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vyzz-undercover · 9 months ago

Text

someone left my cage open quick

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•not dubcon? [omg they've grown guys]

•hints of size kink

•vaginal fingering [on herself]

•(so i guess) masturbation

•oral [m receiving]

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions on contraception

•discussions on pregnancy

•mild possessive behaviour

•hint of slapping (he deserves it)

•mild horror themes [warp ptsd]

•tumblr's cancerous fucking formatting as always

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

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

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

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

Cato grits his teeth at the thought alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and sees and feels steel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to give it to you.

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

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

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

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

Cato stuffs the dagger back against his breast.

He's not sure if he should knock.

Maybe barging in is a more logical approach.

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

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

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

The door clicks, then slides open a minute later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Water," he says abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you huff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What reason?"

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

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

"Yes, it is," you huff back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He insisted?"

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

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

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

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

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

Cato scoffs, "I always have been."

"And that is so terribly hard?"

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

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

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

He frowns sourly, "What did I get?"

"Laid," you snark.

Cato huffs, "You were desperate for it."

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

"Groxshit," you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's got your attention now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanted it," Cato growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do what?"

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

Cato sneers haughtily, "Decades of practice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it," he pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine, well beyond words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato stays quiet, considering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, sinker—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's practically vibrating from elation.

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

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

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

Still, he plays along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Cato barks.

Your face reddens, "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laugh it earns from him is just as genuine.

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

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agirlandherquill · 27 days ago

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writecamp - day 1, june 1st - the kickoff!

welcome to the start of summer campers! this post marks the kickoff of a two month long writing game i absolutely cannot wait to take part in alongside you all!

now, you may be wondering, what are the rules? for those of you that took part in or were familiar with writemas, it's the same thing, but for those of you that are new or just joining the game that's brilliant! I can't wait to spend the summer writing alongside you! the rules are as follows: choose a prompt (or as many of them as you like) from the list, write something and share your creation with the rest of writeblr, and share the game with others, because as we all know writing is a gift and it deserves to be shared! and of course, tag me in your responses because i cannot wait to see them!

and for those of you that don't know or need a reminder how writecamp's going to work, i've got a list of some pointers below:

each day of summer, starting June 1st, i will post the writecamp daily challenge - containing all sorts or prompts to stir the imagination pot

the game is open to all, and if you join late, no problem! just embrace the writery spirit of summer and play along! (you don't have to complete every day's challenge, but whatever you do, always be proud of yourself! because i for one am so proud of all of you)

bonus part (completely optional, but lovely if you choose to do it) - alongside your challenge entries, make sure to find a blog on writeblr, a writer you admire or one you've only just found, and pay them a compliment! (something so small but so, so important <3)

now, that marks the end of all the organisational admin stuff - (ironically im not as organised as i intended to be, i thought i had an extra day to get everything sorted ((whoops!)) so this first post is coming out a few hours later than intended but i promise every other post will be coming out on time, which will be 9am GMT but of course there's no time limit for your entries, pick and choose and play along as you please!)

moving onto the part you (and i) have all been waiting for - the first day of writecamp! (see under the cut!)

The Prompt List

Dialogue Prompts:

"You shouldn't have run from me."

"Take it back. Take it all back."

"You're... Smiling, and I can't quite understand why."

"Let your fears go. they can't control you, only you can control yourself."

"Dawn is on its way. The least we can do is live long enough to meet it."

Setting Prompts:

A mossy castle

A sunbathed meadow

A ring of fire

A crumbling dungeon

A walk at twilight

Narration Prompts:

The wind was neither her friend nor her foe. The wind was a part of her, it lifted her limbs, rendered them wings, and in defiance of her fate she took flight from the precipice of the cliff.

He would not utter a sound to please the whims of his enemies, his silence was the only weapon he could render against the army waiting, watching, willing him to beg for mercy. He would not give. He would entrust his life to silence.

Was there something so wrong with love? What crime against life itself did the heart commit in falling so completely, so impossibly for somebody else? And what punishment must be made in its stead?

Her hope was her saving, as it always had been, but as the danger loomed at her back, as its cruel, unrelenting shadow passed over her shoulder, she abandoned all hope, replaced her clasped hands with the blade sitting in her lap, and turned to meet it.

He had never been a man to cower before someone deemed his better, but for someone he deemed worse, someone he deemed worthy, he dropped to one knee.

Feeling Prompts:

The creaks of a broken body

The warmth of a summer wind

The sting of frozen water

The weariness of time

The gentle sigh of truth

happy kickoff day campers and i can't wait to see what you all come up with!

~ A Girl and Her Quill

~ ~ ~ now for the tags! for writecamp, because i have a feeling there's going to be so many of you, i'm going to do tags a little bit differently and instead tag all you lovely campers in the comments! (to hopefully get around any tag limits/difficulties because we all know there's going to be problems, it's inevitable and i'm going to do my best to avoid any issues in that area)

but of course, if you would like to be tagged in future daily challenges for writecamp, all you've got to do is interact with this post - it'll be monitored throughout the entirety of the challenge to ensure nobody who wants to be tagged misses out!

#writeblr #tag game #writecamp

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soullessseraphim · 8 days ago

Note

Oh! Oh! I want to see Dark Cacao in your artstyle, please! I think he'd look so cool. Also, maybe some Burning One sketches too? He's so funky I love him. I feel like his wings would be kinda shimmery, like, in different lighting his wings would have an iridescent glow!

Hmm anon you have a tendency to have 2 sketch requests in one ask... anyways Im really happy with how Dark Cacao's face turned out!

Meanwhile just testing sum rendering with the burning one but yes,, when his head isn’t uh. On fire, the wings have a dim glow to them, altjough when you talked about shimmer I. Had to try it out. I wanted to make bro magestic...

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starconstruction · 25 days ago

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Virtual Imprisonment

Yandere ARTMS x Reader

"God you've really gotta stop doing shit like this." Your friend said, handing you the final piece of the headset, she was a friend longer than you could recall, helping you with all your stupid ideas.

Like this one. Following some rabbit hole you found on the Internet, something about an old folk tale, a "Virtual Angel" Very little of it was mentioned about what was inside, just how you could make the device.

Your friend Tzuyu was more than happy to help, like when she was willing to help you jump off a cliff, hack ATM's and siphon trees. Now you had the device, which required levels of technical engineering you have never even witnessed. How she learned all this? She would never tell, but she was always the smarter one of you two.

"Yeah, but I'm sure whatever is on the other side is pretty fucking sick." You replied, sitting back on the collective pillows you set up in a late night haze.

"Maybe it will be, I've really gotta do some assignments. You good here?" She grabbed her bag on the floor, zipping it up as she threw it around her back.

"Yep, thanks again Tzuyu." You smiled.

"don't mention it." Her voice was quiet as she walked away, you were a bit terrified to put this device on, it might not work, it might blow up, but it was way too much of your own money to just shy away from this.

The device was multiple colors, made out of scrap metal and a dream. A glorified VR headset with something that made it different, at the very least it felt heavy.

Here goes nothing.

You put it on, watching the screen light up, nothing? Just pure white. Did she fuck it up?

A sudden pain stabbed you in the stomach, forcing you to kneel over in agony, then your arms. Then your head, then you weren't conscious to think.

The world in front of you was certainly different, the sky was a dark blue, being pierced by the sun rising, or setting. It's pink and orange hues much brighter than you've ever seen, the ground below you looked like earth, just different, shifted. Indescribable, everything felt strange.

You could feel everything, a soft wind pushing against you, hand reaching out towards the sky. Throughout the horizon there was buildings, but the details didn't exist, like they weren't being rendered.

"Hello." A voice rang out from behind, your neck nearly snapping as you turned around in fear.

"So this is our new lover. Cute." One of them said.

There was 5 of them, all of them looking ethereal, unreal. Like seraphs, varying colors of hair from orange to black. Glowing against a light you couldn't see.

"Yeah, we got lucky this time." Another one said, they got closer.

"Hello new lover. It is nice to meet you, I'm Jinsoul." The girl said, her hair red, her words filling you with concern.

"New lover?" You repeated, taking a step back.

"Yes, you came to us, surely you knew that? I'm Choerry." The black haired girl said, hair curled up, all of them had matching white outfits, pairs of wings.

"No, no I did not." You've fucked up this time, the bemused looks made that pretty clearer.

