#Damnable Error

[platoapproved]

"I will not do it, I cannot do it. Ask me to kill you, it would be easier than that. You don't know what you ask for, don't you see? It is always a damnable error! Don't you realize that any one of us would give it up for one human lifetime? [...] I'd give it up. If I weren't a coward when it gets right down to it..." - The Story of Daniel the Devil’s Minion, or the Boy from Interview with the Vampire

[totallynotslothhh]

HOLD ME TIGHT PT.2

pairing: joost klein x fem!reader

word count: 4,380

warning: angst, smut, fluff, spanking, crying, smoking, fwb

description: The relationship between Joost and y/n seems to be going well, seemingly about to evolve, but an event drastically shifts y/n’s perspective, starting to make everything crumble.

author’s note: Hi everyone, you have no idea how eager I was to publish the second part. I absolutely love writing heartbreaking and painful stuff, you’re going to have to suffer a little, BUT FEAR NOT, I’m already working on the third part, which I’ll try to release by the end of this week, or at the latest, the beginning of the next. Please be patient. While I was writing this fanfic, I had a vivid image of Joost in 2022, so I based everything on that version of him. However, since I kept the descriptions pretty broad, I think you’ll be able to imagine him from any early era in his career.

That said, I’ll leave you to the reading now, and I’ll see you soon (probably with some meltdowns).

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!!🙏)

part.1 part.2 part.3

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The first rainy days of September had started to appear: grey, cloudy days, with the humid air that still hinted at the summer heat, yet gently pushed you into the thought of the cold that was soon to come.

I inhaled from the cigarette filter, savoring the bitter but damnably familiar taste of smoke, staring out at the courtyard of my apartment and the street that stretched out from my bedroom window.

-You’ve been smoking more since you started seeing Joost.-

It had been two months since my first time with Joost.

Two months since the subject of my thoughts and worries had shifted. Two months since someone had come into my life who I didn’t yet know would become the most important person in it.

We had built a relationship of unstable balance. There was always a little piece of my day dedicated to us. Whether it was in the morning, afternoon, or evening, a quick text, a call, or a meeting, whether there was sex or not.

Sex was the major protagonist of our encounters and desires. It’s true, our friendship had become mostly physical, but there was always a margin of interest in each other. We shared a mutual affection that went beyond just the act.

It showed in the small things, things that seemed small but were actually huge.

For example, he remembered the brand of cigarettes I smoked, what foods I liked and disliked, he knew how to handle me when I was sad, knew what to do when I was nervous, could read me just from a glance.

I had become an open book. Even if I tried to pretend I didn’t care about him, I couldn’t pull it off: do heart-eyes come with every look?

-Your heart’s beating fast.-

Feeling that explosion of emotions terrified me: the thoughts that always drifted to him in my free moments, the desire to see him, that kind of anxious excitement before meeting up, the chills running over my skin the moment our eyes met. That wave of sensations scared me. I didn’t want to fall in love, didn’t want to start something new, especially since the wound from my last love was still fresh.

No longer bleeding, but still open and fragile.

So fragile that a single touch could make it bleed again.

Joost was healing a wound he hadn’t caused. Without knowing it, he was soothing me with a beautifully calming rhythm, slowly making me trust him.

-Did you sleep more last night, or am I wrong?-

But it wasn’t time yet.

Would that time ever come? I didn’t know.

What I did know was that this relationship would end. Like everything else, even the good things come to an end.

Especially the good things.

The question was: would it end by evolving into something deeper, or would it break under the weight of our anxieties?

-Breathe. Relax. Enjoy the moment.-

I sighed, letting the smoke out through my nose. I rested my chin on my palm, holding the finished cigarette with the other hand.

That day, I felt particularly overwhelmed. I’d been working all morning, hadn’t carved out even a tiny bit of time for a break. Cigarettes were my “break,” if you could call it that: two minutes of filling my lungs with filth, paradoxically relaxing. Paradoxically warm.

I chuckled at the thought, glancing at my desk. It was messy and mirrored my state of being perfectly: scattered papers, small pencil sketches covering their surfaces alongside important notes, my laptop dying and about to shut off.

I took one last drag, then crushed the filter on the cold windowsill and finally closed the window.

Sniffling, I returned to my spot and checked my notifications.

No notifications.

-I want to be with Joost.-

I furrowed my brow and, without thinking twice, opened our chat, filled with quick messages but also silly or meaningful conversations. When we couldn’t see each other, any excuse was good enough to stay in touch.

Just a few minutes to make sure we weren’t letting go of each other. Holding on to that safe place.

“Wanna meet up later?”

Sent today at 5:16 PM.

Surprisingly, I got a reply immediately, before I even had time to put my phone down.

That was strange, considering Joost usually took forever to answer a message.

A carrier pigeon might’ve been faster at showing signs of life.

Sometimes I almost felt lucky to have him in my life. He was always busy with creative work, but still made the effort to give you attention.

“I was just about to text you and ask the same.”

Sent today at 5:16 PM.

That message brought a shy, stupid, useless smile to my face. And as soon as I realized it, I shook my head, biting down on my lower lip.

-Was he thinking about me?-

“At your place?”

Sent today at 5:16 PM.

“Come over when you’re free.”

Sent today at 5:17 PM.

So, after reading that last message, I turned off my phone and stood up, stretching and mentally cursing the version of myself that had bought chairs as uncomfortable as they were beautiful.

Needless to say, I left work on hold, weighing the desire to see the guy who gave me orgasms worthy of divine classification, against the need to finish the work I had piled up.

A good worker would’ve chosen wisely.

At 9:00 PM, I was in his bed.

My exhaustion gone after yet another round of sex that served as a release from those heavy, endless days. The simple feeling of his lips on my body, his hands in my hair, his gaze on me, and his dick buried deep inside me while he praised me and told me how beautiful I looked naked. Well, it made me feel good.

My head rested peacefully on his chest, legs tangled in the white sheet and with his, while I lazily caressed his calf with the top of my foot. I felt his fingers softly travel across the warm skin of my back, his calm breathing rising and falling beneath the hand I’d placed on his chest, playing with the hair there, mimicking his movements.

The welcoming silence thundered in my ears. His heartbeat set the background to the thousand thoughts flowing gently through my mind. The feeling of truly being wanted cradled me.

It was those moments.

Those moments I lived with premature nostalgia, thinking of when we’d part, of how much I’d miss them when I’d be alone, of how stupid I was for starting something like this.

“What are you thinking about?” His deep, raspy voice, thick from silence and exhaustion, made me shrug, caught slightly off guard.

“Nothing” I answered in a whisper, letting my hand glide across his stomach and down his side, trying to cuddle closer. In response, he gently turned toward me, letting me curl into him even more.

“Liar, you’re too quiet” he said, wrapping me in his warm, pale arms, brushing a hand against my cheek, which was now tinged with a soft blush.

“Just tired” I whispered, almost not wanting to break the silence between us.

I looked up at him, seeing his eyes, now narrow slits, likely trying to focus on me. He looked so innocent with that little curious pout, without his glasses, and with messy hair.

“Hungry? Want to order something?” he offered, stroking my cheek with his thumb, keeping his gaze on me, at least as much as he could.

“Maybe later” I nodded, savoring the warmth his palm gave me as it cradled my face. Touch was definitely a language that went beyond words. It was an expression of love that reassured me I wasn’t making a mistake.

Physical closeness made me feel safe, made me feel wanted.

“I really want to kiss you” he murmured a moment later, making me smile as I felt the grip of his other hand tighten, more eager, on my bare waist. I looked at him and noticed the hint of sleep in his expression. It made me laugh, because I already knew where this would end: kissing sloppily, filling the room with wet sounds, soft moans, and giggles.

“How will you do that if you can’t see?” I raised my eyebrows, watching his confused frown fade as I reached toward the nightstand and grabbed his thick glasses. Both his hands slid to my hips, and I felt his lips lazily rest on my shoulder.

“I still don’t get how you manage to see anything” I shifted slightly, putting his glasses on him and holding his face to lift his gaze toward mine. His sleepy expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes were more focused now, filled with desire, mirrored in the way he gripped my warm, tingling skin.

This boy made me feel everything.

In seconds, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. We started kissing, our tongues dancing inside each other’s mouths. I felt his breath growing heavier, his grip dropping to my ass. I kept one hand on his face and the other resting gently on his chest. He bit my lower lip and pushed his hips involuntarily against my thigh, his half-hard length pressing against me. He squeezed one cheek and kept kissing me hungrily.

I moaned into his mouth and instinctively brought my other hand to his cheek too, caressing him with my thumbs and pulling myself closer.

I felt overwhelmed, and it was the most beautiful feeling, because I knew, no matter what, Joost would be there to handle it.

He pulled away for a second to look at me. To observe my flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, glossy lips parted just enough to breathe. He gently pushed me under him, letting his hands explore my waist again.

“I could kiss you without stopping” he murmured warmly against my cheek, making me smile and move my hands to his shoulders. He began kissing his way from my cheek to my lips, then down my body, leaving little bites that drew soft moans from my throat.

“I’m bringing you to my next concert” he whispered against the warm skin of my chest, looking up at me but never stopping his trail of kisses.

