ao3 (here too ofc)

anyways, if you haven't done this yet, i'd really appreciate sevika with a gf who is curvy and plump. like how would she react, what would she like abt her gf and such. can be sfw or nsfw, whatever you wish!

thank you for your work and i wish you a happy new year <3

hi bb!! thank u so much for such a lovely compliment! i wrote a little blurb about an insecure chubby reader getting her insecurities fucked outta her by sev ;) which you can read here!

but it's 2024! let's write some not-sad chubby reader, because this year we're loving our bodies and thanking them for everything they've gotten us through, no matter what they look like!!!

men and minors dni

sevika. loves. big girls.

idc what anyone says.

sure, she trains for her job. but her real motivation for hitting the gym every single night is the excited/horny/giddy look you get in your eyes when she picks you up with ease.

when her arms get wobbly and she considers just calling it a night and heading home, she thinks of the way you squeal when she throws you over her shoulder and shakes her head, grits her teeth, and continues her reps.

she loves having you in her lap. it takes a while to convince you. you're certain you're going to squish her, make her uncomfortable, but the weight of you against her is so comforting and soothing to sevika-- she's addicted to it. she's always got you on top of her, sitting in her lap or laying on her chest while you watch tv.

she loves how soft you are. besides your elbows and knees and skull-- every part of you is soft and pliable and plush and so so so grope-able.

she'll grope any part of you.

your flabby biceps? she's feeling them up like they're your tits.

the little pouch of fat under your chin? she's always pinching and rubbing when she holds your head in her hands as you kiss.

and your belly?!

sevika goes wild for your belly.

the way it rolls, the way it jiggles, the way it hangs over your waistband or peeks out of your shirt when you reach up-- sevika's constantly drooling over your belly.

if you're in the house, she demands you be shirtless. just so she can see your belly. sure, your tits are there too, and that's great when she's in the mood, but most of the time it's more wholesome than that. she's just obsessed with your stomach. she loves seeing the way it expands and contracts when she makes you laugh, loves tracing the little lines that form from your rolls when you stand after sitting for a while, adores the stretchmarks that decorate it.

in the bedroom, she'd constantly be biting you. she loves sinking her teeth into your soft flesh, loves the marks she leaves behind, loves the way it makes you gasp.

and the groping gets ten times worse.

one hand on each of your ass cheeks while you ride her, one on each of your tits during doggystyle. during missionary, she spends just as much time looking at your face as she does looking at your stomach, both of her hands gripping your hips, her fingertips sinking into your skin. if she's got you in a mating press, she's got her fingers pinching your thighs.

you don't sit on her face for a long time.

you're convinced you'll hurt her or suffocate her, and each time you tell her this she just grins and says, 'please do.'

but once she manages to get you to agree-- it becomes both of your new favorite position.

sevika's fucking magical with her tongue-- but when she's eating you out she's always teasing you, pulling away before you can cum or getting distracted by pressing kisses and sucking hickeys on your thighs and fupa. but when you're on top, you get full control, and you can grind your cunt against her wickedly talented lips and that gorgeous nose of hers as much as you please.

sevika, meanwhile, cums in her pants the first time you sit on her face. with your smell enveloping her, your taste on her lips, your sounds in her ears, her hands clinging on your hips-- how could she not cum? especially when your thighs start twitching around her ears.

she's always buying you clothes just a size too small. likes the way they cling to you, likes watching your flesh strain against the fabric.

on a similar note, she's always making you wear her clothes-- no matter how tight they are on you. she'll even chop the sleeves and waistline hems off for you so they're more comfortable for you to wear. she loves the way you spill out of her clothes, and she loves the way they slowly ride up to your waist over time, revealing your wide hips to her.

if you ever need to win an argument or really fluster sevika, all you have to do is wear thigh high socks. something about the way your thighs spill out over the hem drives her wild. she'll do anything if you ask while you're wearing thigh highs.

my other chubby reader blurb covers this much more in depth, but if you have any insecurities about your body, you won't have them for long with sevika around.

to her, you have The Perfect Body. sure, she's ripped like an olympian, but you are shaped like a fucking goddess. and she's very, very happy to worship.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbie

[suzukiblu]

join, scent, sorry

"Wait, so you just . . . ditched Superboy? Like right after he got out of Cadmus?" Captain Marvel sputters right in the middle of a League meeting, looking startled. "Why?"

"Batman is handling the Superboy situation," Clark says as neutrally as possible, resisting the urge to grit his teeth or rub at his temples or glower over at Bruce or just–anything, just anything. He isn't Superboy's father, though, and five minutes into this nightmare he's already more than sick of people making the assumption that he should be. He didn't volunteer for anything or consent to anything or even just make a mistake; he had his DNA stolen by people who built a weapon out of it, and just because that weapon's aging process got interrupted and it therefore currently looks like a minor, Clark is supposed to . . . supposed to what, exactly? Sell out his secret identity and his family and his whole damn life to something that only knows what some deluded mad scientists and enslaved genetic experiments thought it should know?

They're not even sure if Superboy is actually a real person. If the personality that's been presented so far is anything more than programming or puppetry or . . . or who knows what, exactly.

Clark can't take that home with him. Can't introduce that to Lois or Ma and Pa or hell, even Jor-El's AI or Krypto. He just can't trust that.

Who could?

And building a weapon that just so happens to look like a kid in a lab and conveniently getting that weapon found and broken out "early", and having that weapon be so eager to join the good guys despite its origins and education and so eager for specifically his attention, so eager to learn about specifically his powers and all the best ways to use and abuse them straight from the source, to try to make specifically him feel some kind of . . . of attachment or affection towards it . . .

Well, Clark's seen much more convoluted and improbable plans from supervillains than that, frankly. They don't know if anything they've been told about Superboy is true. They don't even know if the files Cadmus let them access are accurate or unredacted. They know nothing.

But everyone else seems to think that Clark shouldn't care about that, and that it shouldn't be making him crazy to see his dead birth family's crest in blood red on the chest of a weapon who won't answer to any name but "Superboy".

.

.

.

Dubbilex is a null and doesn't ever scent anyone at all, but sometimes Rex will give him a quick little scruff of approval or Tana or Roxy will give him an affectionate pat or two, and Knockout likes to find excuses to flirt-scent him whenever they end up having a throwdown or whatever, but none of it's ever . . . it doesn't ever . . .

It's embarrassing, but Superboy doesn't–he appreciates it all, obviously, appreciates anyone thinking he's worth any kind of scenting, but it's not what he really wants. He wants something–deliberate. Purposeful.

Lasting.

He wants something heavy, and steady, and certain. Something committed.

Or Superman's attention, just for a minute or two.