"Interesting, you did all the effort to do this? But you didn't even check? I'm Kim Lip, and the blonde haired girl is Heejin and the other black hair girl is Haseul." She pointed, getting the rest of the introductions out of the way.

"I saw something online, thought I'd check it out." You responded cautiously, looking around. Your surroundings had changed, trees forming around you. They all looked the same, tall, green, perfect, carbon copies of themselves.

"Well no matter, you will learn how perfect it is here soon enough." The girl introduced as Heejin said.

"Uhh, I don't kn- FUCK" You fell to your knees, eyes burning in static as a vast surge of colors, like a TV screen. Hands clutching your chest. Every part of your body fighting against itself.

"Oh that's kicked in earlier than usual, we need to do the ritual quickly." You couldn't discern who said it, feeling a hand touching your face, it felt blurry, not real.

"R-ritual? Oh god." The pain surged, chest tightening every second bringing even more pain.

"Yes, just a......." The rest of the words replaced itself with static, what was happening to you?

You couldn't feel anything but pain, drowning in its waves, holding on to any ounce of stability you had. "........." the static grew louder, crushing down on you as another stabbing pain hit your stomach.

"...... Nearly......... Jinsoul?...... Good" The static started to break up, giving way to words, pain starting to subside.

"Oh god, what the fuck just happened to me?" You said, voice pained as Heejin shot you an empathetic look.

"That's just something that happens to all lovers, you are safe now." Choerry stepped in to speak. The environment had changed again, now the inside of a house, one eerily similar to your very own. The sight made your blood cold, Jinsoul held you on her lap, everything felt unnatural, but not unpleasant.

"What if I wanna go home? I have seen what I wanted to, can I just take this thing off?" Your hands grabbed at the headset, but it didn't budge, Jinsoul quickly grabbed your hands, holding them against her legs.

"You can't leave, we won't let you. We are sick of people running from us." Haseul's voice was firm, frustrated, you tried to move from Jinsoul's arms, but she held you down, heart pumping faster suddenly.

"I, don't think I'm the one you want, you could do better." You were struggling to weasel your way out of this, but their faces turned aggressive. Tzuyu was right, you should have listened to her.

"Stop. We've heard this all before, you don't wanna see what happens to those who push our buttons." Kim Lip growled, you needed to get out of Jinsoul's arms, now.

You took advantage of her not paying attention, tugging your arms away as she gasped, jumping up. The other girls in front of you posed a threat, trying to find a way past, but there was no success. You were fucked.

"Fine, you can join the rest." Heejin snapped her fingers, the set drop changing as they all disappeared. You immediately felt nauseous, the sight in front of you was abhorrent.

Maggots crawled out from every surface, writhing around the various walls of what appeared to be a catacombs. The floor covered in blood, but the worst had to be the stench, repulsive, intolerable, rotten. "What the fuck."

You couldn't walk, having to get down and crawl in order to get past the obstacles, blood leaching into the fabric of your clothes, a cesspit of death. Resist the urge to gag.

You kept moving, every sight filled with more horrors than the last. There was so many bodies, all ripped open with so many bugs entering and leaving them. The sight filling your mouth with bile, the urge to throw up too strong, unloading your guts onto the ground. Fuck.

Roaches started to climb up your hands, unshakable, climbing into your jacket. You could feel them crawl around, maybe you shouldn't have turned them down.

You could finally get back to your feet, looking down at the ruined clothes below you. It was too dark to see, save for the faint digital light shining through the crack of the hatch. You tried to punch it, locked, shit. You tried again to no avail, but there was no other option.

Who knows how long it took, hand bruised and bloody when an opening finally presented itself, cracking open the faintest amount. Allowing your fingers through, grabbing onto the lock desperately. Couldn't bare the sight of what you were seeing. Hoisting yourself up with new found strength. Swatting the rest of the roaches off of your skin, feeling itchier than ever. Discarding your jacket as you looked up.

"Oh wow! Normally they don't make it out of there, being left to die and become bug food! I'm really proud, it's not too late to be ours honey!" Jinsoul said to your left, feet no longer on the ground as she flew above you. The rest you couldn't see, which only filled you with more fear.

"Fuck... You! That was disgusting." You coughed, struggling to stand.

"Oh wow, your words hurt you know? I don't like being swore at. You are going to have to pay for that." She mimicked Heejin's earlier actions, snapping her fingers as the world in front of you split into various pieces. Looking below led to a bottomless pit, full of stars and the cosmos itself. That couldn't be good. Looking above had the same effect, there was so many shards of earth, it was unexplainable. Unfathomable.

"What the fuck is this?!" You yelled to Jinsoul, who was flying in the middle now, taking a sadistic enjoyment in this slapped together torture show.

"Stop swearing! It's so uncouth." She was unbelievable, "Behind you is a little wall of instant death, I'm unoriginal, never had to do this before you know? So run, little prey, run." The wall behind you was pure black, choosing to take her at word, hopping from the starting platform to the next.

"This is doing too much!" You yelled, stumbling as the wall lingered closer, jumping forward once more. Adrenaline pumped through you, screaming as you landed on the grass. Unable to look at Jinsoul.

"You need to learn your place!" She was pissed, watching you run in this rat race, getting closer and closer to Jinsoul, the wall getting too close, far too close.

You started to climb up, impressed at your own determination, listening to your intense breathing, hands clammy, but you couldn't give up. Not with your life on the line.

Just a little more.

You've got this.

You sprinted towards the middle, unable to reach her floating form, looking around for anything, the wall was creeping in, slower now. "Stop this now! This is nuts!" You yelled, evident by the smirk on her face she wasn't really listening.

You had to do something and it had to be drastic. There was a rough piece of stone, sharp, pointed, large enough to deal damage.

You ran to it before it could be consumed, grabbing on it. Bracing yourself for the incoming impact, take a deep breath.

Bash your head into the rock. The metal cried out in pain, screen temporarily flashing a ensemble of colors. "Wait! Stop that!" You could hear Jinsoul yell, no time to pay it mind as your head went for round two.

A loud crunch could be heard as the left side of the headset weakened, scrap metal falling apart at the jagged stone that it was being slammed into. Jinsoul's voice was growing louder, she was drawing closer.

No time to focus on that, you smashed your head once more, your vision being constricted to the right hand side, so surreal as your sight was halved by bright colors, the feed going dead.

The next strike never came, knocked on the ground as a pissed off Jinsoul towered over you, "This could have all been easy! But I think there's still time to break you." She sneered, a sudden punch in the stomach followed, making you heave.

"This is fucking insane! Off me!" You two got into a dance, pushing back and forth in the ensuing struggle, a clear winner forming as she held significantly more stamina. More than you've ever seen, inhumane, but they weren't human beings, they were monsters.

"Good luck breaking anything else!" She laughed, disappearing into the sky. Looking around you everything had been replaced by pillows, loads of pillows. Of various sizes, shapes and colors, every combination you could think of was here. No walls, no roof, you weren't even entirely sure there was a floor. Nothing heavy enough to further break the device that imprisoned you.

Your vision was limited, but there was no mistaking that Choerry was getting closer, she wasn't poised with that anger Jinsoul had, her expression soft as everything else in this section of the fever dream. "Hey baby, looking a bit... Rough there?" She pointed towards your head, miraculously your clothes were no longer stained in blood, clean once more.

Sanitised, like everything else.

"This one doesn't look as intimidating as the last two death traps I've done." You said, mostly to yourself, standing proved difficult, the pillows providing no stable footing, falling back to your knees. Looking up at Choerry, who was directly in front of you.

"Because I have no interest in killing you, in fact, this rooms designed to give the ultimate comfort!" She had a smile, one that looked genuine, laying down next to you, forcing you in her arms, her grip stronger than iron as she clamped down.

"I've got to get out of this nightmare, I don't have time for this!" You thrashed, but it was futile, worthless. "Let me out!" Her expression didn't change, maintaining it's gentleness. Her hand starting to stroke your hair, each finger gliding with nothing but care.

"Do you? I don't know why you run so much dear, what is there to gain on the other side? Everyone talks of work, low sleep, relationships that fail to be. But here? It's perfect, none of that. Just you, us and a world that can be whatever you want it to be. " She monologued, each word feeling strangely believable, although also hollow. You continued to struggle.

"Then get someone else, I need to get home." You replied, able to think of several major reasons for wanting to return, all circling back to Tzuyu.