“What?” I giggled, running my fingers through his hair and pulling him up for a kiss. I hadn’t quite caught the meaning of that sentence, I was more focused on how wet he’d just made me again.

-Didn’t catch it, or didn’t want to?-

“You said you’d like to come. I got you a backstage pass” he repeated, kissing my lips again before nestling into my neck, not giving me time to fully process it. I paused, eyes widening, pulling away slightly to stop him from kissing and distracting me more.

“Really?” I whispered, laughing and halting my hands in his hair. He looked up and locked eyes with mine.

“Yeah, You told me once you’d like to be there.”

I had told him. Almost a month ago. And he had remembered.

He had remembered that tiny sentence buried in a much larger conversation about his budding music career.

“you remembered it..” I whispered, unable to hold back a smile, which brought one to his face too. I felt his hands grip my hips, and his face disappeared from my view as he buried it once again in my neck.

“Of course I did. I remember everything you tell me” he said, sliding a hand between my legs, pressing his middle finger against my clit, then moving it between my already wet lips. I clenched around nothing, arching my back slightly and grabbing a fistful of his blond hair.

“You like it when I touch you, huh?” That phrase made me shiver and moan, writhing under the continuous pressure at my throbbing center.

“Yes… don’t stop- keep.. keep going” I murmured with closed eyes as I felt his fingers slowly push inside me, deepening the sensation alongside the bites he placed on my skin.

“I can’t wait to take you backstage, to fuck you, to cover your mouth while I pull your hair” he murmured. That image only heightened everything, his fingers curling inside me, his thumb circling my clit. I bit my lower lip, my breath quickening as chills ran down my spine. The heat from his body, the sheets, and the pleasure itself was so comforting I could’ve melted right then and there.

I felt his hips press against my thigh, his growing hardness brushing against my skin.

“Please, Joost…” I whispered, opening my eyes and tugging gently on his hair to lift his face. He did so, increasing the rhythm of his fingers, eyes locked onto my expression, entirely lost in pleasure.

“Turn around” he instructed softly, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to my lips. I opened my mouth and welcomed them, tasting myself as I sucked them hungrily. His breathing grew heavier, his arousal harder against my leg, and his smile deepened as he pushed his fingers further into my mouth. I licked them thoroughly before releasing them.

“You’re beautiful. Always” he whispered as he slowly sat up, supporting himself on his knees to give me room to turn over. I rolled onto my stomach, tucking my shoulders in and arching my back deliberately, accentuating the curve of my hips.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, but seeing you naked beneath me… you’re even more” he said, making me blush and bury my face into the pillow. His hands took hold of the soft skin of my backside, giving it light taps and gentle squeezes as he leaned forward, trailing kisses down my spine, focusing on the dimples just above my hips.

After a few moments, I sensed him move away to grab a condom left ready on the nightstand. I raised my hips slightly, feeling exposed. When he returned to the bed, he didn’t take long to land a sharp smack on my right cheek, making me gasp and moan into the pillow, the sound fading into the rhythm of our heavy breaths.

He slid into me, gripping my hips tightly with urgent hands, which soon after struck my skin again, reddening it. He plunged his full length in and began to move at a steady pace. That position was one of his favorites: I could tell by the way he groaned, the way he caressed my back, the way his voice faltered with each thrust. I was starting to understand those parts of him too.

“God.. I- fuck..” he moaned roughly, driving into me with force, pressing his chest to my back, panting against my ear, leaving wet kisses on my shoulder. One of his hands smacked me again before grabbing both cheeks, spreading them slightly, as if to remind me he was in control. The pleasure was overwhelming. My face was pressed into the softness of the pillow, one hand clutching the pillowcase, the other buried beneath it. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the room, layering more heat between our naked skin and the craving for a physical pleasure that somehow calmed the soul.

I tightened around him, moaning loudly as his fingers moved to my clit again, adding an electric edge to the sensation.

“Come for me, baby, come” he whispered through ragged breaths, keeping the same intense rhythm, his circles on my sensitive bud pushing me closer to the edge. His other hand found mine, intertwining our fingers, still gripping the pillowcase.

I felt my legs tense, breath caught in my throat, and the knot of orgasm unraveled, taking me over in seconds. I closed my eyes and let the wave crash over me, breathless, as Joost continued his movement until he followed, spilling into the condom, giving his last thrusts meaningless, still clutching my hand like it was the only anchor he had.

He covered me in kisses and caresses, the urgency of sex now wrapped in the softness of intimacy.

“Of course I did. I remember everything you tell me.”

That sentence echoed in my head for days. It was etched into my heart, engraved in my memory. He was taking me to one of his concerts because he had read between the lines of my words. He was taking me to his show, and all our friends would finally see the kind of bond that held us together.

We had done everything in secret without even meaning to. It wasn’t about hiding, we had just kept things private.

It wasn’t supposed to be more than sex.

Supposed to, because whether I liked it or not, I felt it that day.

Something romantic was growing. I was becoming more aware of the bond forming between us, strengthening with each passing day.

I saw it in his eyes. I saw it in his smile. I felt it every time we were together, heard it in the whispered words, in the how are you? he’d send me throughout the day.

The fear was slowly slipping away. I was starting to let go, to trust him more and more.

-You’re moving forward. Letting yourself be led by the depth of the passion that binds you… isn’t that what love is?-

And finally, the day of the concert arrived. A day that was meant to be the most beautiful of all, the fullest, the most emotional. I would finally see him perform, I’d see him on stage, full of life. I would be there for him.

A day that was meant to mark the beginning of something deeper.

But happiness crumbled all at once. Reality hit me in the face, suddenly. My eyes saw what they shouldn’t have seen, not during that time, not on that day, not in that moment.

Not in those fragile, delicate moments.

It was the morning of that fateful day, a quiet and strangely peaceful Saturday.

There was something in the air, tranquility tainted by the joy of being part of such an important event for Joost. I had decided to go for a walk, planning to stop by the supermarket and grab something quick for lunch with him. After that, we’d leave together. We’d go together. I’d be with him all day.

But everything changed when I found myself walking down the aisles of that supermarket, torn between which instant ramen to get, trying to remember the favorite of the guy with whom I had, more than once, shared that simple meal.

I turned my head slightly.

Maybe it was an involuntary movement.

Maybe deep down I knew I was about to ruin that day for myself.

Or maybe it was just pure coincidence that led me to do it.

But I saw him.

I saw my ex-boyfriend standing right there, next to me, mirroring my action, holding two different packs of ramen. Probably to share with his new girlfriend.

My shoulders tensed, and without realizing it, I tightened my grip. I stood there, staring at his body, leaning casually on his right leg, his face caught in some sort of indecisive thought… And just his presence, so coincidental, so close, froze me.

My knees started to tremble. I could feel my heart pumping faster, sending blood coursing through my body. My mind was completely fogged.

I was so disappointed, so angry, and so sad that I got swept away by the confusion that took over my thoughts.

And it all got worse when our eyes met, when I saw the surprised look on his face. And then, that smile.

That damn smile I used to be so in love with, so lost in…

And for a moment, I was almost afraid of it.

“Hi, y/n.” Hearing his voice again didn’t do me any good, not at all. It caused a painful tightness in the middle of my chest.

My breath caught in my throat.

Every muscle in my body tensed.

He stepped closer, and I forced a weak smile.

“Hi” I answered coldly, shifting my gaze back to the ramen that had now taken on the role of distraction puppets, something, anything to keep my mind off his presence.

-Is your heart beating fast for him too?-

“It’s been a while since we, uh… saw each other” he continued, his tone almost regretful, dripping with guilt. In three years, I had never heard him sound like that.

“Yeah” I replied, lifting my gaze again, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw how he was looking at me.

“I never really got the chance to apologize… for how I ended things.”

-Why was he telling me this? Why now?-

“It’s fine. I guess our paths were just meant to part” I replied simply, feeling the tension in my shoulders release just a little.

But… he had made the effort to say sorry.

Maybe…

“How are you? You look good.”

He slipped into my thoughts just like he used to. I smiled at that memory, nodded slightly, and let out a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“I’m good. And you?” It came out naturally, as if some part of me still wanted to know. And that scared me.

-You should hate him for how he treated you.-

We talked for maybe ten minutes. The most adrenaline-filled, fastest ten minutes of my life. Ten minutes that ruined my day, and the days that followed.

He said he’d like to see me again, to “talk things through, over a cup of tea.”

But would that really solve anything?

Was my racing heart just a reflex?

Or was I still caught up in him?

Did his presence matter as much as Joost’s?

-Did Joost matter as much as him?-

That question, that thought, those words, they haunted me the entire day. They made me distant, stuck in my head, detached from reality, drowning in guilt. Every time Joost reached for my hand, for my gaze, tried to read what was going on inside me. Every time he sought even the smallest touch, I felt myself sink deeper into the dark pit of guilt.

I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to talk to me.

He wanted to ask what was wrong.

But he didn’t have the mental space for it, not on that day, not like that. His face showed worry, but I gave him no room to ask. If he had asked too much, my guilt would’ve broken me, I would’ve cried. And that would’ve made things worse.

That day was his.

And I ruined it.

I ruined everything because of my mood.

I was finally backstage with all our friends, Joost’s team, and Joost himself, who was getting ready for the concert. I held a plastic cup with something alcoholic in it. The atmosphere was buzzing: nervous energy, joy, laughter, light teasing.