He wants to belong to somebody. He's not a real person anyway; he's a thing more than anything else. And if he has to be a thing, it's not fair that he . . . that he isn't a thing that belongs to anyone.

At least, not anyone that he wants to.

Technically speaking, he's Cadmus's IP. Technically speaking, he belongs to Cadmus. There's paperwork that says he does. A lot of it. Cadmus has "custody" of him, legally speaking. He's . . .

He doesn't want that.

He hates that.

.

.

.

"It wasn't . . . it just never felt like–like the right time to tell you, that's all," Kon stutters, feeling like an idiot, and Clark looks . . .

Clark looks pained.

"You mean you never felt safe enough to tell me," he says quietly.

Kon . . . swallows.

Because–that's true, yeah. He's trusted Clark to save his literal stupid life before, but . . . but he never felt safe enough to tell him this.

That's kind of fucked up, isn't it.

"I'm sorry," Clark says, and that suddenly Kon is too bemused to do anything but stare at him. "I should've made sure you knew you could tell me things like that. I shouldn't have just assumed you would."

[noxexistant]

ai-less whumptober; day nine

@ailesswhumptober 9 — hypothermia/heatstroke, “You look pretty pale.” ↳ the distribution yard, circa 1898 word count; 1.4k

cw; seizures, referenced suicide attempts/self-harm

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Summer is fucking miserable.

Well, there isn't really a season in which their work isn't. It's miserable work — regardless of the weather, whatever weather it is. But most of it doesn't help.

Most of the time, it's the wrong side of cold to be working outside from before dawn to past midnight, or else it's warm and that's worse. In the fall, there's wet leaves over every inch of ground that Oscar has to fight for his life not to slip on with every step. He's eaten shit and ended up with bruises up his back more than once. In the winter, there's ice and snow to battle against, freezing temperatures that their cheap, worn-out clothes are never enough to stave off — and Mo always gets sick.

Though he gets sick in the summertime too.

It had happened a few times, back on the farm. When they were working outside all hours of the day, even through summer — on real hot days, Morris would drop like a stone. Heatstroke, Da had explained. Too much sun. Morris is only scrawny, can't regulate his temperature properly, so when he gets hot, he gets sick.

It's all Oscar can think about today. It's the height of August, and the air all around them is oppressive. Thick and warm, sticky, suffocating. The sun is hanging high in the sky, beating down on them relentlessly, and though Oscar had weeks ago began to forego his wool undershirt, wear his shirt loosely buttoned with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, he still feels like he's boiling. It's the hottest day yet.

And Morris won't take anything off.

They've been arguing about it for days, especially today. Oscar has been telling him, over and over, that he's fucking stupid for it. Oscar's got scars too, all over, and he hates having them on any sort of show but he's smart enough to recognise when it's necessary. Morris refuses. And Oscar knows its different. Knows the scattered scars now visible on his own bare forearms have different connotations to the ones hidden beneath Morris' sleeves — uniform slashes up the insides of his wrists up to his elbows, thick horizontal lines and a few vertical, thicker. Obvious. But Morris had gotten so sick back on the farm, another illness that Da was half-sure would finally kill him. And here they are again.

At least it's not his fault that he's being ordered to work under the beating sun again. This time it's just their Da's brother barking the commands rather than Da himself.

Oscar can't even keep a proper eye on Morris because of it.

It's afternoon so the distribution yard is devoid of newsies, and thus they're working the whole space, toting around huge carts of old papers and crates and stacks of the evening edition as they roll in, under strict supervision of Wiesel, so their vicious argument from morning distribution about Morris taking his goddamn shirt off had had to be tabled for the moment.

The ground is bone dry and dusty, scraping beneath Oscar's boots and kicking up with all the movement, making it seem even more laborious to breathe the dense air. The sky is rippling with the beating sun, sitting on Oscar's skin like a flame that's slowly burning through him, cooking his godforsaken Irish skin like a cut of bacon. He knows Mo must be burning, if he's not already burnt, and once again tries to look around for him.

"Oi," Wiesel snaps. "Break those fuckin' crates up, Os, I ain't tellin' you again."

Oscar grits his jaw and gets back to it.

"Fuckin' asshole," Morris mumbles from nearby.

He can hear Morris moving around the yard behind him, hear the rattling of the cart wheels, the creaking of wood bearing too much weight. He can hear Wiesel talking to the other employees that are working around them, a more amiable tone that he never bothers to grace the brothers with — and he hears the footsteps of someone coming out. Glances up and nods a cursory greeting to Roy coming out of the printing house.

Behind him, he hears Roy greet Morris.

"Christ, 's hot out here."

"Yeah? Hadn' fuckin'—noticed," Morris spits. His voice sounds slightly strange, angrier than he usually gets without the usual triggers. The words clumsy and blended together. Roy doesn't comment, perhaps doesn't notice. Or just thinks it's valid ire for the circumstances.

"Your uncle got you workin' out in this?" he asks. It's loud, like it's half aimed at Oscar too. Oscar shrugs.

"Work's gotta be done."

"Gotta be done," Roy echoes with a laugh. "You're a capitalist's dream, Delancey."

"Fuck off," Oscar laughs, putting his foot through another crate. He knows Roy's grinning at him, and all his misery from work is soothed somewhat by the balm of a friend's existence.

"Oi, runt," Roy says then, voice lowering, dipping into concern. "Lookin' pretty pale there. You alright?"

In an instant, Oscar's gut is churning again. He looks around immediately, and sees the taller man stood with Morris in the middle of the yard, a cart abandoned beside them, a hand clasping Morris' arm. Morris is stood entirely rigid, face dazed, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

And then Morris goes down.

"Fuck," Oscar says. "Fuck!"

He tosses the half-broken crate down and runs, boots kicking up a stream of dust, but he isn't too concerned. Morris passes out sometimes. He's a dumbass who doesn't eat nor sleep enough and is forced to be constantly overworked, Oscar is almost used to the sight of him dropping where he stands and being a limp pile of bony limbs.

But Morris isn't limp. He's convulsing.

Roy looks stricken. He's older than Oscar by a few years, big broad guy with a thick beard and a rough mouth, but in this moment he looks utterly helpless. Afraid.

It's nothing compared to how Oscar feels.

In an instant he drops to his knees in the dirt, reaching out for his brother, but Morris is. Gone. His eyes are glazed entirely, face twitching, limbs jerking sharply like he's being beaten and dragged by someone invisible. He's all drawn up, his face looks scared, he looks like he's in pain. He's drooling. Oscar doesn't know what to do.

"Get help!" he shouts, and, finally, Roy goes, takes off running.

Oscar, shaking, presses a palm to his brother's sweaty forehead. He feels impossibly hot, so hot it's almost Oscar's instinct to flinch away, but he doesn't. Can't.

"Mo," he croaks. "Mo, you're okay. You're okay."