"You don't get it do you? This is so much better, I know real human touch is different. But this, it's so close to real. Don't fight this feeling. Don't fight." She muttered, you could feel your energy being sapped, forced away from you with a replacing tiredness. One half of your vision static and the other half black from the proximity. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, trapped. What the hell?

"That's it, just sleep, good good. Finally listening." Were you asleep? You could still think, still hear, but that was it. "Kim Lip! Come here!" She shouted into the air, a strong presence disrupted the serenity, your heart started to hammer.

"Yes Choerry dear?" Kim Lip said behind you, or in front of you, where was anyone? Choerry's grip loosened slightly.

"They've fallen asleep, like you asked! I think we might be able to get them to comply." She had sugar in her voice, but you struggled to breathe, right? Were you even breathing? What was happening?

"Good. You are so good at your task Yerim." She said, you were trying to scream, but you had no voice to cry suffering. Trapped.

"Can I keep them here? Or do you need to bring them to that place? I don't like that one, it's so... Eugh." Choerry's or Yerim's? Words made even more dread pump through your veins, more than you thought was ever possible.

"Tell you what, how about when they wake up if you can convince them to stay calm, you can take them wherever you want. Sound good?" The words felt almost infantalising, but Choerry's happy wail seemed to show no sign of disappointment.

"Thank you, Jungeun! I'm gonna decorate this place up! Make it homey, see you later!" You felt her body disappear, falling into the faux mattress.

You were forced to sit there alone, still frozen, time unable to be grasped.

I know you are still conscious, Y/N.

What?

You must be different.

Who the hell?

Never in our time have we seen someone so defiant, strong, but I can see through this facade, you yearn for a person on the other side.

Get out of my head.

I'm not leaving until Choerry is ready to deal with you, now who is this person? They can't possibly compare to what we can offer.

I'm not answering that.

You don't have to, you thought a million possibilities before focusing on those 4 words, I can see everything.

I'm not going to ever stay here.

I wouldn't be so sure, you like Choerry, I can sense it. I see your pity, you think of Jinsoul with a sense of mockery, but you don't dislike her, or Haseul, or Kim Lip, or me.

Heejin?

How observant, we were so impatient with you, yet you've survived the longest. Fascinating.

Cut out the bullshit, why are you in my head? How are you in my head?

Just something I can do, all of us do something special. But I'm here to warn you, defying any further will make you deal with Kim Lip, and she's not as kind as Jinsoul was, or as sweet as Choerry.

Kind? You call a torture obstacle course kind?

Trust me, she's so much nicer than the rest of us will be, perhaps consider what I said before trying to run. Hey look, Choerry's ready! I'll get out of the way, hope it wakes you up. Goodbye!

Fuck you.

You could see again, or at least with the functioning half, Choerry was in front of you, now wearing a much simpler outfit. In a set of Pajamas with cherry imprinted on the fabric, purple in color. Her hair was now put up, like she was about to head off to dream world. Did she need to?

You tilted your head to see everything, it now looked like a real place, props being taken from your home, how did they keep doing that? You had so many questions, every second you spent here was harming your brain.

Choerry smiled as she sat on the newly made bed, her expression disarming, Heejin might have been right. "Come over here! I want a hug!" She said, your legs moved on their own accord, ignoring your concerns. There was ways to break your headset in here, this could be your way out.

You were forced into yet another hug, used to the touch at this point, "Did you enjoy your nap? I thought we could watch a - wait a minute, someone's in your room." The thought made your heart race, it had to be Tzuyu, she was the only one who could get in there.

"Tzuyu? Why is she here already? I thought she would have waited." You said, maybe you could reach her? "Can she hear me? If you can-" Choerry's hand clamped around your mouth.

"Shh! I don't want to make the others hurt you, I just wanna enjoy this moment! Please. Please." She reasoned, tugging on your heart strings. Like you were the monster, but you had to push past it.

"Mmmph! Mmm!" Your voice was being blocked, Tzuyu had to be able to hear you if she freaked out. Find your strength, come on!

"Please! Please! Just, stop! I'm begging you, the real world isn't worth it! I just want to spend time with you!" Her voice started to break up, cracking as tears fell down her face. The adrenaline coursed through you, grabbing onto her hand, desperate to pry it off.

"No! I can't let you talk to her! It's not too late to just stop!" You finally got her hand away. A deep breath as you fell back into the strange floor.

"Tzuyu! If you are still there, get the headset off! I don't care how, I'm oh god!" Your entire body lurched in pain, Choerry watched on as your eye met with Kim Lip. Holding a knife.

"Choerry was so sweet, trying to save you from this pain, but you didn't listen. You aren't worth her kindness." The words stung a bit, but nothing compared to the sudden kick to your stomach, launching your body through the air until you crashed against a pile of pillows.

The screen flashed with static, Tzuyu? "Tzuyu? Was that you? Please keep going!" You shouted.

"She's not going to save you, Haseul scared her off. Nobody will save you." You gulped. What do you do? Kim Lip appeared on top of you, knife pointed directly at your neck. This is it. You were going to die.

"You could have had it all, but I guess your luck has ran out." You struggled, but it was pointless, she was significantly stronger. All this for nothing.

"I guess. Sorry, Tzuyu." You said, closing your eyes, letting the half world go dark. Waiting, letting every thought of your life pass you by.

You are weak. You could survive, but you aren't trying. Give up and forget Tzuyu, this is your last chance.

Heejin's back in your head, why aren't you dead?

I told her to wait, you can't move anyway. If you didn't interest us so much I wouldn't have.

I don't want to live here. Death might be better.

You don't believe that, I know you know that. You liked when Choerry held you, you even liked it when Jinsoul did. You are scared, lonely. Give in. Embrace it.

Tzuyu ran. She didn't care enough to save you, let us whisk you away from every responsibility, experience heaven.

Don't you fucking speak about her like that! It's not true.

It is, but perhaps you don't see it that way. You will soon enough.

You gasped, the environment had changed once more, Haseul's face was barely visible in the sky, watching you.

"Y/N?" That voice. Her. You turned around, there she was. You ran towards her, but she was just out of reach. Like an invisible wall had erected to block you from your hopes.

"Tzuyu? What, what are you doing here?" You put your hand out.

"You need to stop running. Stay here, I don't want you home." You stepped back.

"What? You don't mean that." You responded with a quiver, Tzuyu let out a scoff.

"Dont I? You are pathetic. Roping me into all of your stupid fucking plans! You are meaningless, I hate you." These words didn't feel like hers, a script being forced upon an actress.

"This isn't you, I know it isn't you. They are using you." You said, Tzuyu? Whatever it was stepped closer, breaking through whatever barrier held you moments prior.

"It is, you try to pretend this isn't true. But you know deep down you have no chance with me. I can't stand hanging out with you. Stay here, if you care about me." You couldn't listen to this, this illusion was not real. Nothing was real.

You ran, again. It was all you could do.

But you didn't make it far.

Another Tzuyu appeared in front of you, forcing you backwards, then another one to your left. To your right. All chanting the same mantra.

"I hate you. Leave me."

They started to close in around you, forcing you to cower.

"I hate you. Leave me."

Stop. Stop.

They didn't.

They got closer.

You couldn't breathe. Their words flowed into your ears like tar, blocking anything else out. You couldn't handle this. You couldn't.

"STOP!" You yelled, but it didn't work.

"I hate you. Leave me."

"Stop! Enough, I give up! Stop. Please!" at once everything around you disappeared, being replaced by the 4 torturers and Choerry. In this moment a significantly better fate.

"Finally. That was all it took huh? We can do so much worse if you ever disobey again." Haseul remarked, you were shaking violently, not even bothered when Choerry sat down and brought you back into a hug.

"I get it, I... Eugh." The words died in your throat, every action withering you down till you were but a shell of yourself.

Their smugness was palpable, proud of everything they had done. You could feel their stares, their smiles.

You broke down into tears.

"Let it out, that's good." Heejin said, voice softening with every tear that dropped.

The world around you shifted, back into the same place you met them at. "You've given up, so let's finalize this. Remove the need for that headset." Jinsoul tapped on your head, "I'm so excited! After every person who's died, rejected us. We finally have the lover we've craved."

Their words didn't become easier, in fact you were petrified, but you didn't move. There was no energy left to fight. You were just going to have accept everything they did.

Choerry moved you towards the middle of the field, a moon in the middle. Surrounded by feathers, "I'm so proud of you for finally giving in. I love you so much." She put you down softly against the floor.