It would’ve been warm, welcoming… if I weren’t drowning in this internal mess. I lifted my gaze and looked at Joost from afar. He was laughing with a mutual friend, probably at some joke they’d shared. I heard his laughter from across the room and my expression softened.

A wave of pain hit my stomach, only slightly dulled by the sparkling liquid I swallowed.

-Why am I acting like this?-

My eyes dropped to the dark floor. My thoughts were clouded with images of both men.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about my ex, but how could I not?

“You sure you’re okay?” Joost’s voice startled me, a mix of concern and warmth. I met his gaze and smiled, but he didn’t smile back.

This time, he saw through me.

He knew I was lying.

“Yeah, hey, don’t worry about me.” I said, placing a hand on his arm, squeezing his shoulder, trying to stay close.

“I know something’s off. You’re not having fun? You don’t feel comfortable?” He asked again, clearly worried but I detected a flicker of irritation in his tone.

I couldn’t tell him what had happened that morning.

Not then.

That would’ve been cruel.

“Joost, really- don’t worry… I’m fine” I insisted, brushing my lips gently against his cheek and giving his shoulder another caress. He forced a smile. Pretended to believe me.

But the tension between us was unbearable.

When he came back to me after the concert, he was buzzing with energy, his white tank top soaked in sweat, face flushed, hair tousled. He couldn’t wait to hold me.

I saw it in his excitement, the adrenaline coursing through him. Everyone congratulated him, but I stood aside… feeling like I didn’t belong in that explosive moment of joy.

And as he came toward me, all I could think was that I can’t handle this. His energy, his light, it’s too much for someone like me.

-I have to talk to my ex. I need to know what he wants to clarify.-

That thought, beating in my head since the morning, was shattered in one instant. Joost cupped my face and pressed his lips to mine.

Time froze.

I tasted his freshness, felt his heart beating against my lips, his breath caught in the branches of his lungs, his hands holding my face so close. I kissed him back. But the weight of the moment broke me.

Everyone had seen us. And instead of feeling enchanted… I felt horrified.

Terrified.

Tears welled in my eyes. I gripped his wrists and when I pulled away, I couldn’t even look at him.

It felt like I had betrayed him.

“Hey…” His soft, breathless voice wrapped around me like a thread. He gently moved, trying to lift my face toward his. The tears slipped down freely.

I bit my bottom lip and shook my head, overwhelmed by shame.

“Please, talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.” His pleading made it painfully clear I was the problem. I was the one hurting this still-forming relationship.

Maybe it wasn’t even going to form at all.

I held back sobs, eyes shut tightly.

I felt so small in front of him.

“This morning, I saw him… and I don’t know if I’m ready to move on.”

I confessed. I didn’t even have the strength to look at him.

I had ruined everything.

Me and my insecurities had ruined it all.

And I didn’t want to ruin Joost.

That pure soul didn’t deserve it.

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

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

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

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

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

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

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

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

You don't notice him immediately.

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

And that annoys him even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Useless woman.

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

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

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

"No," you nip out.

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

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

He grits his teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

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

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

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

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

He pauses.

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

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

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

This feels... exciting, almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who were you thinking of?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're staring.

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

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

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

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

Of... of something.

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

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

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

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

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

He grumbles despite himself.

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

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

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

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

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

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

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

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

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to watch you break.

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

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

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

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

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

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's so close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well," he snorts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd deem that punishable by death.

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

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

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

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

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

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

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

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

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

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

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[er-osion]

Enchanted

pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x gn!Reader

summary: A fic based on the song Enchanted by Taylor Swift. Reader is a leading grisha who ends up working with the golden prince of Ravka, how mysteriously enchanting it is that something so sweet can bloom from such terrible circumstances

word count: 2.1k

warnings: none, fluff

you can see the full taylor swift song-fic masterlist here

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The war-room of the Spinning Wheel was dimly lit and terribly furnished, considering its importance. The large circular table was covered from end to end with maps of Ravka. Voices swam furiously over one another, sounds layering in a way that made your skin itch. For all its space and all the people that filled it, the room felt uncomfortably vacant and stale. Your eyes shifted from person to person, each with their own opinions on what was the best next move.

Suddenly someone cleared their voice and all the noise in the room fell. Your gaze flickered up to the origin of the sound and found yourself staring at the Prince –or King, you suppose. All attention was brought to the blonde haired man, his hazel eyes shining in the candlelight.

“It doesn’t matter how vital it is to capture Krenyoska, if we don’t have the supplies to make the journey there and back, the point is moot. I agree, that venture should remain a top priority, but if the primary goal is to get there then we first must acquire all the necessary provisions.” The Prince’s tenor rang throughout the room, bouncing off the empty walls with authority. His face looked young, his skin youthful, but his eyes held the surety of a seasoned General, and his voice carried the insistence of a King. There was a murmur of agreement across the table, but some still took up to point out errors in the King-to-be’s declaration.

“And you suppose these supplies will just fall off a tree, Your Highness? How do we get the provisions we need? If the capturing of Krenyoska is really this involved, we should just focus our attention on another city.” A First Army lieutenant pushed. You watched closely as the Prince digested the lieutenant’s response, clearly putting together a rebuttal.

“Letting Krenyoska fall into the Darkling’s hands would be a grave mistake on our part. Securing the supplies needed for a mission to Krenyoska is not as involved as you seem to think, lieutenant, it would take barely half a week.” His blonde hair bounced as he nodded his head in agreement with his own assertion. Others in the room followed suit. The Prince opened his mouth to continue and his gaze suddenly flicked to meet your’s.

You felt your spine straighten, almost like you’d been caught redhanded at something you shouldn’t be doing. All the room felt dark, the only light present poured from Nikolai and his golden eyes that held yours in a battle of chicken. It was mere seconds, but the unexpected eye contact left you strangely shaken. Then he continued with his point and the moment ended. It was so brief, so inconsequential, but your heart had picked up speed. You hoped none of the corporalki in the room were paying attention to you. You fixed your attention onto your notes, determined to shake the strange feeling that had come over you. However, your eyes quickly found his figure again. Like a magnet, they were pulled to the young Prince no matter how hard you tried to divert them elsewhere.

There was something inexplicably enchanting about Nikolai Lantsov. You swore he sparkled in the poor lighting, exuding confidence and suave.

Throughout the rest of the meeting, you and Nikolai shared wary glances at one another. Your eyes danced around each other, daring the other to look away first. The damnable Prince kept up a smirk that had you questioning whether to throw a fist or a wink. You opted for neither, only keeping up the eye contact and taking notes on the important decisions made in the meeting.

Finally, you spoke up when some of the others at the table had gotten rowdy trying to determine order of operations. “We should send two platoons to our base near Lukinshya. While they’re on the move, the soldiers at the base can prepare for a campaign through the town and one of the neighboring cities, civilly collecting the supplies we’d need for Krenyoska. Once that operation is fulfilled, and the platoons from the Spinning Wheel have returned, the preparation for Krenyoska should be nearly done. Then we can quickly mobilize to take the target city.” You fought back the nerves of presenting your idea to the council. There was something weirdly vulnerable about offering a plan to your colleagues. You maintained control of your expression, hoping to demonstrate a confidence you may not necessarily feel but know you have earned.

Thankfully, Zoya spoke up first in support. “Indeed, if we go with that plan, the two operations could follow each other in quick succession which would give the Darkling less time to bring up any counter offensives.” You suppressed a proud smile at Zoya’s words. She met your gaze and gave the smallest of approving nods, and you returned one likewise.

“Agreed. I do believe that’s the most cohesive plan that’s developed this whole meeting. Commanders, get platoons 33 and 51 ready for departure as soon as possible and send word to the base in Lukinshya. Part A should be carried out no later than two week’s time. We’ll adjourn for the night, thank you for your time everybody.” Nikolai’s voice rang out strongly, wrapping everything up neatly in a bow. The room nodded their heads and uttered pleasantries as they collected their things and filed out of the door.

Your eyes snapped to the commanding figure across from you, not expecting him to already be watching you and drinking up your reaction. There was something in his eyes that seemed to say, ‘Have we met?’. There was a curiosity shining in his eyes, but you revealed nothing, not quite sure how to answer him anyways. Instead, you gave him a half smile, bowed, and left the room.

Nikolai Lantsov’s eyes followed you as you slipped out of the room. It took him a moment to realize he’d been holding his breath. The first time you’d met his gaze in the meeting he felt his heart stutter. There was something so gravitating about you. In the gloom of the war room and its subsequent discussions, your presence washed the loneliness away and replaced it with warmth. He’d tried to let it go, blaming this odd perception on the poor lighting and glum mood. But everytime your eyes locked, Nikolai felt himself gaining more and more consciousness.

Then you spoke. And Nikolai had never known a sound so pleasant. And as he absorbed your words, so smooth and well-thought out, your allure grew tenfold. He’d wanted you to stay in the room. He wanted to say something to you but he couldn’t find any words. You were simply enchanting, in the most confusing of ways. You were so familiar yet so distant at the same time and it was sending the poor Prince into a fit of dizziness.

The next time you saw each other was in passing in the upper halls of the Spinning Wheel.