He doesn't know that he is. It's never been like this before.

A terrified part of his mind tells him that his little brother is dying. A part that gets louder when the twitching and convulsing suddenly stops, and Morris goes limp, hazy eyes sliding closed, head falling back so suddenly that Oscar has to catch him.

"Help," he pleads shamelessly as Wiesel comes running over, another couple workers at his heel. "Help him."

Wiesel ultimately looks just as lost as Roy had. Looks remarkably like Da had, that first time Morris had dropped in the field.

There's the same lack of willingness to face accountability in his eyes. The same adamant refusal to accept that he did this.

"What's goin' on?" a voice calls from the gates, and Oscar feels another wave of protective fury overwhelm him. It's the newsies, because of course it is, all flooding in to come line up for the evening edition. All staring, crowding, trying to climb over each other for a better look at the sight of Morris on the ground, Oscar cradling him. Kelly pushes to the front, something indescribable in his face, lips parted. The dirt beside Morris' face is wet with drool and bile. He's very slowly starting to stir, eyes half-open, sliding around as he fights to focus. He makes a noise. Slurred, utterly nonsensical. Scared. Pained.

"What d'you think happened?" one of the newsies asks shamelessly.

"Is he dead?"

"Is there blood?"

Oscar could kill them. Instead, he forces his gaze — dark and dripping with fury — to raise to Wiesel.

"Get 'im inside," his uncle says quietly. "Get 'im looked after."

"Fuck you," Oscar spits. And lifts his little brother up into his arms.

"Oscar. Is he okay?" Jack calls out, voice echoing across the yard.

Morris is mumbling, eyes still unfocused. He's limp. His skin is hot. Oscar turns and carries him carefully inside into the shade. To once again be the only one who cares about him, who'll look after him.

"Oscar!"

Oscar kicks the door closed behind him.

[eldritch-spouse]

Me: *squints at the photo, pushing my glasses up a little* “Hudd...teacher? sir?...master?... is -is that some kind of squid-bird-person that got a towel dropped on its head?”

“Sorry. Sorry...no more bad jokes...... the figure kind of reminds me of someone you’d see at a funeral. A mourner of the dead -veil over the face to hide one’s tears. 

...

*takes a sip of the strange tea again -probably shouldn’t, but I wanna taste sound and hear colors*

....

The wings... hmm... I guess this is some type of angel, like -like a psychopomp! ....... I don’t really understand the tentacles though... maybe it’s to suggest that the figure isn’t exactly a merciful being; like how some see death as just another stage of life, while others dread the thought of it...

Was I close?”

(The other definitely picks up on the mumbled titles, a hint of something that you could swear is a purr rising in his throat before he forcibly silences it.)

" Close enough. " (He mumbles to himself.)

(The more you fumble through possible explanations, the more Hudd's face scrunches. You must not be hitting the mark, because his expression blends between mild humor and puzzlement.)

" Humans and their... " (Hudsyn waves.) " Peculiarly overactive imagination that certainly never fails to amuse. "

(The disappointment he manifested, which was already very palpable, bleeds into you seamlessly as soon as you place your lips on the cup again. Mild irritation, longing, that rabid and feverish anticipation from before still just barely contained. Images of yourself seen from Hudd's point of view as he grabs you by the shoulders, jostling, screaming, biting, kissing-... Kissing? Oh. Oh okay. His hands roam on your hair, then clutch, pull, yank your head back. A palm cups your chest, wanton, possessive and- The vision fades entirely, jarringly even. It leaves you feeling disoriented and scared, as if something interrupted it purposely.)

(White fingers snap in front of your face.)

" ... Are you paying attention right now? "

(No. No, you weren't.)

(You register something odd in the back of your head. A tingling sensation that crawls up your scalp, to the side of your face, then your forehead. Little by little, trickles of anxiety seep into your pores. You can instinctively tell they're not coming from the demon in front of you, there's another source. One that's very muted but agitated nonetheless, grabbing at your psyche, begging you to listen. To seek. Help. It needs help. It's hurting. A phantom force veers your head in a new direction. Towards the only part of this room the light does not bathe...)

(That hall.)

(A somewhat low growl shakes you off the stupor entirely, attention locking back onto the demonoid while the intrusive signal fades from the forefront of your mind. Hudsyn is far from pleased.)

" Don't tell me you're one of those with the five second attention span. I have expectations regarding you. "

(Jab aside, he finally answers your question.)

" Yes and no. " (The demon makes a face.) " It truly makes me marvel just how much humanity has lost sight of what's real or not. And I've harped on this a lot, you would know. Your fiction grows and grows and now- The truth muddles. A psychopomp? A mourner? Tentacles as a symbol of evil?! " (Hudsyn snickers.)

" That, mentee, is an angel. No more, no less. This much you got right. " (There's a nod.)

(The historian claps his hands together, some of that earlier giddiness slipping out again.)

" An angel. " (He repeats.) " Here. On the surface. More of them, so many more! "

" Do you know one thing that's common to most -If not all- Angels? "

(He's got that stare that tells you the question is entirely rhetorical.)

" They've all spent some manner of time with siadar. Seen them, spoken to them, learned their culture and their tongues. "

(He emphasizes the last part, grits it out.)

" This specimen is a guardian-rank. I studied him very, very well before my work truly began. "

(The look Hudd gives you is a lot more friendly this time.)

" Go on, I know you must be dying to know more, ask about him. "

(You have a feeling things are going to get interesting soon.)

[tessatales]

The Sins of the Winter Soldier Chapter 1

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Notes: slow burn romance

Warnings: none really, hinted past issues with reader?

Authors note: Hey guys! If anyone has a better idea for the fic name please drop them below! Honestly pulled this title out my butt and I don’t really like it. But it’s better than ‘Bucky fic’ so at this point I can’t complain 🤷🏻‍♀️

Enjoy!

Chapter 1:

You wake up to the unnerving sound of silence.

The compound was silent.

In the year since being rescued, and the six months since you'd been moved into the avengers tower, you were pretty sure it had never been silent.

Feeling the familiar sensation of dread creeping in, you sit up, thankful for falling asleep fully clothed.

Slipping on a pair of trainers, you padded out into the empty corridors, your steps silent as you listened out for signs of life.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek as you walked, you tried your best to remember what your therapist said about dealing with panic.

"Remember Y/N, your emotions are currently directly linked to your power. Panic equals power surge"

"Good morning Y/N" Agent Peters said as she appeared from around the corner, her eyes trained on the communicator in her hands.

Relief floods your body as she approached, making you feel a little light headed.

"Morning, where is everyone?" You ask, hoping the shakiness you feel doesn't portray in your voice. Agent Peters doesn't stop, continuing on her way through the building as she speaks.