The 5 of them formed a circle, hands clasped towards the air as the sky started to change color to a deep purple. "Accept the fate of the moon, burn yourself free of those duties." Jinsoul began, flashing the color of the ocean.

"Bind them to our plane, loosen them of their worries." Heejin continued, shining the color of the sun.

"Remove the curse of the previous life, rebirth them whole." Haseul spoke, becoming the color of the grass.

"Create a new angel from the ashes." Kim Lip carried on, burning the color of the flames.

"And let us cherish eternally." Choerry finished, becoming the color of the sky.

At once those colors rushed towards you, jumping into your eyes, piece by piece the headset shattered. Your chances of freedom squashed, replaced by an eternal vow of imprisonment.

Your vision fully returned, allowing you to see all of them properly. Their previous anger and anguish not visible, they knew they won. "Good, good, you are ours now." Heejin had a cocky smile, getting closer. You didn't back up. Letting her hand cradle your cheek with curiosity. "This world is so vast, anything we want to be made is made. And it stays. Let us bring you home."

Weeks, or at least what you interpreted as weeks had passed. There wasn't a way to tell, the sky changed at their will, everything did. You counted it by every time you slept, able to properly shut down.

To say it was all bad wouldn't be right, when you acted how they wanted everyone acted pleasant and considerate.

They certainly made their authority known, the smallest hesitance was met with swift retaliation. Only by the hands of Kim Lip, Heejin and Haseul. For some reason Jinsoul had taken the same role as Choerry and coddled you at every given opportunity.

They had brought you back to the earlier house, but it took the impression of everyone. Shades of blue, red, yellow, purple and green everywhere. They all had a favorite color they flaunted.

Your body would never be found, disappearing into the shattered headset, Tzuyu would never have closure. That stung, more than anything.

But as you watched the Betta fish swim around in the fish tank, you realized there wasn't much of a reason to fight.

It was futile.

#yandere #female yandere #kpop yandere #yandere kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x male reader #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #loona yandere #artms yandere #yandere artms

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kozachenko · 11 months ago

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[Click for better quality]

OK finally back with some more drawings! Since Touhou 17 is approaching it's 5 year anniversary soon, I wanted to draw at least one of the charatcers (hopefully I'll still be motivated to draw Keiki lol) and I had some ideas for Saki and I've never drawn her before, so that's how we got here!

Artist's Notes;

So after doing some drawings of my OCs (who I will reveal upon a later date since I still wanna finalize their designs) and finally getting out of my art funk that I've been in for a while, I started off this drawing with the mentality of "oh yeah I'm just gonna put together this quick outfit for Saki and I won't bother rendering it"

...and then I did but to be honest I am very happy I did because oh my god clothes are so fun to render for me now. I remembered the technique I used on my drawing of Reimu and applied that here. That technique being using triangles to imply shadows and highlights in clothing and then blending out those shadows to give the clothing some three dimensionality. My favourite things that I rendered in this piece were the gloves, hat and the belt buckle (since I applied a technique for rendering gold and metal objects that I remember seeing/hearing about a while ago). Don't get me wrong, I love how all the clothing turned out in this piece but the gloves are the real standout of this piece to me. I also had some fun with the cowboy boots (I couldn't figure out how to make those cool metal star things work on the boots though that is a sin I fully intend to fix later down the line) since when I looked at references for them I noticed how some of them had these intricate details embroidered (?) onto them.

Also, in the earliest phases of this drawing Saki had this really big black coat that I decided to get rid of later down the line because it really does not work with her fighting style and it did not stand out against her wings, and the logistics of her getting said jacket with her wings on confused me. Like, I can kind of imaging that on her shirt she has a little open spot for her wings that she can just put them in. That goes for Yachie to but now I'm even more confused because all her clothes must need some open backs because of her shell??? Which raises some more questions, like, can she just never be on her back when sleeping??? Looking at Yuuma we can see that the beast yakuza in Touhou can freely change their form from human to beast so can Yachie just double down on the human bit and get rid of her shell temporarily so she can sleep comfortably??? Because if she lays on her back is she just kinda wobbling around like most turtles are when they're on their backs? Can she hypothetically retreat into her shell, if so that has some weird implications to how her anatomy works. Like, what does her skeleton look like? Seriously, what are the logistics here WHERE DOES YACHIE GET HER FUCKING CLOTHES BECAUSE THEY PROBABLY NEED TO BE SPECIFICALLY TAILORED SO SHE CAN PUT IT ON TO FIT HER SHELL I DON'T NEED SLEEP I NEED ANSWERS YACHIE WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS-

....rant aside, you can see the remnants of this idea in the tattered back of her... idk what to call it but I know she has a variant of this in her OG design. I mainly wanted to test this out because of the cursed realization that The Ghoul in Fallout Prime is just a male Saki but if Utsuho gave Saki radiation poisoning. No seriously, they're smug ass cowboys who are so sure of their own strength that have fought at least one mechanically engineered robot in some variation of a wasteland with an affinity for dogs. I'm now morbidly curious as to what would happen if you put the two of them in a room together. Would they try to kill each other? Would they become besties? Would they try to kill each other and then become besties? Who knows. But yeah jokes aside the tattered cloth was a design choice that was inspired by The Ghoul from Fallout Prime because y'know, same vibes. And also because yes I do love Fallout Prime and I am so ready for season two IT'S SO GOOD GO WATCH IT EVEN IF YOU AREN'T FAMILIAR WITH FALLOUT AS A SEIRES GO DO IT NOW, SAIL THE SEVEN SEAS FOR IT IF YOU HAVE TO JUST WATCH IT-

I knew for Saki's face I wanted to give her some thick eyebrows, it just makes sense. I also wanted to give her some scarring on her face because she's a crime boss, why wouldn't she have scars? I also had some fun with her little horse ear that's sticking out from the side of her hat since it would kinda look weird if she just had no ears period. I also went ham on stylizing her ponytail into this weird swirl, since if I were to show you some of my recent doodles from my sketchbook you would notice that that has become a common motiffe in some of my art. I don't know why but I just like it. Saki's wings were also very fun, I found a good reference for bird wings that are specifically shaped for high speeds (though I did add some stylistic touches so her one wing that's out wouldn't look like a big blob) since her whole thing is speed. From very early on in the process I knew that I wanted Saki to not look skinny, so I found some refs of female kickboxers for her legs and noticed that while parts of their upper body are maybe a bit toned, it's the legs that have a lot of power. I mainly did this because kicking is a huge part of her fighting style.

Overall, I'm really happy with this drawing, and once Touhou 17's anniversary rolls around I do want to go more in depth on my thoughts in the game, it's themes, and how the animal realm functions as a dark parallel to Gensokyo in many ways. I'll also have to get around to drawing Yachie and Keiki as well (if I still have the time and motivation to do so) since I have some ideas for their designs that I'm very excited to draw (especially Keiki).

#touhou project #art #fanart #touhou fanart #touhou 17 #saki kurokoma #wily beast and weakest creature #東方project

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cookiestar360 · 6 months ago

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Character Sheet

Character- Star

Name- Dummy

Nicknames- Star, Light, Bright, Cookie

Gender-

Species- Angel Dummy

Occupation- Guardian "Angel", Training Dummy

Text Color- Gold or Desaturated Yellow

You can ask them questions :)

-Depiction of Star. Note that I am not very good at art.

-Depiction of Fallen Star. Note that I am getting better at art since I drew the image above.

Overview

Star is classified as a sentient dummy. After coming across a guardian angel, Star was so excited to see the angel, having heavy admiration for the angel's work that eventually Star was inspired to try and become a guardian angel themselves. Despite not being an angel and having a heavy lack of strength, Star tries their best to defend those who don't have anyone to protect them. Star's devotion towards trying to be a guardian angel derives from the concept that a dummy is supposed to help people... typically by getting injured as a training or testing dummy.

Appearance

True form

Skin tone- #7f7f7f

Height- 5`4 (accurately a Dummy would be 4`6 but I don't wanna use that...)

Weight- 90 Lb

Physical appearance- nothing of note. Just a gray person.

Pretender form

Height- 5`4

Weight- 97 Lb

Physical appearance- A dummy with two pairs of wings on their back, the top pair is golden and sparkles, the bottom one is white. There are two pairs of wings on the head too. Star also has two angelic rings around their head covered in eyes.

Sometimes they'll appear with medium lengthed white hair with a similar color to their head wings.