Nikolai was making quick strides to get to an office of one of the First Army commanders when he caught sight of you. You were strolling past a window, reading a file regarding the effectiveness of last month’s training regiment. The sunlight streaming through the glass blanketed your figure in magical light and the young Prince was transported back to the palace, many years prior.

He saw you in your kefta, rushing through the gilded halls, slipping between guards and servants to wherever you had to be in such haste. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen you before. Only fleetingly, but he had seen you a handful of times making your way between the Grand and Little Palaces. You never failed to look radiant in your kefta. That was the conclusion Nikolai Lanstov had drawn all those years ago, and it was the conclusion he drew now.

You felt someone watching you intently and turned around to find the perpetrator to be none other than the man that had been haunting your dreams for weeks now. A flash of surprise rippled across your face as you caught the young Lantsov watching you. You tilted your head in confusion but didn’t do anything to suggest he’d put you off.

Nikolai took a deep breath and stalked over to where you’d stopped across the hall. The blonde Prince came to a halt in front of you, much closer than required for a conversation between acquaintances, you noted.

“Congratulations, by the way.” Nikolai started with satisfaction.

“I beg your pardon, ‘congratulations’ for what, Your Highness?” Your brows knitted in confusion.

“The success of your plan. I’m pretty sure Colonel Vrontresky turned as red as those tomatoes he loves to eat when he heard of the triumphant outcome.” Nikolai explained easily, as if it were obvious why he would be congratulating you.

You shrugged, brushing off his remark but appreciating his sentiment internally. “If you’re going to congratulate anyone, it should be the soldiers who took part, but I appreciate your compliments. And for the record, I believe Colonel Vrontresky’s red-faced complexion is more thanks to his undying devotion to kvas.” You returned coolly. You watched closely from the corner of your eyes Nikolai’s reaction to your last statement. You were satisfied when his pink lips pulled slowly into a mischievous grin, hazel eyes flashing with pleasant surprise.

“I’d say be careful with such a statement, should Vrontresky hear you, but I doubt his ears reach all the way from the bar,” You coughed to cover up a snort and the Prince continued proudly, “You’ll be attending the next war-council meeting, right?’

You nodded, and turned to resume your walk with the Prince keeping pace. “Unfortunately for all present, I will.” You joked and Nikolai chuckled but shook his head in disagreement.

“I doubt Zoya or David would agree with such a statement,” or me, he wanted to add, “but surely you’ll make a show of putting a few people in their place.”

“Do you hold some grudges against your commanding officers, moi tsarevich?” You teased coly, glancing up at the Price to find all his attention on you.

“It would not be very kingly of me to admit to such immature temperaments, but I will say that, should you decide to, I would take great delight in seeing a few men stuttering in submission.” Nikolai’s words were filled with mischief and you smirked at the picture he painted.

“Well then, I guess I must shoulder this burden, as it is my duty to serve the throne.” You responded with fake solemnity. “I only hope I live through their wrath.”

“Let me assure you, should you perish on this noble quest, I will throw the grandest funeral Ravka has ever seen. A true war hero, celebrated as deserved.” Nikolai responded with equally serious assurance, but his smiling eyes gave away the rascally theme of your conversation.

The two of you continued bouncing playful banter off of each other for the entire walk to the office you’d been originally making your way to. The conversation was surprisingly easy. You’d never warmed up to a person as quickly as you did with the Golden Prince of Ravka. You wanted to blame that on his characteristic charm and appeal.

The air between the two of you was alight with magic. There was so much electricity between the two of you, you were surprised your hair wasn’t growing staticy.

When the two of you reached the doors of your destination, the atmosphere suddenly grew heavy. The banter died out and for the first time there was silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was still an unfortunate reminder that your moment together must come to an end. You straightened in front of the Prince and searched for the proper thing to say but came up with nothing. Damn him and his distractingly enticing face, which you swore was crafted by the most skilled artist. You were struck with the realization that being with the Prince was a disarmingly pleasant experience, and you suddenly hoped he knew that.

Nikolai cleared his throat and you just barely missed how he momentarily bounced on the balls of his feet. “Well, I must say, it has been enchanting to meet you. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you soon.” Nikolai smirked triumphantly and pressed your hand gently before turning and leaving you at the door. You didn’t know this, but his own destination had been in the opposite direction.

You felt your face warm and butterflies erupt in your stomach, tickling your heart. You spent that night rolling over his final words, your smile widening with each remembrance. You were certain all the world sparkled when he was around. And Nikolai was equally sure that he’d never met someone as dazzling as you.

[sizeofyoursoul]

“You’ll never die, and yet you look at me and you watch me die, night after night, you watch it.” Ugly fights, terrible fights, finally, Armand broken down, glassy-eyed with silent rage, then crying softly but uncontrollably as if some lost emotion had been rediscovered which threatened to tear him apart. “I will not do it, I cannot do it. Ask me to kill you, it would be easier than that. You don’t know what you ask for, don’t you see? It is always a damnable error! Don’t you realize that any one of us would give it up for one human lifetime?” “Give up immortality, just to live one life? I don’t believe you. This is the first time you have told me an out-and-out lie.” “How dare you!” “Don’t hit me. You might kill me. You’re very strong.” “I’d give it up. If I weren’t a coward when it gets right down to it, if I weren’t after five hundred greedy years in this whirlwind still terrified to the marrow of my bones of death.” “No, you wouldn’t. Fear has nothing to do with it. Imagine one lifetime back then when you were born. And all this lost? The future in which you know power and luxury of which Genghis Khan never dreamed? But forget the technical miracles. Would you settle for ignorance of the world’s destiny? Ah, don’t tell me you would.” No resolution in words was ever reached. It would end with the embrace, the kiss, the blood stinging him, the shroud of dreams closing over him like a great net, hunger! I love you! Give me more! Yes, more. But never enough. It was useless.

Daniel and Armand, The Queen of the Damned by Anne Rice

[merchant-wizard-and-jerry]

“Shop is open”

1 - Slumbering bug - 100 currency

2 - Error - 30 currency

3 - magic lamp - 20 currency

4 - Tech orb…? - 45 currency

5 - Venomous fang - 89 currency

6 - Metal plate of the hull of runak - 10 currency

7 - Candy - 10 currency

————————

"Wizard Essentials"

————————

Staff - teacup - 25 currency

Orb - eye - 10 currency

Robes - green - 1 currency per robe

————

"Consumables"

————

1 - Health Potion - 5 currency

2 - invisibility Potion - 15 currency

3 - potion of mana - 5 currency

4 - healing tablet - 10 currency

——-

"Salt"

@ignisuadaroleplay @bi-gender-sorcerer @monsterfucker-research-wizard @damnable-druid @yeast-wizard @song-de-lune @serious-tabaxi @crickled-thorn-thug

[anon-e-miss]

The Desert Blooms - 11

If they thought a priest they could make of him, they were particularly hopeless fools. Praxus believed their emperor blessed by the gods. Camshaft put no stock in the wisdom of the divine. What sort of god would bless Windbreaker? Certainly none Camshaft thought worthy of psalms. He walked the abbey’s maze while the priests and acolytes were in prayers. Walls surrounded the temple complex and though they raised his hackles, Camshaft ignored them for now. He ran his digits along a quartz hedge. Fine dust fell from his palm. Elsewhere, the fine dust, really seeds, he had sown before was taking root, hidden beneath the maze’s manicured hedges. In time they would grow and in time he would harvest, all Camshaft had to do was wait. Impatience bred error and Camshaft could not afford mistakes.

In the private chapel attached to his apartments, Camshaft prepared a workshop. He hid his tools, a mortar and pestle and beakers to begin, all pilfered from the abbey’s kitchen, underneath scrolls stored in the padded bench. Within the cupboard, he tried crystals he had picked from the abbey’s sprawling garden. A piece of resin burned in a hanging incense burner, it suitably masked the scent of his work. A single scroll was open on the altar, selection of offerings, crystals he had preserved sat alongside it. It was enough of a show to keep the priests from digging any further into his affairs. A pair had been assigned watch of him and Camshaft made certain to be an utmost boring charge. It would not be long before they grew tired of this task and Camshaft could go about his business with less supervision.

He did not light a lantern or even his headlights when he slipped from his apartments late in the dark-cycle. By chance, Camshaft had observed what looked like marcacite growing among a cluster of galena at the base of the abbot’s dovecote and he had waited for the double full moons to investigate. Moving silently, the prince slipped into the abbot’s garden. His steps were silent, and his paint flat and unremarkable, along him to disappear into the shadows of the night. Camshaft had mastered this as a youngling. In the emperor’s palace, to be seen was to be an open target. His originator had called it cowardice. They were all cowards, Camshaft thought, Windbreaker still had eight creations living. Zeta had been the boldest and quickest to die though Polyhex had been blamed for his assassination. For all Camshaft knew, that was true, he had not shot the aft, in any case. Though his brothers and sister carried blades when they were gathered, none had drawn one in vorns. It was all too easy to have the blade turned on its holder; this lesson was one Camshaft would take credit for teaching.