"They're all in the Pit"

The Pit?

There was only two reasons they'd all be there, and as you haven't been shipped off somewhere in the middle of the night because Hydra had found you, it will be the second option.

They've caught someone.

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

"Who do we have?" You ask breathlessly as you make your way to the front of the observation deck, only to be held back by several pairs of hands.

"Are you out of your mind Y/N? Who told you we were here?" Tony demanded through gritted teeth. The panic in his gaze obvious. Sensing you were about to get Agent Peters in trouble, you decided to be vague.

"Just some Shield Agent I passed in the corridor, I got scared when I couldn't find anyone so they told me you guys were down here" You reply sheepishly, hating having to admit as a grown adult that you were afraid. The remaining hands drop from where they held you, one or two squeezing you affectionately before doing so.

"Sorry kid, we didn't think about what it would be like for you to wake up and find no one, but this stuff is sensitive." Steve said, making his way to stand in front of you.

"Is it bad?" You ask, anxious to know whos down in containment.

"He wasn't when I knew him. But that was a long time ago now"

"You've caught the Winter Soldier?" You gasp. Steve nodded.

"Though I knew him as Bucky"

Gesturing for you to follow, Steve made his way towards the edge of the deck.

"It took the Big Guy removing his robotic arm to detain him. But we did it.” Tony said over his shoulder as he worked on the holograms in front of him.

“Found him in Siberia." Steve continued as he lent against the railings above the Pit. You hovered just a step away from it, scared of what you'd see when you peered over.

"Don't worry, he cant see you from here" Natasha said, coming to place her hand reassuringly on your shoulder. With a nod, you stepped forward, holding your breath as the Pit came into view.

The man you could see below didn't look like a deadly assassin. He didn't really look real. You'd seen the affects the serum had on people, you'd read every file you could on Steve and everyone else on the team since arriving at the compound. But this man looked different.

He stood motionless in the middle of the shielded cell, his body perfectly placed for any oncoming threat. He seemed to lean heavily to one side as if unsure how to balance himself without his metal arm, and even from this height you could see the angry red scars that wound around what remained of the metal appendage.

"He looks sad" You mutter, staring down a the Winters Soldiers profile.

"That's one way to look at it, I think he looks damn angry" Sam said, crossing his arms as he leaned over to take a look.

"You’re bitter because of the car thing" Tony commented, his eye never leaving the hologram before him.

"And you wouldn't be?" Sam countered, eyebrow raised in question. Tony didn’t reply.

"What are you going to do with him?" You ask no one in particular, barely managing to tear your eyes away to look at Steve when you get no response.

"Tony and Bruce are looking into the arm, making sure there's no trackers imbedded in it. While the Shield team are convinced that the longer he is away from Hydra, the more likely it will be for us to be able to deprogram him." Steve replied as he moved away from the edge.

You felt the surprise flood your body at the decision.

"They're not going to try to use him?" You half whisper. Steve shook his head but said nothing.

"Not like this.” Natasha answered for him, looking between you and Steve.

“Once upon a time, Bucky was one of us. Shield hope that if they can get him back to pre-programmed Bucky, he might offer his skills willingly." Steve said, his gaze unfocused as he looked down at his friend.

"But what if he doesn't?" You say with a frown, looking again at the man in the cell.

"If he doesn't, he'll be free to go wherever he likes. Hydra and Shield free" Steve said, a hint of a smile on his face. Although he was trying to hide it, you could hear the bittersweetness in his voice as he thought about it. Because if Bucky said no and left, he’d be leaving Steve behind.

"You'd get your best friend back" You say with a small smile, trying your best to pull him out of his melancholy thoughts as you hugged him around the middle.

"I would" Steve said with a laugh, hugging you back.

"Until that day however, we’re going to have to ask you to stay away from here." Nat said as you pulled away from Steve, turning you by the shoulders. You felt yourself pout.

"Why? Surely him being locked down there can’t affect me?" You ask with only a little annoyance evident in your voice.

"We don't know. All Hydra know about you so far is that we have you. The last thing we wanna do is broadcast your whereabouts via their deadliest asset." Natasha continued turning you to face the rest of the team. Scanning the teams faces, you could see they all felt the same.

"Here, stayed up to finish it when I found out they were bringing him here" Bruce chimed in, handing you your very on comm bracelet.

"This way you can talk to any of us whenever you need to without having to come down here." Nat said with a smile.

"Don't worry, I’ll stay away. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place. I'm not jeopardizing that." You reply, slapping the bracelet on and looking at everyone. This was your new family. You weren't going to mess that up.

A/N: Chapter 2 can be found here

[elisedonut]

Not me using anime face claims because I'm lazy and didn't feel like editing irl images because editing with real people is so much more annoying to me

Lavender FC: Kiryu Tsukasa(im@s) Percy FC: Keito Hasumi(Enstars)

Full Collection

At nearly 14k words I have completed Microfic May 2024!

While completely ignoring the whole microfic part um- anyway~

I had a lot of fun doing this challenge and feel like I've improved a lot because of it! even though it's a bit hard to tell since the order the fics went up and the order they were written in is pretty mixed up.

Thank you very much to the hosts of the challenge!! @microficmay I know its the last year you're hosting this so I'm happy i got the chance to participate!

Individual Links and Fic Summaries and Such Below The Cut!

Also keep an eye out for the five marked with a "🪻" Because that means I consider them my favorites c:

🍎 Day 1: Create

Characters/Ship: Molly Weasley & Percy Weasley

WC: 312

Summary:

Percy accidentally staying up far too late to make a shirt for his teddy bear Tallyton.

🍐 Day 2: Warmth

Characters/Ship: Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood (Perciver)

WC: 290

Summary:

Percy brings Oliver home with him and Oliver is confused that something that was always there is suddenly not.

🍎 Day 3: Horizon 

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown

WC: 97

Summary:

Lavender is dying and she knows it.

🪻Day 4: Decision - Wand for a Kiss?🪻

Characters/Ship: Stan Shunpike/Percy Weasley (Stercy)

WC: 820

Summary:

Percy was going to miss his soulmate when he had to go back to Hogwarts. So, he chose to stay home while his family went to Egypt. To be able to spend time with him.

🍐 Day 5: Dreams & Reality - Once you decipher it, what will you see?

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown/Luna Lovegood

WC: 240 

Summary:

A few weeks before you find your soulmate they'll start haunting your dreams.

🍐 Day 6: Flare

Characters/Ship: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley

WC: 71

Summary:

Bill is distracted.

🍎 Day 7: Innocuous - Are you sure he would like that?

Characters/Ship: Fleur Delacour & Molly Weasley

WC: 248

Summary:

Fleur and Molly are present shopping for Percy.