The wings they have do not work at all. They can be flapped around but Star cannot fly.

The eyes surrounding Star's head DO work, allowing Star to see in every direction alongside seeing ghosts and other things not visible to the average human eye. These eyes cannot close, even while sleeping, but they can move and depict Star's emotions.

Star's two normal eyes are blindfolded, because of this, you will nearly never notice if Star is crying.

Fallen Form

Height- 5`4

Weight- 99 LB

Same physical attributes as the Pretender form.

They wear a cloak for comfort.

their hair is ruffled, more unkempt, and messy.

Their head wings are angled down constantly.

Their mouth is typically filled with excess blood created from stress.

The pupils in their eyes appear small and tired.

Dried blood that was coughed up stains their torso

-Fallen form render

Abilities

Shapeshifting

Star is a shapeshifter, they can shapeshift their body to their own will. Star uses this to form the wings, eyes, and halo on themself. Shapeshifting takes energy to do and Star can wear themself out if they overuse it. Star will sometimes shapeshift into a scythe and throw themself at their opponent. This scythe is uncreatively called "Angelsknife" If Star shifts their form beyond their normal dummy self, it will drain energy, even more energy will be drained if they shapeshift into not having their basic organs. They are constantly shapeshifted to appear to be an angel, meaning they are constantly draining energy doing so.

Necromancy

Star can use magic to revive the dead. This sounds useful, however Star only knows how to use it on themself. Star can bring themself to life and no one else, and they cannot perform this spell while they are dead... If Star uses necromancy right before they die, they can bring themself back to life. This allows Star to effectively avoid death as long as they know they're going to die.

Weapon

Sword of Starlight

The sword of starlight was a gift from Daisy Bell. It is their favorite object. Being given it made them extremely happy. The sword emits a faint glow and sparkles. It can turn people into sparkles too. Star wouldn't ever give it up, or anything Daisy has given them, even if it was at the cost of Star's life.

Behavior

Star has barely any care for their life. Star thinks that they are supposed to die in the name of someone else.

Star is optimistic and positive towards everyone, even if it seems unusual to be so in a situation.

Because of their lack of care, this leads to them having no fear or extra respect of beings with far more power than them, including gods.

Star has impostor syndrome, meaning they doubt their own skills and feels like they aren't fit to be a guardian angel. (However, they quite literally are an impostor of a guardian angel, so the feelings are justified.)

Star will become extremely upset if they fail to protect someone, Which can have harsh consequences.

If Star gets overwhelmed, they will begin to lose control of their muscles as they will start to rapidly and randomly shake. This includes Star's heart, so if Star gets too stressed out or upset, their heart will explode. (their heart no longer explodes :D)

If scared, (which doesn't happen often) Star will use shapeshifting to distort their face to appear disturbing. This is done in an attempt to appear intimidating.

Star sometimes lacks comprehension of social cues and can often act in ways unwarranted to whatever situation is going on.

Star sometimes wonders if the other training dummies are also sentient and just cannot move, being subject to dying over and over with no one ever knowing they're sentient. This deeply disturbs Star.

The only show Star watches is Family Guy. There is no explanation behind this.

Star's favorite Pokémon is a Substitute Doll (the Pokémon that gets summoned when you use the move substitute that takes damage for the Pokémon using the move.). They refuse to believe anyone who says that isn't an actual Pokémon.

Star will usually only curse if they're extremely upset or breaking down out of stress.

They sit at their mailbox an hour each day waiting for letters.

Star would rather not have a face than cry. Star doesn't think anyone should care for them as much as others.

Fallen behavior

"Star" becomes "Fallen" if their stress reaches a point to where it's threatening to their life

"Star" is far more violent and aware. They would go to extreme lengths in the name of protecting others.

"Star" will begin to cough up blood if they get more stressed than they already are, this is because of abnormal heart activity.

They shake violently constantly, they wear a cloak and other comforting objects to try and lessen this.

They do not bother with anyone who is deemed not worth protecting

Despite the appearance, "Star's" personality remains upbeat and optimistic, they are just extremely stressed and prone to violet outbursts because of it.

They apologize constantly for being not good enough to prevent whatever bad thing is happening.

"Star" constantly goes to sleep to avoid reality.

Relations

Family

Star considers every single other dummy like them to be family. Nearly every other dummy isn't sentient however, and just stands still. Parent- Workspace Grandparent- Game (huh, what do you mean those don't count?)

Other

Burger, Max, Unpleasant, pleasant, Jaws, Lenora, Gabriel, Cinyu, Zephyros, Marth, Grat, Ultra, aevry, Asa, Zandee, ,pancakepieman45, Unus, Randumb, Aculia, Artemis and Korissa

Star views Daisy Bell, Emily, and Alice as siblings/cousins and heavily cares for them.

Star's parents are Zailyn and Lamentia. Who essentially created Star.

Star sees Asteral as a cousin

Seth is also Star's family

Star sees Ebrofour as an uncle

Songs

Yes. They're all just generic royalty free songs. This is because Star is generic.

Also, Their voice sounds like an old text to speech program without the inaccuracies of a machine.

Star's first ever design was made by @abagofstalechiips

Star's fallen design was partially created by @burger-exp

Star has a house. They spent like 40 thousand dollars buying a baseplate in a small pocket dimension. I guess you could go there if you want? It's not like they go inside often anyways.

https://www.roblox.com/games/130163588986792/Star-House

Character- Cookie

Name- Cookie K. Star

Gender- Male

Text Color- Green or Purple

You can ask me questions I guess.

Subpar Person

This is just me "Out of Character"

I'm decently different from Star.

Wears a top hat

No I don't like family guy, but I think the characters are funny.

I made the little header page dividers in this sheet myself, thats just how dedicated i am!!1!1!

I don't typically ever do anything like this so my writing is not the best.

I'd say more about me but that's not important, is it?

#StarDummyPosting #daisy's house #cookiestarposting

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anony-man · 8 months ago

Text

Pharma gets fed alright, but I don’t think it’s the type of feeding he had in mind…

Chubformers drabble #121!

Characters: Pharma & the DJD (IDW)

Word count: 1.1k

(Content warning: non-con, consistently implied emeto (no actual vomiting occurs))

The bell on Pharma’s collar jingled with every step, filling the empty halls with the joyful sound of ringing notes that echoed against cold walls. His joints ached as he crawled along the tiled floor, and the palms of his sensitive servos burned as the tender plating scraped against the rough surface. Each foot forward—or each servo forward, if he were to be exact—sent another jolt of pain through his already exhausted frame, but he knew better than to fall behind.

Tarn was back for him again, and as expected, the punishment was worse than the ones before. Pharma knew better than to expect to ever meet the crazed mech’s lofty harvest goals each week, especially when the prices rose and the supply of ailing patients fell. He was trapped in a losing game, and the only way he knew how to deal with it was to play along with whatever sick pleasures the DJD’s leader had in store for him during each scheduled visit.

His luck for the evening had already rendered him feeling stuffed, swollen, and sickly. Pharma couldn’t even begin to wonder what was worse than being held down on the exam tray where countless t-cog operations had been performed as Tarn poured fuel down his throat until he felt ready to purge, but given the too-tight collar hanging around his throat and the bedazzled leash connected to it, the mech of his nightmares must have had a few things in mind.

Pharma’s tanks sloshed as his belly swayed beneath him, the curve of the mesh brushing against the ground with every other step. He was wobbly and uncoordinated in his rush to keep up pace by Tarn’s side, his knees skidding against the floor and his servos slapping down painfully as he crawled. It was embarrassing enough to be taken under the DJD’s wings and paraded around like this, but tonight, it stung just a little more than usual.

Turning the corner to find the entirety of Tarn’s twisted group of bots lounging around with their arrays exposed and their chatter filling the otherwise empty air was not what Pharma had expected, that was for sure. Had it not been for the sudden iron grip on the leash Tarn held that gagged him until he was rushing forward with the yank of that servo, he would have tried to make a run for it. It was the wrong place at the wrong time for him, unfortunately, and from the looks on those mechas’ faces, he was in for a real treat.

“About time you two showed up,” Helex growled, one set of his arms crossed over his chest while the other languidly tugged at his erect spike. “Got the goods, I see.”

“My little birdie looked lonely,” Tarn said in return. “A bit of company should do him well if he’s to reach his goal this coming week.”

Pharma flinched away as his holder stooped to one knee and reached for his chin, but no blows came. There was an audible click, and the tension on his collar was released with the unlatched leash.