Though he had not been in the habit of carrying a knife, Camshaft wished for one now but his originator had ordered him to be tonsured unarmed. Did he hope one of Camshaft’s siblings would take advantage of his confines to strike at him. It was unlikely, they were not bold mechanisms. He spotted the marcacite, blooming now in the light of the twin moons. Marcacite only bloomed when both moons were full. Quickly, Camshaft plucked the blooms, using his claws, now painted black, to cut them from the galena they grew from. It was almost as clean as using cutters. Once they had grown more, they would be just as lethal as a blade. Windbreaker thought he had rendered Camshaft helpless, he was wrong. Camshaft would never be helpless. As he made his way back to his apartments, Camshaft saw spindly blooms growing in a mass of leafy gneiss. It was so similar in appearance to the Queen Munitia’s Lace it grew amongst, Camshaft almost missed the zoisite. The barest of smiles crossed Camshaft’s face as he harvested the poisonous blooms. It was no longer a matter of just waiting for the spores and seeds he had sown to grow, now Camshaft had something he could work with now.

It loathed him to smile as Crosscut, the damnable mech, removed his cloak. Calor was only just fading into Imber. There was no cause for a cloak but it was a fine piece of clothing and Crosscut never failed to showcase his wealth at every possible opportunity. Did he think wealth could ever impress Camshaft? Whatever small token the emperor bequeathed a favourite, as a prince, Camshaft had seen and spent so much more. Richest were nothing to him and never had been, though he could admit he missed the power he had wielded as Duke. These priests did not obey him as his servants had. No, Camshaft had no authority over them, his originator would not want to make life easy for his most hated creation.

The new Duke of Petrex smiled his politician’s smile as his footmecha, a femme called Road Rage took his cloak. He was too pleased with himself. Though it would have suited Camshaft to drag his claws across his face, such naked violence would not serve his purposes. This mech had been gifted Camshaft’s hereditary title as a reward for telling Windbreaker of the mutilation Camshaft’s natural and adoptive creations had endured. Though Camshaft had been relieved at first to hear his creations had escaped death and were to both be bonded to the heirs of Amalgamous, once he had read what the Tough of Adaptus meant, he had been devastated. He had no more tears to cry with the news, and the knowledge that his originator celebrated the shameful mutilation done to his grandcreations. All Camshaft had now was rage.

“Amber?” The acolyte attending them cut the jade tart and served it.

“Of course,” Crosscut said. “More high grade! Didn’t you notice the prince’s goblet is empty?”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was true, Camshaft’s goblet was empty, the high grade taken from the abbot’s personal reserve was watering the quartz Crosscut had presented him. No one had seen Camshaft pour it out. Crosscut’s goblet had been refilled several times already. The scoundrel was fond of engex, overfond really. What the acolyte, the fourth or fifth creation of a noble clan, had imagined his duties would be when he had sworn his spark to the gods, serving as waiter to a lecherous social climber was unlikely to be it. He did not mask his derision well but Crosscut was already too deep in the bottle to notice, that or he just saw the acolyte as beneath him.

“Thank you,” Camshaft said. He took a sip as he watch Crosscut pour a thick layer of amber syrup on his tart. Camshaft’s already glistened with it. He took a bite and inclined his helm, dismissing the acolyte.

“I hope you’ve considered my offer since our last dinner together,” Crosscut said, as soon as the acolyte was out of the room.

“I have,” Camshaft replied. His claws glistened with a rich black polish, the blue accents, his chevron and his arms and legs had been polished to a shine. He looked effortless rich and refined, and he knew Crosscut was salivating.

“And?” Crosscut asked. “Will you accept my proposal, be Consort of Petrex?”

“I cannot possibly accept,” Camshaft replied, demurring. “The emperor would be furious. He would send you to the gallows for certain.”

“And if the emperor agreed?” Crosscut asked.

“Then how could I refused?”

“Ahem,” the acolyte appeared at the door. “It’s time for prayers. All guests must leave the abbey.”

Camshaft leaned back against his chair, sipping his engex, as the acolyte cleared the table. The young mech was scowling. The new Duke Petrex had been deep in his cups before he had left and had broken not just his goblet but the amber pot and his dessert plate. Old wealth rarely cared for the new and Crosscut had not made a good impression. Did Crosscut really believe he could convince the emperor to allow him to wed a prince, even his most hated one? The mech had a very high opinion of himself, there was no doubt of that. The nearest village was only a short drive. By now, Crosscut would be celebrating his imagined victory at the pub, making an even greater spectacle of himself than he had already, from the gossip Camshaft had heard.

“Shall I draw you a bath, Your Highness?” The acolyte asked.

“Please.”

“And more high grade?”

“No thank you,” Camshaft replied. “I prefer to keep my helm.”

He stripped himself of his armour and climbed into the hot oil bath the acolyte had prepared. Camshaft sighed and leaned his helm back against the ledge. Things had gone far more smoothly than he could have hoped. If need be, he had been prepared to bed the damnable mech, but Crosscut’s fondness for engex and the acolyte’s chaperonage had saved him that indignity. By mid-cycle the tradesmech that worked for the abbey would be in a tither about the ignoble death of the Duke of Petrex. To die of intoxication was quite unbecoming. The emperor would be quite annoyed that yet another favourite he had elevated had died in this way. It was the very same way Camshaft’s consort had died. Camshaft took a sip of engex. Well, not quite the same way. For Garboil, he had mixed the poison into his Tetahexian brandy, for Crosscut, he had mixed it into the amber syrup he so favoured. It was a shame he would not know that Camshaft had done him in, but Camshaft knew and that was enough. For now.

[caleeeeee]

Memory Ashes-Chapter 1

Here is a picture related to MA Turbug!

I've re-uploaded it! I'm REALLY SORRY for the serious disturbance caused last time due to my unfamiliarity with Tumblr...I swear it won't happen again... T_T ———————————————————————————————— Alright... Finally I decided to use a translator. I don’t know why, but I originally wrote just over 7,000 words, and once translated into English, the word count ballooned to over 18,000. 

I’m not sure if using a translator will introduce a lot of errors into the story... but I’ve decided to give it a try. Honestly, I have zero confidence in my writing skills, so if my writing turns out to be terrible or full of mistakes, I’m really sorry... ————————————————————————————————

Click...

Click... Click...

Click...!

The incessant mechanical grinding sounds gradually roused the unconscious Cybug back to a semblance of awareness.

Turbo lazily narrowed his eyes, occasionally letting faint blue light seep through. He reluctantly pushed away the haze of sleep from his mind, emitting strange gurgling sounds from his throat.

Perhaps this was Cybug's way of groaning, as Turbo expressed his displeasure at being disturbed from his slumber.

Whatever was pushing his face and making that annoying noise, he had no interest or energy to care. He turned his head to the other side, yawned, and prepared to sink back into deep sleep...He really would have done so, exhausted to the point of never wanting to wake up again.

Turbo's remaining consciousness caught some faint metallic clanging sounds mixed with that damnable screeching. But it was so faint that it could be ignored. Now, all he needed was to sleep peacefully...

Until a sharp pain exploded on his face.

Turbo sprang up instantly, his Cybug defense mechanisms flooding his brain with rage. He roared furiously, swinging his razor-sharp claws at the fool who dared to push his luck.

"Bang!!"

The thing was sent flying into the wall like a bullet, the impact leaving an absurdly deep dent.

Now, the annoying chatter turned into a mix of crying and screaming, its short limbs flailing wildly in the air.

It was stuck, wedged in the wall.

Turbo, still seething with anger, charged at the wall and raised his claw again.It seemed he was ready to crush the little nuisance into pieces.

Fortunately, the little creature, realizing its life was in danger, let out the highest-pitched scream of its life.

The terrifying sound waves instantly filled the space.

Turbo's head buzzed violently, the intense ringing almost piercing through his skull. He stopped all movement, clutching his head and staggering back. Until the little bastard stopped screaming, it felt like his entire body was being torn apart.Though painful, it forced him to regain some semblance of calm.

Dizzy and off-balance, he tripped over himself, one claw supporting him on the ground.

The other claw still clutched his head, as the damnable screeching continued to wreak havoc in his mind, forcing low growls from his throat......

.After a moment, he turned his head, his glowing blue crystal-like eyes fixed on the little creature stuck in the wall.The frenzied monster from before... had suddenly vanished... as if it never existed... Upon realizing the other was a pink Cybug, Turbo tilted his head in confusion.

How did it get stuck in the wall?

Turbo rubbed his face, but the pain made him lower his claw. He tried to stand, dragging his stiff, steel-like body closer.With each step, his mechanical joints creaked in protest, as if they had been on strike for days... unwilling to resume work.

The little Cybug, seeing Turbo approach, began its shrill screeching again, still making Turbo's head buzz.

But this time Turbo showed no signs of rage, as he was no longer drowsy, and...

He could hear the fear and pleading in its screams.

With his needle-sharp claws, prying the little pink ball from the wall wasn't difficult. Turbo simply moved a finger, and the Cybug tumbled to the ground.

Turbo's gaze followed, watching the little creature belly-up, its short legs flailing wildly as it tried to flip itself over.

Amusing... but Turbo had to admit it was cute. He narrowed his eyes, chuckling oddly at each failed attempt.He had no intention of helping the poor thing, not until it exhausted itself from countless failed attempts and finally went limp. Only then did Turbo allow its legs to touch the ground.

Given its earlier desperate pleas, Turbo expected it to scurry away like a mouse once it regained mobility. But instead, the little rascal immediately lunged at Turbo, clinging to his leg with its short front claws, rubbing against his metal shell while emitting tiny, sharp cries.