🍎 Day 8: Will - I'll bid my farewell to you without saying a word

Characters/Ship: Percy Weasley

WC: 538

Summary:

Percy had only a single hour to change things, to bring Fred back to his family. Another Percy decides to do something to get Fred back for his family at his own detriment fic.

🍎 Day 9: Agony

Characters/Ship: Colin Creevey & Dennis Creevey

WC: 122

Summary:

Dennis will return to Hogwarts even if he has to grit his teeth to do it.

🍐Day 10: Rise & Fall

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown/Fleur Delacour (fleurvender)

WC: 206

Summary:

Fleur can feel herself being pulled towards her.

🍎 Day 11: Curse

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown

WC: 298

Summary:

'Her scars don't define her.' Is what they keep telling her but it's difficult to believe it.

🪻Day 12: Vivid - Our path, dyed in blue.🪻

Characters/Ship: Dennis Creevey/Percy Weasley (Denperce)

WC: 736

Summary:

Until you first kiss your soulmate you will only see colour in the places that they have been, on things that they've touched. Dennis only sees colour for the first time when he enters Diagon Alley.

🍎 Day 13: Talisman - Talismans & Rabbits

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown

WC: 499

Summary:

Lavender needs to find the right item to use for a new assignment.

🍎 Day 14: Humility

Characters/Ship: Percy Weasley

WC: 74

Summary:

Percy thinking about something Penny said once.

🍎 Day 15: Nothing & Everything - Spacing Out

Characters/Ship: Dennis Creevey

WC: 216

Summary:

Sometimes it's easier to just feel nothing.

🍐 Day 16: Squabble - None of Their Concern

Characters/Ship: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley (Bleur)

WC: 249

Summary:

Bill and Fleur like inviting others into their bed, some of the Weasleys find that weird.

🍐 Day 17: Worthy - To Be Good Enough

Characters/Ship: Marcus Flint/Percy Weasley (Flintley)

WC: 484

Summary:

Marcus is a fuck up but he's working on it.

🍐 Day 18: Healing - Pamper Me

Characters/Ship: Dennis Creevey/Percy Weasley

WC: 715

Summary:

Dennis wants to be pampered more. Percy wants to finish his work.

🍐 Day 19: Impatience - Listen To Me

Characters/Ship: Marcus Flint/Percy Weasley (Flintley)

WC: 901

Summary:

Tutoring Flint was typically an easy affair. When he's more interested in the clock and window then the words coming out of Percy's mouth though, not so much.

🪻Day 20: Push & Pull - Together with the waves, could we become happy?🪻

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown/Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley (Lavebleur)

WC: 632

Summary:

Lavender feels like she barely even knows herself anymore. Acting out in ways that seem to make sense in the moment but feel so cruel later. Luckily, she has someone around who understands what she's going through.

🍎 Day 21: Idle - Everything Changes

Characters/Ship: Percy Weasley

WC: 157

Summary:

Percy never liked moving.

🍐 Day 22: Precious - Every time we talk, "I like you" just loops in my mind

Characters/Ship: Lavender Brown/Parvati Patil (Pavender)

WC: 268

Summary:

Lavender loves days when the dorm is empty of everyone but the two of them.

🪻Day 23: Mistake - Gossip Club🪻

Characters/Ship: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley

WC: 970

Summary:

A normal night in the Weasley-Johnson household. Gossip and cooking just go so well together.

🍐 Day 24: Elation - Doomed From The Start

Characters/Ship: Colin Creevey/Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood

WC: 737

Summary:

Magic will always want you to meet your soulmate and sometimes to achieve that, rules that are known to be true have to be bent a bit. Oliver and Percy handle finding their third differently to say the least. The right answer isn't always so clear cut though.

🍎 Day 25: Day & Night - No Way of Defying The Waves of Time

Characters/Ship: Percy Weasley

WC: 522

Summary:

Percy got a great deal on this house, now if only it wasn't haunted.

🍎 Day 26: Vex - Who Do You Think You Are?

Characters/Ship: Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Remus Lupin/Percy Weasley

WC: 804

Summary:

Fred and George never thought of themselves as protective but learning that your brother's soulmate doesn't seem to want him would make anyone a little angry.

🍎 Day 27: Dandy - He's Not Blind

Characters/Ship: Roger Davies & Percy Weasley

WC: 355

Summary:

Roger is more observant than people give him credit for.

🍐 Day 28: Fetching - Masked Savior

Characters/Ship: Roger Davies/Percy Weasley

WC: 1,103

Summary:

Percy has to agree to social events to keep his family off his back, but he accidentally bites off a bit more than he can chew.

🪻Day 29: Thrall - Touching Those Petals And Asking For Their Name🪻

Characters/Ship: Sirius Black/Percy Weasley (percius)

WC: 599

Summary:

Sirius hates being at Grimmauld Place. Drowning himself in alcohol and avoiding thinking about it too much by roaming around the house.

🍎 Day 30: First & Last - That Time Dudley Almost Let his Daughter Fly Away.

Characters/Ship: Dudley Dursley & Daisy Dursley

WC: 588

Summary:

Daisy Dursley has had bouts of accidental magic in the past, but flying? Floating? He really thinks she's going to be the death of him one of these days.

🍐 Day 31: Fulfilment - Promise

Characters/Ship: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley (Bleur)

WC: 110

Summary:

Bill is thinking too much again.

[jessefandomunited]

Now you don't- Oc love triangle with Spencer Reid and Daniel atlas

Quinn is the new escape artist in the group and is going to be tasked with escaping right from under special agent Spencer Reid who has just been tasked with assisting in tracking down the horsemen . However there may be some tension that neither of them were expecting when meeting . How will it all go when it seems that Spencer isn't the only one harboring feeling for them . Read and find out

Part 3- Plan set in motion

I was sitting on a park bench in broad daylight, which automatically gave me a stomach ache. We had been in hiding for so long that I've grown anxious any time we left the safety of our bunker. It needed to happen though, it was essential to put the plan into motion. Lula was tasked with calling the FBI tip hotline from a pay phone to let them know that I was spotted in my exact location. We were pretty sure if we left it up to the general public no one would really remember us enough to do so, especially since I was the new guy.

I had clocked the suspicious black vehicle that was pulling up by me and I slipped on my sunglasses which had video recording and the ability to zoom in. " fuuuuck" I mumbled under my breath seeing agents Hotch and Reid get out. I think they assumed I would not put up much of a fight due to my unthreatening vibe, they were wrong.