“There,” Tarn said, his fingers brushing across Pharma’s energon-stained cheek. “What do you say, pet?”

The words burned like bile in his throat, but Pharma knew better than to disobey. He hung his helm, the strain of his overly stuffed tanks pressing against his swollen belly.

“Thank you,” he said, the snark in his voice hardly concealed.

Staring at the floor as he struggled not to purge meant missing out on the lewd satisfaction of the DJD’s collective expressions, but it was nicer than subjecting himself to the full extent of his so-called punishment. Tarn was always more than happy to exhibit the extent of his genius when it came to teaching the doctor a lesson, but dragging him out to their home base seemed like a kick to the faceplates while he was already down.

It was just like Tarn to exploit his weaknesses in the best ways possible, and Pharma knew it. What was he expecting?

“The little birdie doesn’t look too happy,” Helex continued. “You should do something about it, boss.”

Tarn still stood close by his side, but he could feel tremors of the floor beneath him as Helex drew closer. His fixed glare was broken by the sight of that ridged spike head poking into his line of sight, and Pharma had all of a few seconds to lift his helm and snap something about personal space before it was forced past his lips.

“Go easy on him,” Tarn said, his servo coming down to rest against the curve of Pharma’s back plating as the poor doctor choked around the massive intrusion. “Everyone is entitled to a turn tonight. He’s failed to satisfy me yet again, and with that failure comes the proper consequences.”

The head of Helex’s thick spike pumped in and out of Pharma’s mouth, its ridges underneath just barely brushing past saliva-slick lips. Pharma’s collar jingled with every thrust, the tiny bell around his neck filling the air with a pleasant ringing that drowned out the sound of his gags. He was made a sputtering, squealing mess within seconds, and worse yet, knew nothing could be done to stop it.

To his relief, Helex eventually pulled back without the added stress of spilling hot transfluids down his throat, and it was then that Pharma lifted his helm to meet those cruel optics.

“Don’t worry,” he said, flashing a smug smile Tarn’s way. “I’m not gonna hurt him too bad. I just wanted to wipe that ugly look off his face.”

Consider it done, Pharma thought to himself as he held a servo to his belly and gasped for breath. His tanks twisted and sloshed all the more now, leaving his mouth feeling thick with the urge to vomit and sour from the taste of Helex’s fluids against his tongue.

Tarn’s servo was steady against his back, and the rest of the DJD stood to their pedes as they corralled around him. It was like being stuck at the center of a circlejerk, and the morbid vulgarity of the situation was enough to make him hope he actually purged. Maybe, if he lost control of his tanks, Tarn would take him back and fill him up again, then leave his pathetic self there for the evening.

“Ah ah ah,” his captor tutted, those gentle fingers curling back around his chin to lift his helm and turn it around. “Keep it down, little birdie. We can’t have you making a mess of our one and only bonding night.”

A direct order from Tarn meant he was to obey at all costs… or else. Pharma swallowed against the bitterness in his throat and nodded, grimacing at the cheerful jingle of the bell around his collar. He was the entertainment for the night, that much had been made clear.

“Now,” Tarn continued, lifting his gaze to look around his group of eager members. “He’s had his dinner, but we haven’t given him dessert. Who wants to go next?”

#chubformers #pharma #tarn #djd #tw noncon #valveplug #anon man writes

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thebirdsareafterme · 6 months ago

Note

only if you want to, would you like to share a director’s commentary about your gorgeous enjoy the butterflies art? it’s so stunning and i cant begin to tell you how many times I’ve come back to gaze loving at your masterpiece

OMG ABSOLUTELY!! Thank you for the ask, Em 🫶💜

I love talking about the process and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate all the love you have shown this piece!

It all started with this reference pic:

The moment I saw it, I knewwww I had to draw him. The purpley light on the side of his face had me hooked, and it began as a lighting study. It turned out to be one of the pieces that has taken me the longest ever, because I was working on it randomly whenever I had a break from school or work.

Since it was a study to begin with, I first did some sketching to try to capture his features. The screenshot is super blurry because it’s actually just one tiny corner of a canvas.

At this point, I was fully committed to making this into a full blown piece. Gone were the days of this ending up as a quick little study, so of course I made it bigger and refined the sketch.

The next step was to block in my colours. I started very saturated colours, since I wanted to capture the undertones in his skin and play with the lighting.

For the shadows, I played with some colour theory for a bit and added in my blues and purples to counteract the bright yellow and corals. Once blended out, it started to look a little less crazy and more realistic.

I blocked in the hair and the clothing next, which was pretty boring but necessary. Since they are both super dark colours, it was harder to play around with the tones, but I was able to put some purple undertones in the hair. Also, I changed his facial features a couple of times in between, which is why he looks completely different from one picture to another.

The next step was to finish all the rendering for the skin, clothes and hair. This took me about a week to finally be happy with, since I’m a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to things like that. I worked on it sporadically as well, so it definitely took longer than it should.

The eyes were the absolute best part of the drawing. They started out purple, because it was my shadow colour of the time and eventually shifted around the colour wheel to be multicoloured but still dark.

Now for the background. I had a lot of options and ideas for it, so deciding on just one was difficult. I knew I wanted the butterflies in there somewhere, so that was done first. Filling in the wings with very light pencil strokes took a considerable amount of time as well, but I loved the final effect.

From all the options that I put together, I liked the look of the textured lines the best.

I decided to take out the darker blue box in the end, because I thought it was quite busy already. Finally, to end it all off, I finished the details on the suit and added those little details. The FEA moved around a few times before I decided on keeping it small on the the collar.

Here's what the final piece looks like!

I'm pretty happy with how it turned out stylistically, and I think getting this done helped me deal with the overwhelming grief of losing Daniel to the Red Bull guillotine. It was hard for a while to find the motivation to finish it, as I started this in June and finished it in October after Singapore. The #thankyoudanielfest kept me motivated to get it done, and I was able to think a lot about how much Daniel means to me and how he has changed my life in the process.

Anyways, if this was too long to read, here's a short little process video I made for my TikTok a while back.

I'm so grateful to everyone who has enjoyed my art and engaged with it! The Tumblr community just feels like family, and I'm glad I've been able to make some friends in the time that I've been in the F1 fandom. Y'all are amazing.

Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, if you celebrate and a restful holidays!

#i love yapping #this was super fun to do!#f1 #daniel ricciardo #f1 fanart #my art #art process #digital art #procreate

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subeteaishite · 1 year ago

Text

🍎🦌 Ascensionsim 🍎🦌

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Alastor/Lucifer

Rating: E, for explicit

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary:

Alastor revels in watching the King scramble for every crumb of attention he gives, and revels even more in the pain and heartbreak in Lucifer’s eyes each time he realizes the Radio Demon will never love him back.

Songfic for “Ascensionism” by Sleep Token

Notable Tags: NSFW, emotional manipulation, all hurt and no comfort, top!Alastor, bottom!Lucifer, heavy sadism and masochism, biting, blood drinking, blood as lube, wing-fingering, anal sex, scratching, mentions of cannibalism, and Alastor being a terrible person

Minors DNI

{Cross-posted on Ao3, show me some love there!}

Who made you like this?

Who encrypted your dark gospel in body language?

Moans permeated in the air, hanging heavy like the drunken haze that had overtaken the two bodies entangled on the luxurious, four-poster bed.

As a general rule, Alastor didn’t let anyone touch him, nor did he touch others if it could be avoided. The sensation of hands against his skin had always been laced with abuse, leaving his body haunted with the ghosts of pain well into his afterlife. Those specters played into his own motivations for touching others, a well-taught lesson in how to inflict that same abuse, but with far greater tact; how many people and demons alike had he killed with a feather-light caress of his lips or the back of his hand, the effortless movements the nectar that lured them into the maw of the pitcher plant? Mortal souls were so predictable. At their weakest, they always wanted the same thing: connection, affection, adoration. All things that Alastor never cared for, but was more than happy to exploit in others for his own personal gain or his own twisted enjoyment. There was nothing sweeter than watching that easily-fostered security wilt away into terror and regret, self-hatred for falling for the light of an anglerfish.