Turbo had never been so flustered, freezing like a statue for several minutes before trying to figure out what the Cybug was trying to convey...

"............"

"........................"

It was afraid of Turbo, that much was clear, but something else seemed to terrify it even more.

What was it...? Turbo frowned, soft blue light emanating from his eyes. What could be scarier than a twenty-four-foot-tall Cybug monster?

After a pointless brainstorming session, especially when he realized the little rascal wouldn't stop screaming no matter what he did, Turbo began to grow irritable.

He moved forward, trying to shake the Cybug off his leg

...Too bad. It clung to him like melted candy, and when it realized Turbo was trying to leave, its screams became even more desperate and intense.

Oh, great. Turbo covered his head, almost wanting to shove it back into his Cybug body.

But suddenly, Turbo's keen senses picked up more pheromones... all heading his way at breakneck speed.

An instinctual command flashed in his mind.

Turbo leaped back, sulfur-yellow fangs bared, his clear blue eyes instantly replaced by a blood-red glow. He arched his body to its fullest, shielding the screaming little metal ball with his limbs.His body trembled instinctively, neon-bright wings buzzing on his back. Turbo stared at the cave entrance, emitting low, angry growls.

It was clear.Whatever was about to appear outside the cave, Turbo was ready to tear it to shreds.

Moments later, the sources of the pheromones appeared.

".........?!"

Before pouncing to bite, Turbo froze again, as he saw no threatening creatures, only more colorful little metal balls.

And the first thing they did upon seeing Turbo was scream and charge at him.

Still stiff, Turbo was knocked to the ground by the unruly mob, lying belly-up as one after another colorful candy-like creature clung to his body.Some even hugged Turbo's abdomen, causing his body to tremble from a strange, tingling sensation spreading throughout.

More Cybugs crawled over Turbo, their candy-armored bodies pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe

...To make matters worse, the irritating screeching was amplified tenfold.

Even if he wasn't being crushed to death... he was going insane.

Almost out of survival instinct, Turbo wildly pushed the mob away, shaking his body and trying to stand again.

Fortunately his mechanical joints were gradually getting used to movement, and it didn't take much effort or time to extend his limbs again. Turbo shook his head, as if that would expel the screeching from his mind.

Obviously it wouldn't, but at least he regained some clarity.

Since his body no longer protested movement, he quickly distanced himself from the group of Cybugs still struggling to flip over [yes, Turbo had knocked most of them over] and began exploring the area he was in.

He had wasted too much time on these crybabies. His Cybug survival instincts told him he couldn't let his guard down until he was sure there were no real threats that could harm him. This place was clearly not his nest or territory. Turbo didn't understand what the little ones were so afraid of, but if there was something scarier than him lurking nearby, this was no place for him—or them—to stay.He moved quickly, observing the terrain.

Clearly, he was in a massive, sprawling cave.

A cave? Why was he in a cave?

Turbo couldn't find an answer. In fact, he couldn't even begin to piece together the fragmented memories in his mind. He could only rely on his Cybug's keen senses to wander around, trying to find an exit.

This wasn't difficult for him. He could easily distinguish the difference in air composition inside and outside the cave. Soon, an almost completely obscured "exit" came into view.

This exit... was far too inconspicuous. It was covered by piles of rocks that matched the cave wall's color. If not for his Cybug coding, he would never have guessed this was the only way out...Turbo approached, stretching his neck to test if it was safe to break through. Though hidden, the rocks were clearly loosely stacked, as if hastily placed.

A single touch revealed they didn't belong to the wall.Removing them wouldn't cause any harm, Turbo thought.

Without much deliberation, Turbo began to act.

With the strength of this Cybug monster, a single strike could turn the loose wall into fragments.

A force pulled him back, slight but noticeable.Turbo turned his head.

It was the pink screeching candy again, biting his tail and pulling with all its might.

What now...

Turbo tilted his head and bared his teeth, clearly growing irritated by these persistent creatures. But since they were of his kind and hadn't posed any threat—even showing a strange admiration for him—Turbo decided not to harm them....A faint sense of vanity clouded his thoughts. He even began to wonder if he was their king... or something?

He flicked his tail, sending the Cybug biting its end tumbling.The Cybug chirped, its metal shell clinking as it rolled.........And then? It bit down even harder.

Turbo's gentle gaze sharpened. With a forceful swing of his tail, the Cybug was sent flying.

Watching the little creature tumble again, Turbo smirked, knowing it would spend a lot of time trying to flip itself over. That would give him enough time to finish his task.A loud crash shattered the silence.

The wall before Turbo turned into a pile of rubble, thick smoke billowing into his face. He instinctively covered his mouth.

He took a few steps forward, breathing in the fresh air.He felt much better.

Compared to the damp, stuffy air inside the cave, this was paradise!

Turbo enjoyed this hard-won treasure while surveying his surroundings. He seemed to be on a mountain covered in... candy trees?

Before moving forward, he glanced back and noticed the crybabies were gone, their clattering shells silent.

They didn't follow him out?

.....Regardless, Turbo was relieved he no longer had to deal with any of the whining little metal balls. If they kept annoying him, he would surely go mad...This meant he could now act according to his own will.

Good. Next, he would try to settle in this world,provided he could find a place free of potential threats...

Turbo turned his head back, but before he could spread his wings and fly away, a scream reached his ears.

This wasn't the familiar sound of a Cybug... it was something he had never heard before... Though the scream wasn't loud, Turbo's keen senses quickly located its source.

He sharply turned his head to the right, and what came into view was another... metal ball...?

But... it was black... and from its shape and aura, he was certain this thing wasn't a Cybug.

He had never seen a Cybug walk on just two legs...

Turbo wasn't on guard, as this creature, though vastly different from Cybugs, seemed just as fragile and helpless.

And most importantly, it screamed without warning.

Clearly the thing reacted to Turbo's gaze, stepping back. Though its entire body was encased in black metal, Turbo could sense its trembling. Each step it took was stiff, as if it might collapse at any moment.

Somehow Turbo enjoyed seeing weak creatures cower in fear before him. He narrowed his eyes, letting out that odd chuckle again, and began moving toward the creature.

Turbo had no intention of attacking. It was just that a never-before-seen creature had appeared before him, posing no threat, and his curiosity drove him to observe it further

.But this series of actions clearly frightened the creature even more. Its fragile, trembling legs could no longer support its body, and it collapsed to the ground. Turbo noticed it was clutching a black rectangular box, which it placed next to its head, speaking rapidly into it.

Turbo could hear but couldn't understand... it wasn't Cybug language.

The creature was so terrified it couldn't even stand, lying on the ground, wide-eyed, watching the monster approach step by step. Its eyes seemed ready to pop out.

Turbo kept advancing but stopped two steps away. He lowered his head to meet the creature's gaze, his faint blue light illuminating its face.

He stared at it, expressionless, his throat emitting intermittent gear-grinding sounds.

The creature was clearly bewildered. This twenty-foot-tall Cybug monster had caught a lone soldier but showed no hostility...? He had already prepared to be torn apart.

Though unbelievable... this wasn't one of the mindless Cybugs from Hero's Duty... This was TURBO, the paranoid criminal who once sought to dominate all gaming consoles!!!!Such abnormal behavior only deepened the soldier's unease and suspicion.

"So...let my guard down so you can tear me to pieces..?"

He muttered to himself as he tried to stand up, his voice loud enough for the Cybug across from him to hear.

"......"

Turbo tilted his head, showing a very confused expression. It wasn't because he didn't know how to answer the question, but because he simply couldn't understand the language of this black iron ball.

[To reiterate, Turbo can only understand Cybug's language. He currently cannot communicate with humans or speak human language.]

As a result, Turbo was momentarily at a loss on how to respond and could only stare at him, an expression of embarrassment that didn't belong to his original character plastered on his face.

Damn it, his car was dozens of meters away... all his heavy weapons were there... otherwise, he could have at least broken a few of this guy's legs...

with this insignificant gun in his hand...

At best, it could only scratch the surface of this behemoth...

"who would have thought I'd run into something like this......"

The soldier lowered his head, gritting his teeth, frustrated by his misfortune.

Suddenly a sound of something heavy hitting the ground made him lift his head again, but what he saw next almost made his jaw drop.

This guy...... placed his car right in front of him...!?

The soldier absolutely refused to believe that this villain, notorious for his cunning and deceit, would be so foolish as to create conditions to harm himself...And also... he had only lowered his head for a few seconds... how could this guy move back and forth dozens of meters so quickly?!

This outrageously fast speed and strength convinced the soldier that Turbo could easily cut off his head in the few seconds he was distracted, yet not only did he not do so... he even gave the opportunity to the other party?

The soldier's throat felt as if it had been shot through by a bullet, unable to utter a word, he stared straight at Turbo, not understanding... why....

.....Turbo hadn't thought that much about it, he just noticed that the soldier's gaze kept focusing on that pile of metal, thinking he needed those things, so he brought them over.

As for what exactly those things were, in his current state, he couldn't tell at all.

"........."

"......Hey..."

"Can't you see that this thing is enough to cripple you...?"