"Damn he looks cuter in person " I whispered before hearing Danny snap immediately " can you focus please, remember you need to run ,make it a good chase but choose your timing perfectly." I rolled my eyes " yeah yeah." They slowly approached me and dug out their badges before holding them out . " oh are casual greetings a thing of the past now " I said tilting my glasses down a smidge . " we need you to come with us , Quinn is it" Hotch said straight forward. " wow you know this is kind of awkward because that's not my real name but you know ,I'll give you a pass , I think only one person knows my real name you know and they've been very kind to keep it close to their chest " I rambled a bit . " you're pushing it " Danial mumbled . I ignored him and smiled up at Spencer " hey , I think I read something in your file about someone in the office calling you pretty boy, I have to say that's an accurate assessment." Both of them stiffened a bit at this though Spencer seemed to have a soft blush ,but both reached to grab me. I nimbly slipped over the bench and began running . I could hear Lula laughing though the headset as I ran " that's actually wonderful I don't tell you often enough how much I love you " I laughed with her as Atlas said stiffly " hello can we please get back on track please make two left turns and you'll end up at a walled off ally way put the glasses down and let them catch you." " yeah yeah chill out will ya I'm gonna be fine" I said more to myself than Atlas. I sprinted checking behind me noticing them following me with impressive speed . " damn they're fast" I mumbled . " or you're too slow step on it" atlas insisted and and gritted my teeth " shut up smart ass " I said that a little louder then I ment to , I was sure they heard me . " you need to ditch these glasses as soon as possible nothing can trace back to us " atlas reminded me . " I will shut up" I mumbled turning the corner . I threw the glasses amungst some trash and made it seem like I was gonna attempt to climb the about 10 foot wall.

" FREEZE" I heard them yell behind me . I slowly put my hands up , a bit relieved to stop running. " turn around " Hotch shouted. I slowly turned meeting their eyes. They both looked firmly at me , they really thought I was some sort of threat, it was weird. " I got nothing on me , you really think I'd be stupid enough to come out in the open with something I don't need to give you more of a reason to shoot me" I chuckled. They glanced at eachother briefly before Hotch instructed " throw your hoodie off and turn around slowly." I tried not to laugh out loud keeping one hand raised and the other slowly unzipping my jacket. " and as you can see gentleman I have nothing up my sleeve " I smirked to myself as I shrugged off the jacket and threw it back before watching them both glance at my shirt I was fighting a smirk as they both registered my " I ❤️ the FBI" written across my t shirt. Spencer bent down and grabbed my jacket checking it for weapons . " you can keep that if you want it was kind of just a grand reveal for my t shirt " I smirked . " so you think this is a game " Hotch asked evenly . I tried to look as serious as possible " oh no sir never." " Reid check to see if we are being surrounded, you against the wall," Hotch ordering people around again . I obeyed slowly walked over placing my hands on the wall for him to frisk me. I tried my best to breathe evenly though my whole body was beginning to shake a bit out of nerves . " are you okay " Spencer asked as he walked back over. Hotch had finished frisking me and I didn't know how to feel . " I'm fine I appreciate the concern," I said flatly . " hands behind your back " Hotch said curtly ." fine bossy " I mumbled putting my hands behind me . I felt the cold steel of the cuffs click into place and i began to feel even more anxious, this was really happening no more practice. They seemed to notice my shift in mood and seemingly ignored it as they put me in their car. The plan was set in motion , but I was scared shitless.

[frozenhi-chews]

I think the easier question is what I don't like about your ships

But. OUGH I always adore how you craft your ships. They're messy, not always squeaky clean, but that helps them feel more real in a sense to me? Like they've got grit to 'em and it's so *fun* to see the relationship develop.

Not to mention you just nail at writing any kind of mood: fluff, angst, edge. How do you do it ( @gibles-lovely-selfships )

WAWAWAWAWAWA

Thaank yaaaaa!! Honestly making them messy means it's more fun. Like Stars being jealous of Papyrus's friendship with Pancake to the point he snapped at him. Or making angst cuz its fun. I should break more blorbos.

It's just a bucket load of fun! And I'm so happy ya love it!! AaaAaa

Ask game here

[feralxsteddie]

The delulu is real y'all,have some words about how Eddie isnt dead but he'll wish he was because he comes back a little fucked up (⁠つ⁠✧⁠ω⁠✧⁠)⁠つ

Eddie wakes up on the disgusting wet ground, he knows he's awake but he can't open his eyes. The last thing he remembers is his skin feeling on fire and choking on blood and spit as Dustin's voice fades out of existence.

As he faded out of existence.

Now though, he's solid, his sides feel a little sore but he almost feels as if he'd taken a really good nap after a long day. He rubs at his eyes, dried blood flaking off his face and when he finally opens his eyes, he sees nothing but red.

The sky is red, the fog is red, even just the edges of his vision are haloed by a red filter of sorts. He heaves and scrambles off the floor, the trailer is behind him though it's torn apart, a bright crimson gash cutting through a section of it. No doubt about it, Eddie knows they've failed. On the ground around him are demobats, unmoving. All he can hear is rumbling in the distance like a thunderstorm about to come but the lightning hasn't struck yet.

There's a throbbing in the back of his skull and someone speaks to him.

They've left you, poor boy.

Eddie grits his teeth and gasps as he cuts his cheek on something. A fang.

They've gone back home to lick their wounds, but they left you behind.

Close to hyperventilating now Eddie tries to turn to go back to the trailer, to run into what was left of his home and maybe go back, find his party- maybe they'll figure this out. It wasn't their fault he's stuck here, they thought he was dead.

Something holds him down, not physically, looking down there's no vines wrapped around his legs but they just won't move.

None of that boy, we have some preparation to do before you can see your friends again. And I'll promise you this. You will see them again.

He opens his mouth to address the voice, scream for help, do something but there's nothing but ash in his throat. He doubles over, hands braced on his knees as he coughs and wheezes his way though it. The throbbing picks up, and it feels like his head is about to split in two, the hair on the back of his neck prickles up and electricity shoots down his spine.

If Vecna- Eddie assumes the owner of the voice because who else would it be- is implying what he thinks is implying, then it is of the upmost importance that Eddie doesn't get out of here.

Eddie is a lot of things, but he's not stupid. Connecting the dots, he lets the cold irony sit in the bottom of his sore, empty stomach. If this Henry guy is Vecna then that makes him-

'NO. Just, fucking- actually kill me this time! There's no way in hell I'm going to be helping you. Whatever fucked up plan you've got, it won't include me, I'm not going to become your deranged henchman, your Kas- whatever!'

He's got himself so worked up now that he doesn't notice the presence behind him, the tingling kicks up a notch and suddenly there's needles piercing the back of his neck and the scream dies in his throat as Vecna turns Eddie around.

Theres much to do Eddie. Don't worry, I'm sure your friends will like your little... Makeover.

Everything fades again.