Even immortal souls shared the same vices, leading him to make such a rare exception to his own rule against touch. After all, the King of Hell was so downright vulnerable, it was delicious. Alastor was a simple sinner, with simple desires; desires to wound and rip into the flesh of anyone who dared to consider themselves superior to him, dared to be superior to him. Lucifer Morningstar was superior—he held a level of power, a command of sorcery, that Alastor knew he would never hope to achieve, and he hated the king for it. Resented him, tremendously. It wasn’t as though he kept that information a secret. He addressed Lucifer with outright hostility, seeking to undermine him at every turn, to flip the power dynamic of any interaction they engaged with to get the upper hand, to render him subordinate. Their encounters filled Alastor with a hunger, one that could only be sated by hunting the king as a predator would his prey, to corner him and taste that divine flesh for himself. It wasn’t as though Lucifer was oblivious to this; truthfully, he seemed to admire it, taking every opportunity to goad Alastor further, driving his appetite to spiral. It was almost like he was flirting, and Alastor was certainly the type to see an opportunity when it presented itself and use all manner of tools at his disposal to seize it.

Nobody better than the perfect enemy

Digital demons make the night feel heavenly

Lucifer knew better, yet here they were.

The sight below him was almost too much to bear as Alastor leaned up, cleaning the rose gold blood from his fingers with his tongue. The fallen angel was disheveled, to say the least; his golden hair tousled, his white blouse unbuttoned and bloodstained, his pants bunched up at the center of his thighs, just above his knees, underneath a cacophony of deep, oozing bite marks he’d left there. Alastor grazed his palm across his handiwork, digging a razor-sharp claw into one of the welts left by his fangs. Lucifer cried out in agony, but his face betrayed an opposite sentiment, glowing with ecstasy. He was a masochist, which paired far too well with the sadism all but written into Alastor’s genetic code. “More!” he whined, pleading with the sinner through half-lidded eyes. The deer happily obliged, twisting his wrist and exacerbating the incision, reveling in the way Lucifer’s body jerked, his hands grabbing onto Alastor’s fully-extended antlers for purchase, cheekbones illuminated by the faint, red glow of his eyes.

They only played in their purest demonic forms; it would be a pointless exercise otherwise. Their monstrous visages were the most accurate representations of who they really were, of the madness that lurked beneath the masks they tried so hard to maintain in mixed company. There was no need to keep up a pretense behind closed doors, not when they craved to indulge in the absolute worst of one another. Alastor pulled his finger from the wound, now made twice the size it had been previously, and smeared the blood across Lucifer’s lower lip. He leaned down to lap it up, his prey whimpering and inclining his head forward to make it a full-blown kiss; not that Alastor minded. It gave him the perfect opportunity to worry the man’s lip beneath his pointed teeth, drawing more of his sweet, practically addictive blood.

The Radio Demon’s hands whispered across Lucifer’s cock, the fallen angel twitching and gasping with each tiny caress. He was so sensitive when he was vulnerable like this, his stare betraying an emotion Alastor knew was there, but Lucifer would never speak into full form. It made him want to laugh as he thumbed at the slit, smearing precum across the head; to think, the King of Hell had fallen again, for someone so far below his status. How poetic, how predictable. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen in love with a human soul. Alastor wrapped his hand around the shaft, laying each digit against the fevered skin one by one, so agonizingly slowly that Lucifer’s hips bucked with each moment of new contact. He tightened his grip, flicking his wrist as he languidly moved his hand up and down at the perfect speed to make the king begin to fall apart beneath his palms.

These trysts had become so common for the two of them in the past few months. From the second they laid eyes on one another in the hotel, they believed they saw past each other’s charade. Lucifer, pretending to be a caring father—like he hadn’t spent the seven years since his wife left him wallowing in self-pity, not giving his daughter the slightest ounce of his mental energy, only getting in touch with her to slake off his responsibilities. Alastor, pretending to be a well-intentioned, civil hotelier—when in reality, he was only around to manipulate Charlie and everyone in her vicinity for his own selfish gain, a monster who found his greatest joy in watching others suffer, particularly those tried endlessly to do the right thing, only to fail. Their mutual disgust and disdain for one another had become a game of preying on each other’s weaknesses; Alastor’s gluttonous need to relish in the agony and flesh of others, Lucifer’s need for physical contact and emotional intimacy. They each came to the table thinking they were going to win, but Alastor knew he was the only one equipped for victory.

Tell me you met me in past lives, past life, past what might be eating me from the inside darling…

Half algorithm, half deity; glitches in the code or gaps in a strange dream?

Humans and angels both were made in the same mold, made to be images of a God who knew nothing but love—a love that Lucifer had muddied with his fingerprints and a few sets of bite marks on an apple. If Alastor could fill a human with infatuation, make them go against their better instincts to follow him to their final resting place in a shrouded wood, a fallen angel would be just as simple to manipulate. After all, they were modeled after the same Creator; there couldn’t be too many differences. He knew, the moment he agreed to this arrangement with the king, that after months of these encounters, Lucifer would fall in love with him; and he did, just as Alastor had predicted. Oh, he loved being right. It was truly intoxicating, stringing along someone who was in love with him. Watching them come to the realization, over and over again, that those feelings would never be reciprocated, but unable to prevent themselves from desperately accepting any shred of attention Alastor gave them, was a high unlike no other—a sumptuous feast of agony that, every so often, slaked his need to consume, consume, consume flesh and bone alike.

Alastor dragged the sharp point of his index finger around the base of Lucifer’s cock, down across his perineum, down even further to circle against the tight ring of muscle there. The disgraced seraphim bucked his hips downward, almost far too eager to indulge in carnal sin. The Radio Demon laughed, enthralled by how such a simple action could make the king squirm, make his mind start to go blank with desperation, lust, unadulterated desire. What a thing to experience—Alastor wouldn’t know what that was like, and he knew he never would. He didn’t want to, lest he end up vulnerable and exposed, writhing beneath the hands of someone as poorly-intentioned as himself.

“Please, just put it in—“

“Shut up.” Alastor withdrew his fingers, shoving them in Lucifer’s mouth with enough depth and force to make him choke; Alastor adored the feeling of the king’s throat convulsing around him. He briefly fantasized about those being the final twitches of the angel’s life—but if they were, would he ever have so much fun again? There would be no one else for him to play with that met his criteria, no other prey that would leave him truly satisfied—no one strong enough, no one with a high enough social station, for this weakness to be enthralling instead of pathetic. “You know you won’t get a thing otherwise.” He pumped his fingers in and out of Lucifer’s mouth, pleased with the way submission reflected in Lucifer’s demonic red eyes. He continued with that until he was content with the former seraphim’s demeanor, dragging his fingers across the king’s formerly pristine skin, now marred by the deep lacerations he’d left there with his teeth.

Alastor’s hand continued its slow crawl downward, blood gathering around his fingers, until it found that ring again, circling twice before beginning to press his middle finger in—more abruptly than any sane person would, not caring a bit for Lucifer’s comfort; the fallen angel wouldn’t like it if he did. He was providing far more compassion than in past encounters. Blood wasn’t the most effective lubricant, but it was better than nothing, more than he felt Lucifer even deserved. Lucifer seemed to enjoy the abrupt, thoughtless intrusion anyway, bucking his hips like a wild bull just to make that finger go in deeper, thrust faster; Alastor stilled the king’s movements and tore a scream from his throat all at once by adding two more fingers without warning, giving Lucifer a brief taste of blissful pain.

“Fuck! That—“

Alastor rolled his eyes; he hated the sound of Lucifer’s voice when those pretty lips formed words. He curled his fingers, the pointed tips of his claws grazing against a small bundle of nerves that completely cut off anything the angel was trying to say. He glanced up at Lucifer’s face, pleased to see that the simple motion had made his eyes cloud over with mindless lust, dragging him deep into a submissive headspace. He knew from previous experience that the king wouldn’t be speaking much anymore, at least coherently or in full sentences. He repeated the movement again, letting the pads of his fingers do the work this time, each stroke making Lucifer’s needy whine jump a few notes higher; the sound of Lucifer falling even harder, promising Alastor the continued entertainment of heartbreak and misery.