Without thinking, the soldier pulled out a firearm from it. No matter what, he found it hard to trust this guy. As an ordinary soldier, although he hadn't witnessed Turbo's heart filled with malice firsthand, the crimes he had committed over the decades were horrifying just to hear about.

Who could guarantee that this guy wouldn't tear off his friendly mask at any moment and rip out his spine...?

"Markowski!!!!"

The soldier heard a familiar shout from behind him, and the pitch-black world was instantly illuminated by a massive beam of light.

Perfectly aimed, the beam struck Turbo's body directly.

So fast that he didn't even have time to react, Turbo staggered back in pain as his body was pierced, his sharp howls echoing through the forest.

WARNING!!!!!!WARNING!!!!!!

High-risk biological attack, territorial competitor, a deadly threat is approaching!!

Turbo quickly regained his balance, the pale blue light in his eyes instantly turning blood-red. He lifted his head, his face twisted into something terrifying.The acute senses of the Cybug told him that in the distance, there was one......... two............ dozens of threatening creatures closing in on him!!!

He almost ignored the intense pain from earlier, frantically lunging toward the car in front of Markowski.

The violent impact sent the heap of metal flying forward like a bullet.In the distance ahead, there was a series of loud bangs, accompanied by the heart-wrenching screams of some creatures...

"Is he using this thing to scare off intruders?!"

No... not to scare...... he could hear those screams clearly... he was now trying to wipe out his comrades!!Markowski's breathing became erratic with fear, gripping his gun tightly as he stepped back. What he saw was this Cybug, no longer calm and sluggish... but transformed into a truly frenzied monster... No matter how friendly this guy had seemed earlier...... if he stayed near him now......... he would definitely be torn to pieces...!!!

Turbo bared his fangs and roared, the gears in his throat spinning wildly.

It wasn't over yet.

These bastards had already appeared before him, one after another, black iron-clad figures, just like the one he had encountered earlier. Standing in their midst was a noticeably slimmer woman.

Damn it...... Turbo trembled, partly from extreme rage... and partly because his pierced body was bleeding profusely... the intense pain constantly stimulated his nerves...

Calhoun looked at him, a smirk on her lips. Her guess was correct—this guy absolutely couldn't endure this level of injury. But she didn't let her guard down because of it. If he really couldn't endure it at all, then there wouldn't have been so many bullets flying toward them earlier.

She raised her heavy laser cannon at him again, but after a blinding flash of light, the spot where Turbo had been was now empty

...He had vanished.

"........."

Silence fell all around. Calhoun gestured to the soldiers behind her, and they advanced while keeping a close watch on their surroundings.They moved cautiously toward the entrance of a cave, not hearing a single sound of the Cybug moving.

"It seems this is his hiding place," Calhoun whispered. No matter how fast he was, he couldn't have disappeared hundreds of meters away in an instant.

So, he was either hiding in the woods or inside this cave.

Calhoun divided the soldiers into two groups. One group was tasked with guarding the cave entrance to prevent Turbo from ambushing them from the woods, while the other group, led by her, would venture deep into the dark cave. Both teams were equipped with heavy weapons. If this guy dared to show himself, they could at least ensure he would never stand up again.

Meanwhile... deep inside the cave, several Cybugs were doing their best to hide, trembling from the threat outside.

Turbo hadn't gone far. He was now perched on a tree, blood from his wound dripping down the trunk and pooling on the ground.

The pressure that woman gave off was immense... she seemed to know all the weaknesses of a Cybug. If he hadn't escaped earlier... his entire head would have been blown to pieces...

The Cybug's survival instinct told him he should leave this place immediately...

Fortunately, his wings weren't damaged, and that crazy woman wasn't around for now. He could use his incredible speed to shoot into the sky, and those sluggish soldiers would never be able to catch him.

"......"

".........?!"

Wait...Those sugar cubes are still in the cave!!!!

"Watch the sky!!!!" Calhoun shouted, ordering all the soldiers to move away from their original positions.Turbo dove down from the sky like a bullet, the ground shattering under the immense impact. In an instant, everything became bloody and chaotic. Claws tore through the soldiers' armor, the Cybug's roars mixed with the deafening gunfire. Nearby trees were uprooted, and the air was almost stained red with blood. Every swing of his claws was accompanied by furious roars and agonized screams...

Calhoun immediately led the soldiers out of the cave. She wasn't going to let him disappear from her sight this time. She aimed her gun at Turbo, taking advantage of the moment when his attention wasn't on her, and fired at his limbs.

With a painful howl from the Cybug, several of his limbs were blasted away.

Turbo's left side was completely torn apart, including his leg and arm...Now, all that remained on his left side were hundreds of wires brutally exposed and a continuous flow of blood.

Turbo staggered back in agony.He could no longer stand... collapsing heavily to the ground...

He felt as if his internal organs were being twisted into knots by the wires... his windpipe instantly filled with blood... so much so that with every breath he took, crimson liquid gushed out from every opening on his face connected to his body...

Not just his face... his entire body... especially his left side... was almost a bloody mess...

The gears in his body struggled to keep functioning, desperately trying to prevent him from falling unconscious.

But it was no use... his vision blurred from excessive blood loss... he saw the frilly cuff on his remaining arm soaked in a pool of blood.

The female soldier stood right in front of him... but he could do nothing but let out low growls...

he didn't even have the strength to lift his head... or swing his claws...

"......Incredibly tenacious."

"Bring the cables."

The Cybug felt something touching and wrapping around his body, but he kept his gaze fixed on the female soldier's face

.... if he ever got another chance... he would personally devour her head...

Turbo's vision suddenly turned stark white—electricity... in an instant, nearly ten thousand volts surged through his entire body

.He didn't even have the strength to scream before he completely fell down.

The Cybug, like a lamp, was extinguished.

"...what should we do with him?"

[fascinationstreetmp3]

look here's my vision. in qotd, armand turns 32 year old daniel as a last resort when his alcoholism reaches the point where he's actively dying and will only live a few more days. lots of theories involve show daniel getting hurt badly in some way or his condition/health worsening rapidly, so turning him is the only way to save him. that could be what happened, but in my opinion (operating under the assumption they have history that extends past those six days in 1973) it doesn't need to go that route exactly to work out a similar way.

"You'll never die, and yet you look at me and you watch me die, night after night, you watch it." Ugly fights, terrible fights, finally, Armand broken down, glassy-eyed with silent rage, then crying softly but uncontrollably as if some lost emotion had been rediscovered which threatened to tear him apart. "I will not do it, I cannot do it. Ask me to kill you, it would be easier than that. You don't know what you ask for, don't you see? It is always a damnable error! Don't you realize that any one of us would give it up for one human lifetime?" "Give up immortality, just to live one life? I don't believe you. This is the first time you have told me an out-and-out lie." "How dare you!" "Don't hit me. You might kill me. You're very strong." "I'd give it up. If I weren't a coward when it gets right down to it, if I weren't after five hundred greedy years in this whirlwind still terrified to the marrow of my bones of death."

armand has multiple complicated reasons for not wanting a fledgling, but in the book one of them is because he doesn't want to take daniel's life from him when he has so much of it left to live as a human.

"Be alive, Daniel." A low whisper, like a kiss. "Let me tell you from my heart that life is better than death."

show daniel is 70 years old. he has parkinson's but he's still alive, not dying, and his life's not over; there's still things he can do and accomplish. regardless, any argument of "keep on living the rest of your life" doesn't hold as much weight as it does being told to a young man who desperately wants to stop aging and live eternally.

Short little velvet laugh. "There you go again. So irrepressibly human. You overestimate me or underestimate me. Seldom do you ever hit the mark." "I work with limited equipment. The cells in my body are subject to deterioration, to a process called aging and—"

in my opinion, there doesn't have to be a great sudden catalyst, some injury or health decline that forces armand's hand.

"You don't think it terrifies me?" Daniel had asked, staring at the white-faced figure beside him. "How many years do I have? Can you tell just by looking at me? Tell me."

it might be a simple case of looking at him now and thinking how many years does he have left?

"But I don't want it to end now. I don't want to continue unless you—" His face changed slightly. Faint look of surprise. "I don't want you to die."

regardless of the state of his health, he's a 70 year old human. the conclusion armand comes to might be not enough.

"I told you. It's just a dream. But if you want a name, let me call it the gateway of life and death. I'll bring you with me through this gateway. And why? Because I am a coward. And I love you too much to let you go."

[korpuskristae]

Jasmine and Rose - The Air Tastes Just Like You

Warnings: Severus being a moody grump, reference to cannon death, foreshadowing, set during Philosopher’s Stone but no specific references are made, Religious references and guilt

Pairing: Severus Snape x Female Reader, reader uses she/her pronouns

Word Count: 800+

Summary: Severus brews amortentia with his students only to find the scent has changed.

Part 2 Part 3

AN: This is my first time posting fanfiction on this account and to my surprise, I really enjoyed writing this. Ignore any grammar and spelling mistakes, I glanced over this before posting. I wrote this little drabble (it's now much longer than I anticipated and will be split into multiple parts) while listening to Jasmine and Rose by Clan of Xymox so I guess you could consider this a borderline song fic. Here's the song if you’re interested in listening, if you like it you should check out my Sev playlist on Spotify. (Also give me Sev smut ideas, I’m ITCHING to write smth, no teacher-student stuff)

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿ ☆ ‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

Read on AO3

Hunched over a cauldron, Severus stood in the middle of his dark classroom, his face illuminated only by a candle he’d lit hours ago which had been reduced to a mere stub at this point.