[breadandblankets]

tags via @the-sage-libriomancer #duke is like if spiderman suddenly started patrolling in gotham #gothamites are used to either big godly heroes like superman or “nonexistent” cryptids like the bats #they've never had to deal with like. a sixteen y/o in a costume walking them home at night #or stopping bank robberies *as they happen* #so there could be some funny culture clash as gotham gets used to this #also yk that post about how robin is credited for all of batman's successes bc gothamites refuse to admit he's real to the rest of the world #that happens to duke all the time now #literally 90% of the bats wins gets attributed to signal bc now the police have someone they can point fingers at#and duke is LIVING for it #finally something he can hold over his brothers (and steph's) heads #who's the most competent gotham superhero now motherfuckers #guess it's technically me because i'm the only one who's confirmed to exist #meanwhile the other batkids are gritting their teeth and telling themselves that it's the mission not the fame that matters #while duke slurps loudly from a Limited Edition Signal™ Mug

gotham got so used to superheros being "other" cities problems that theyre all collectivly like *suprised pika* for a while at the Signal like dr doof meme "A superhero?" slaps a bat on there "A GOTHAM superhero??" and part of the problem for gotham is that duke is just so damn charismatic and good at interacting with the public/rallying people (hes a born leader what can i say) that its about an hour into his debut before everyone thinks to themselves yeah alright hes ours now.

i think in this au We Are Robin still happened but now its like a game of we are signal within the batclan, there's some mixed feelings about everything getting attributed to The Signal for sure, Dick's already drafting up his daytime-sona Discowing 2, Red Hood has never been underground lmao just.... largely considered a rogue and he kinda never changed anyone's mind about it (i have a draft of an interview with the red hood in this au heheheh), the batman? batgirl? batwoman? lmao do you also believe in mothman? robin was a bunch of kids playing crime fighter lmao

anyway i think bruce makes duke wait till he's 18 to join the justice league, making Signal officially Gotham's Favorite Son right up there with other gotham specific celebrities that Wayne Industries guy

bruce 100% buys signal merch lets be real, he's so fucking proud, the rest of the kids (read dick and jason) are trying to make their own bootleg merch to give to bruce for variety but i think it would be super funny if bruce wayne's signal mug becomes like a perminate fixture of his instagram or smth

au where the bats manage to stay urban legends, sure other heroes know of them, but they help largely from the shadows, they aren't put on display and they're hardly known at All outside of the strange circle of gotham's goons

that changes when duke thomas stares batman down and says on no uncertain terms that he's working day shift

the signal is Gotham's first confirmed superhero, and he wears a bat on his chest

social media goes Wild fighting over whether the Batman existed all along or if someone finally got the tech and powers to make the bat (or a bat) Real

suddenly the world of superheros feels a lot more real to the citizens of Gotham who got used to horrible disasters being either ignored or neatly cleaned away from the public eye, now there's a guy getting thrown through windows and helping grannies cross the street and the war between gotham and metropolis gets even more cut throat

[lunarscaled]

Nnoitra spots them, some time later, and shifts his entire walking path to cut their's off. A large hand moves to hold the top of their head, holding them in place. He bends down, teeth bared, a low, hum in his chest.

"Oi. Pest. Didja like the fajitas or what??" - @samagwi

-> They're inside the walls today, listening to Ulquiorra's boundaries while also peering around through the arching, looming spaces for someone they recognize ( which were really only two other people, but they're looking for them anyways. ) Arched windows span some pale sections of wall, floor to ceiling, and their head is turned towards the view of the dark beyond them: silvery moon, real or not, illuminates the hall and them.

-> They hear the click of his boots before they see him. And just as they're pivoting their direction to walk away from him, they hear his gait pick up and come closer; head and horns turn just enough to catch him in their peripherals as he cuts a B-line through the open atrium to them. Lyric tries to outpace him—ends up side stepping and nearly pushing themselves into the wall before he gets his hand on their head and they go ramrod straight under his grip, shoulders jerking up near their jaw. The moonlight is blue off his black hair as he leans his long, whippish body down at an angle to look at them. The way he grits his teeth at them makes them nervous, their own teeth biting into their tongue. The pressure of his hand is a firm don't move.

"... ... yeah. I said they were good."

-> Specifically, Lyric thanked Tesla politely for the food and ate it without protest after Nnoitra scruffed them by the back of their collar and hauled them inside when Lyric asked him what fajitas were. That wasn't explicitly saying it was good, but Lyric thought having no complaints about free food was equivalent to that, even if their stomach hurt a bit later. It'd been many years since they had anything with a decent amount of spices on it that was more indulgence than health food. ( they don't say Don't call me a pest like they clearly want to, or Why does it matter to you .ᐣ keep their answers concise and polite since he didn't abandon them in a cave in the desert alone. they have to at least try to stay polite even if they feel like he's putting pressure on them anyways. ) There's a clicking sound in their chest like they've got a card caught in a rolling bike spoke——cautious.

"Did Tesla ask?"

@samagwi

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 9th May

Oooh, two number ones. Not only that, but two number ones that I don't actually know at all - these could literally be anything, I've not even heard of them. Exciting times!

Rock-A-Billy - Guy Mitchell (peaked at Number 1)

Well, I do know Guy Mitchell. I think of all the pre-rock and roll artists, he's possibly adapted the best to the new style of music, and this song's title suggests to me that he's making another bid to stay relevant. How successful will he be? I guess we'll see...

We start with some moderately energetic guitars and hand clapping, which is then spoiled by some of the world's laziest lyrics, as Guy sings rock-a-billy, rock-a-billy, rock-a-billy, rock, rock-a-billy, rock-a-billy, rock, rock. Seriously, that's the whole chorus. It's like somebody at the record company said gee, this rock and roll thing's hot, and I hear there's a genre called rockabilly, let's just repeat that a whole lot, the kids will love it!

It's not horrible, that said. First we get a verse about rockabilly's history, and how some people think it came from Tennessee / Then spread on out to the lone prairie. And then we also get a verse that's basically Guy giving us instructions for dancing, telling us to grab yourself a partner, lose the blues / Wear your store-bought clothes and your stompin' shoes, and later to wiggle like a trout. Which are both charming enough, if a bit odd. But I guess that's the point - if rock and roll are for the young, cool city folks, rockabilly's its weird hillbilly mirror version, less glam, but no less energetic and wild. At least in theory, it is - I'm not convinced that Guy Mitchell has any actual authentic country-boy cred, for all that he repeats the word "rockabilly" a tonne in the chorus, and so the song's kind of lacking in the grit you get in a lot of "real" rockabilly songs.

I do enjoy the fact that they've included not one but two gear-shift key changes. We've had a severe lack of cheesy key changes so far, more's the pity. Two feels a little excessive, but I'm not complaining at all. This song's a cheese-fest anyway, what's there to lose?