Alastor removed his hand, smoothing it across the litany of bite marks decorating Lucifer’s skin, smearing ichor around like paint on a canvas. Oh, how he wanted to bite in to that slight musculature, to pull and cut through muscle and sinew, down to the bone. Taking Lucifer apart emotionally was just a means to an end, foreplay for the event he truly wished to indulge in—literally, physically tearing Lucifer apart. It would occur in time, though he wondered how many more of these meetings it would take; how deep in love would the father of lies have to fall before he willingly gave up his flesh? As the question bounced around, repetitively, in Alastor’s mind, he pressed the tip of his member against Lucifer’s entrance, giving him only the slightest warning of what was next before he forced himself inside; only halfway on the first thrust, but even that was enough to make Lucifer’s spine arch so high off the mattress that Alastor was surprised it wasn’t followed with the beautiful percussion of snapping bone. A second thrust, a third, a fourth; Alastor was finally enveloped in the tight, white-hot warmth of his favorite prey.

Alastor stayed still, the head of his cock applying a constant pressure to Lucifer’s sweet spot, reveling in how the king himself twitched and convulsed around his length. His inky, black hands reflexively clenched and unclenched the bedsheets in the futile hope of keeping himself from falling further into subspace, past the point of no return. Lucifer was restraining himself, and Alastor wasn’t going to have that. He needed the king to fall harder for him, to inflame the torturous agony of unrequited love, to encourage him to give Alastor everything—his body, his flesh and bone; he withdrew from Lucifer’s shaking form only to immediately slam himself back in at full force, with enough momentum to fucking bruise the angel’s prostate. Lucifer screamed, leaving Alastor giddy as he watched the final flickers of rebellion fade away from his ruby eyes, replaced by a dazed, hazy look of unadulterated submission.

Tears welled in the corners of Lucifer’s eyes as Alastor established a rhythm that was brutal, punishing even. With each snap of the Radio Demon’s hips, the king’s moans grew lower and lighter, more infrequent, the angel so overstimulated he was rendered practically mute, at least momentarily. Good. The further Lucifer’s mind fell into that liminal space, the further he would fall into those insipid feelings of love; the further he fell, the sooner Alastor would get to use his teeth to rend and tear, to make Lucifer suffer physically just as he suffered emotionally. He closed his hands around the king’s throat, craning his neck down to lick away the tears that had begun to track down his cheeks, salt and pleasure and sadness intermingled into one. “What a good boy you are for me, cher,” Alastor growled, his brows knit together as a result of his own pleasure, eyes half-lidded and watching Lucifer with equal parts hunger and nefarious intent. “So talented at debauchery, so willing to embrace sin—it was your finest creation.”

Lucifer’s eyes snapped open, leveling a stern glare at the demon hovering over him; the comment had clearly pissed him off, and he was able to maintain that fiery annoyance despite the way Alastor was able to make him see stars with every collision of his cock into his prostate. “It—ahhh, fuck—it wasn’t sin,” he argued. “Th-that’s what—oh, god, please—that’s what y-you shitty humans—ahhhh!—chose t-t-to do—“

“What’s the matter, can’t use your words?” Alastor goaded, like he was paying no attention at all to what Lucifer said. “That’s alright, you’re much cuter when you can’t speak.” The fallen angel looked slightly wounded at the comment, once again acknowledging how Alastor didn’t want to hear his voice, didn’t care in the slightest what he had to say. It must hurt—being in love with someone and knowing they prefered you when you were silent. Alastor pressed down harder on Lucifer’s throat, acutely aware of how the king’s pulse thrummed invitingly beneath his palm; he wanted to rip apart the thin flesh above his jugular and bathe in that sickeningly sweet ichor. He pulled out of Lucifer, the tip of his cock resting slightly against that ring of muscle, and commanded: “Flip over.”

The king was wholly obedient, immediately gathering his wits about him enough to do as Alastor ordered, rolling onto his stomach and bracing himself on his hands and knees—even though it was difficult, even though he was trembling so hard, he wondered if he’d be able to support his own body weight when Alastor chose to re-enter him. Lucifer gave Alastor a sultry look over his shoulder, but the sinner didn’t even notice; he was more transfixed by the six diagonal, narrow slits that ran down Lucifer’s spine at the center of his back, three on each side. Oh, how he wanted to dip his fingers into those crevices and pull, but he wouldn’t. Lucifer would have to beg for it, eventually; Alastor was damned and determined to drive him to that point. He ran a single, long finger between those openings, summoning a thin rivulet of blood. As he leaned down to lick up its length, he roughly slammed back into Lucifer and the angel howled.

The new position allowed him to fuck rougher, deeper, and Alastor could hear that Lucifer’s moans had turned into tearful sobs of ecstasy. Reaching forward, he grabbed a fistful of Lucifer’s hair, twisting harshly to keep his head at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, looking over his shoulder so Alastor could admire the mindless expression on his face. Alastor’s mouth watered, black drool dripping from the corner of his mouth as he watched the angel cry in rapture, wondering in the back of his mind if this was the same expression he would make as Alastor tore him limb from limb, savoring the taste and texture of his divine flesh. The thoughts alone sent the deer into a frenzy, his hips pistoning at twice the pace; Lucifer’s brain seemed to short-circuit and switch off behind his glowing red eyes, and he whimpered and moaned as he could think of nothing but the pleasure being given to him. Alastor could read the emotion behind his pupils, as he’d seen it multiple times before; love. If he wasn’t so preoccupied with driving himself to completion, or fantasizing about how orgasmic it would feel to finally consume the king below him, he would have cackled in sadistic glee.

The hand in Lucifer’s hair violently shoved his face into the mattress, while the claws of his free hand fingered the slits where Lucifer’s wings emerged. The former seraphim’s entire body spasmed around Alastor’s fingers, around his cock, tensing so tightly that Alastor feared he might lose himself posthaste. But he reigned himself in, if only to dive his fingers in and out of those small openings to make Lucifer cry out in an addictive mixture of pleasure and pain. “St-sto—“ Alastor dug one claw in deeper, and Lucifer’s word was cut off with a wail. He repeated the movement again and again, deducing by the way each of Lucifer’s whimpers grew higher in pitch that he was close—and Alastor didn’t even have to touch his cock to get him there this time.

“That’s it, cher,” Alastor purred, maintaining the tempo he’d set with his hips and his hands. “Lose yourself for me, Lucifer. Fall for me.”

Alastor’s urging was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Lucifer gripped the bedsheets so hard he tore them, just like his orgasm tore through him. The Radio Demon laughed this time, unable to suppress the humor he felt at seeing the King of Hell so vulnerable, so debauched, in absolute shambles beneath him. Lucifer had tightened impossibly further around him when he came, and it only took a few more fast, hard thrusts before Alastor reached his peak as well. Unlike Lucifer, though, he didn’t emit a single sound, retaining his composure even through the high of his orgasm; he didn’t want to be as affected as the man below him, he did want to show how truly in control he was, after all. The two stayed there, twined together, for a brief moment, until Alastor pulled out, watching with the slightest hint of pride as his seed dripped out of the fallen angel. It was as though he was claiming his territory, an indication that this man would be his next meal—if he ever finished toying with him.

The Radio Demon was quick to extricate himself from Lucifer. He snapped his fingers and his shadow came forth with a towel, allowing him to clean himself off well enough to start redressing in seconds. Alastor offered no such courtesy to his bedmate, who laid half-catatonic on his sheets for a few seconds before trying to right himself into a sitting position. The deer had already started pulling his jacket back on and re-straightening his tie when Lucifer asked, “Um…Alastor? Would you, ah, like to stay the night?”

Alastor laughed, the sound full of mockery and derision. “And be caught leaving the King’s palace in the morning? Mm, no, I think not.” He picked up his microphone with a flourish of his wrist, stealing a glance at himself in Lucifer’s dresser mirror. Despite everything that had just happened, he still looked impeccable, as though he hadn’t just spent the last two hours of his afterlife railing Lucifer into his mattress, fighting back his own primal urges to turn his fuckbuddy into dinner. All good things came to those who waited, after all.

Lucifer’s face fell, disappointed. “Oh, I…I see. Yeah, you’re probably right…” his voice was forlorn, clearly upset by Alastor’s unwillingness to stay. No one ever stayed, and that was an insecurity Alastor would be a fool not to play with; it made the times he did come around even more effective, breadcrumb by breadcrumb. “It would get people talking…”

“Splendid!” Alastor chirped. “You’re a smart man, I knew you’d see it my way!” His smile widened imperceptibly with joy and entertainment as he watched how Lucifer’s heart seemed to crack behind his piercing, red eyes. The fallen angel gave him a sad, desperate look as Alastor faded into the shadows, and he knew it wouldn’t be long until Lucifer gave him what he wanted—the last bargaining chip he had to make the Radio Demon stay.

So I’ll take what I want and leave.

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