Actually, the more I listen, the more I'm thankful for the key changes, because without them, the song would get very monotonous. There's not a huge amount of variation between the verses and the chorus, and there's not much in the way of instrumental breaks or solos to break up the track, either. If you didn't have the key changes, it would just be a straight-up brutally boring gallop towards the finish line.

I have to be honest, this song is leaving me a little cold. I think it's the cynicism of it all. It definitely feels like an attempt to cash in on a trend, and while Guy's voice and general vibe are good for it, it doesn't feel like the most natural thing ever, or like much actual passion's been put into it. Compare this to Little Richard's yowling and bawling - the emotional whammy isn't even comparable.

Butterfly - Andy Williams (1)

Okay, we're starting out with the same sort of strummy guitar/banjo, clicks, claps and vocal aaaah backing that we got at the start of Singing the Blues. And overall, this has a similar vibe to that song, with some bluesy piano and some backing singers going doo-doo-wah throughout. It sets us up in a sort of blue, mopey mood that continues throughout the song.

Andy's got a voice that works for it, too - he croons in a way that's not a million miles from Elvis, with a lot of emphasis on some notes, and less on others, and a pretty emotional delivery, overall, with these little uh sounds on the end of lines. It's cool, legitimately.

But the musical elements are the least memorable aspects of this song, because... yikes, those lyrics. I kind of like them, but they're definitely of their era. First we learn how Andy's girl is a bit of a floozy, as he sings about how You tell me you love me, you say you'll be true / Then you fly around with somebody new. He's still crazy about her, but she flits around like a butterfly, so he decides to break up, telling us about how You treat me mean, you're makin' me cry / I've made up my mind to tell you goodbye. But to no avail, she's simply the troublin' kind, and so, in the creepiest line of the lot, we learn that I love you so much I know what I'll do / I'm clippin' your wings, your flyin' is through.

Ugh. It's so gross and creepy, a real predatory, serial killer line. Its only redeeming feature is that I could imagine it being used to brilliant ironic effect in a horror movie. I don't even know what "clippin' your wings" would mean, in this context - I think that's what makes it so awful! It could be so many different terrible things, and Andy sings it in this mild-mannered, sweet way that just makes the dissonance worse - urgh!

I do enjoy the metaphor of it all. And when I divorce the lyrics from the possible creepiness behind them, I do kind of like the song. Heck, I even like it as an ironic serial killer ballad. But boy, is Andy pushing it here!

It's at this point that I also need to shout out the backing singer in the back half who just does a solitary bom periodically. That, and the quote on the cover of the version I'm listening to, which describes Andy as "one of those he-males who slays the females". Which isn't doing much for the serial killer accusations, honestly.

I did weirdly enjoy both of those songs, but I'm under no illusions that they were the best songs ever to reach Number 1. Still, one felt a bit more genuine, even if that genuineness was creepy, and that has to earn it the top spot this week, as opposed to Guy's blatant attempt to cash in on a trend.

Favourite song of the bunch: Butterfly

[cleaning-pest-services]

Stain-Free Bliss: Discover the Wonders of Sofa Cleaning in Sharjah

Hey there, Sharjah sofa dwellers! We've got to have a real talk about the elephant in the living room - or rather, what's lurking deep within the fibers of that couch you've been chilling on. 

While your plush sectional may look perfectly presentable from a distance, the truth is that sofas are low-key germ puddles just waiting to make you sick. Think about it - all that daily lounging leads to a nasty buildup of dust mites, pet dander, food crumbs, stale odors, and who-knows-what-else getting ground into the upholstery over time.

Sure, you may vacuumed once in a while to tidy up the surface. But trust me, that pales in comparison to the embedded funk that regular vacuum can't reach. Unless you want lungfuls of allergy attacks every time you binge-watch, professional deep cleaning is an absolute must for any sofa - and that's where the sofa sanitizing gurus at Al Ameen Pest Control come in clutch.

These carpet care wizards have made Sofa Cleaning service Sharjah their bread and butter. Their truck-mounted hot water extraction rigs and arsenal of eco-friendly cleansers are designed to neutralize any and all nasties burrowed into your living room couch pit. No stain, smear or stench is too stubborn to be vanquished!

Here's why getting Al Ameen Pest Control's specialized Sofa Cleaning service Sharjah on a regular basis needs to be part of your cleaning regimen:

A Customized Cleaning Action Plan  

Their certified sofa cleaning techs don't just spray some scented gunk on your couch and call it a day. Before they even begin, they'll carefully inspect your furniture and formulate a calculated action plan. This assessment covers everything from fabric material and tough discolorations to any special cleaning concerns. 

That way, their treatment process can be precisely tailored and optimized for your sofa's specific needs - whether it's a delicate hand-woven number or durable microfiber beast. No one-size-fits-all half-measures here!

Heavy-Duty Dirt Demolition  

Once they've cased your couch layout, their crew calls in their soil assassins - high-powered truck-mounted cleaning rigs that use scorching hot water to literally pressure-wash away any lingering grime and gunk. Those crusty old stains, lingering odors and trapped allergens don't stand a chance!

With this deep cleaning process, your sofa set gets totally revived and rejuvenated from the inside out. No more collapsing into a sad sofa pit of stale smells and grit. Just plush, fresh-feeling furniture that looks and smells just like the day you unboxed it.   

Of course, Al Ameen's cleaning arsenal is stocked with plenty of specialized spot treaters and cleaners to demolish any stubborn stains too. From pet accidents to dried-on food spills, these stain squashers have a trick up their sleeve to zap every last blemish.

Protective Couch Armor

But here's where their Sofa Cleaning service Sharjah really levels up: they don't just get your couches cleaner than clean - they reinforce them to stay that way longer!

After scouring away every last speck of grime, their team caps off the cleaning session with a stain-repelling fabric protector coating. This creates an invisible shield to keep future stains, spills and soils from seeping in as easily. It's like outfitting your sofa in a sleek little tuxedo so it can keep rocking that fresh-out-the-box look for ages!

A+ Convenience  

Of course, even the most committed homemakers don't have time to be lugging heavy equipment and single-handedly deep cleaning their living room sectional every month. That's why Al Ameen has streamlined their whole Sofa Cleaning service Sharjah operation to be a total ease.

Their online booking system makes it simple to schedule your next appointment with just a few clicks. You can even take advantage of discounted service package bundles to keep those sofas shipshape all year long! Once your cleaning team shows up, all you have to do is kick back while they handle every last sudsy detail.

Look, at the end of the day, we all spend way too much valuable couch time to settle for grimy, stale-smelling furniture. With the A+ Sofa Cleaning service Sharjah, you can ensure your living room sofa set is always fresh, spotless and off-the-showroom-floor fabulous. Those plush upholstery oases deserve to be treated like royalty!