Grumbling to himself, he meticulously cut up some herbs and threw them into the cauldron with a flourish and a flick of his wand to clear off his workbench. Impatiently waiting for the potion to finish brewing, he attempted to busy himself with something, anything, to get his mind off of his current predicament.

A few moments of contemplation passed before that same scent, that damnable scent, snapped him out of his thoughts.

He had to have been insane.

Perhaps he was losing his touch? Even the most knowledgeable scholars have been known to have days where even the simplest of tasks elude them… it was true he hadn’t slept in a while, maybe he was simply imagining things.

Yes, he was just imagining things.

That was the only logical conclusion. He found comfort in the fact that It wasn’t a problem with him but rather his sleep schedule, for once, just maybe, something wasn’t his fault.

His momentary relief of guilt came crashing down upon smelling the scent, your scent, yet again, only this time much stronger.

Still refusing to believe it, he reasoned it must have been some mistake on his part. Maybe he was daft. Furiously waving his wand, he cleared the cauldron of its contents and extinguished the flame underneath.

“Evanesco,” he muttered bitterly as he dramatically spun on his heel before marching over to the potions storeroom.

He was going to settle this once and for all.

He had to be doing something wrong. Maybe the herbs were stored improperly and therefore lost their potency, maybe he measured out the wrong amount of one of the ingredients, maybe…

It didn’t matter in the end.

The possibilities of potential errors were endless. In the art of potioneering, even the smallest of errors could result in entirely different outcomes, perhaps this was one of those cases.

In reality, he didn’t care why or how, he already knew he must’ve, no, definitely, made a mistake somewhere during the brewing process. He had to have…

For the last fifteen years of his miserable life, his Amortentia had smelt like the same thing, lilies. Lilies with a hint of willow bark and the overwhelming smell of vanilla.

Unmistakably Lily’s scent.

Every. year. Every single year he had to teach those insufferable brats how to brew the cursed potion he was tormented by the memory of Lily. Reminded of how he had failed to protect her, reminded of how he had hurt her, and reminded of how one stupid mistake landed him a life sentence of servitude to not one but two wizards. Trapping him right in the middle of a war, ensuring his life would forever be dedicated to finding redemption.

Knowing one day, he’d give his life to atone for his mistake.

He carried with him the burden of his guilt three hundred sixty five days a year, twenty four seven, and he would carry it until the end of his days.

But that day, as if to rub salt in the wound, was his own personal hell, personally delegated to him by God, if there even was one, dedicated to guilt and self hatred.

Severus was God’s very own crowned patron saint of guilt and he felt it necessary for his saint to be subject to his very virtue.

Today was that day, his saintly day if you will, or rather, was supposed to be that day.

While everyone usually tended to give Severus a wide berth, students and staff alike avoided the potions master like the plague whenever the Amortentia lesson drew near. Already known for his intimidating demeanor and hot-headed attitude, the week of the lesson was among the worst for those unfortunate enough to be in his presence.

Even the smallest of provocations would cause Severus to fly off the handle and berate whoever was unlucky enough to be within his general vicinity.

Naturally, Hogwarts’s rumor mill was working overtime to come up with a plausible explanation for the Potions Master’s increased irritability.

But no one rumor stuck around for too long, and eventually, students would grow bored after a week or two, moving on to the next piece of hot gossip, of which there was no shortage.

Nevertheless, Severus never paid any mind to the school’s gossip, at least not since he was a student. He found it endearing how valiantly you defended him in front of students who dared to bad mouth him around you, he’d never admit it, but knowing someone didn’t see him as an emotionless bat of the dungeons made him feel just a little bit better about himself.

(Sorry for abrupt ending, will be a part 2 :p)

[alexandraisyes]

Alright chat I'll make you a deal. When I reach 1000 followers on any of my platforms I will commission Davis to voice act this segment from my Errors in Resentment fic, and get it animated.

His grin wavered back into a frown, “Don’t worry about it.” He muttered, turning back to the surface of the table. “I am worried about it!” Ruin shrilled, “Quite frankly, your behavior as of late has been extremely worrying!” He continued, uncrossing his arms to use his hands for emphasis. “You haven’t even touched any of your personal projects in a week, and you’ve made hardly any progress on Bloodmoon because you’ve been burying yourself inside of your own code! I’m allowed to worry!” Irritation bubbled up and spilled over, “Why? Because I’m not working on your shit anymore?” Eclipse fired back, sitting back to scowl up at Ruin. “That’s why you brought me back, right? To work on your shit?” “Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m worried!” “Then why?!” Eclipse asked voice strained near Sun levels of pitch. He threw his hands up in exasperation, “You treat me well, you aren’t violent to the point you cause harm, and I know you can be dangerous, but you haven’t tried to pull a fast one on me yet. I’ve seen how you treat that golden idiot and his damned brother, but you don’t dance circles around me. So why, Ruin? Why do you worry, why do you act like you care ?!” He seethed, half out of the chair by now, on more physically equal footing than he had been sitting, when Ruin was sitting on the table. “Oh I don’t know, maybe because I do ?!” Ruin yelled back, posture stiff, built-in claws fully extended. A defensive position, Eclipse’s HUD informed him, a fighting position. “Well, don’t! Don’t care, it’s not going to get you anywhere! I’m not going to change, I’m not going to become this hero you look up to Sun for!” Eclipse snarled, own claws flexing in response. Geared for a fight, he hadn’t had a fight in stars knew how long, maybe this is what he needed. Piss off Ruin so those damnable emotions would stop. “Quite frankly! I don’t want you to change!” Ruin shot back, “Have you ever once considered maybe I enjoy your company the way that it is? Or are you too blind by your own fucking insecurities that you can’t see outside of the box that is Eclipse?”

Lucky me I don't expect to hit 1k for a long while, I'm only at 400 as of writing this. So I've plenty of time to let this fester. (For those that don't know what EiR is it's basically my "Eclipse and Ruin are friends" AU that I made before we got copy Eclipse.)

[melefim]

Swearing in Dead Boy Detectives: Damn

Overview:

Damn was said a total of 12 times, in 6 episodes and by 7 different characters.

Uses Per Episode:

Episode 1: 1

Episode 2: 0

Episode 3: 3

Episode 4: 2

Episode 5: 0

Episode 6: 2

Episode 7: 2

Episode 8: 2

Uses Per Character:

Edwin: 3

Charles: 1

Crystal: 2

Esther: 3

Dagfinn: 1

Girl in Crystal’s Memory 1 (Cheating Boyfriend): 1

Crystal’s Mom: 1

Percent of Total:

Damn is used 12 times, which is 3.7% of cursing in the show.

Variations:

There are 4 variations of the word Damn used in the show, with the most popular being Goddamn, which was used 6 times.

Goddamn: 6

Damn: 3

Damn it: 2

Damnable: 1

Rankings:

Total Uses: The 12 uses of Damn tie it for 6th place with Hell for total uses.

Number of Episodes: Damn is tied for 5th with 6 episodes, along with Bloody, Bloody Hell, and Jesus.

Total Characters: Damn’s 7 characters ties it for 4th with Bitch.

It is one of only two words said by the main trio of Edwin, Charles, and Crystal, the other being Fuck.

It is one of only four words said by both Edwin and Charles—the others being Fuck, Bloody, and Bloody Hell.

Favorite Word: Damn is Edwin’s favorite word, being said 3 times by him.

Word Variations: It is tied in 5th place with Screw and Ass for most variations, with 4 each.

Lines:

Episode 1:

Edwin: I'll jot that down in my journal of opinions I do not give a damn about.

Episode 3:

Crystal: And if I have to hear that goddamn song one more time, I am gonna lose my shit.

Crystal: Damn it, I know you choose the worst times to show up on purpose.

Edwin: Damn it. Crystal, if you can hear me, try to stay positive.

Episode 4:

Dagfinn: I need someone to get these damn ghosts out of my lighthouse!

Edwin: Now, unless you have more damnable spells, I should go. I have a case to solve.

Episode 6:

Charles: He's wrong you know? You're still pretty damn special.

Esther: I mean, this is why we had a plan, Monty, so I wouldn't be the one traipsing through the goddamn woods!

Episode 7:

Esther: I'm gonna wring that chic little kitty's goddamn neck.

Esther: And I'm gonna take that power, and get this goddamn town under my thumb.

Episode 8:

Girl in Crystal’s Memory 1 (Cheating Boyfriend): Why are you being so goddamn mean?

Crystal’s Mom: They're wasting our goddamn time, Seth, go tell him!

Update:

Corrected an error in Curse Word Variations placement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More Dead Boy Detectives Swearing Posts:

Masterlist

Swearing by Episode

Swearing by Character

Swearing by Word

All Swearing Posts

And if you like lists of things like I do, you can check out my other Dead Boy Detectives ones here!

When Charles’ Shirt Colors Change

George Rextrew’s Edwin comic inspo board

Full soundtrack with timestamps

Moves, Incidents, and Cases Masterlist

First pass at finding where the songs in the score are used- full post with timestamps in progress

[oldboy-103]

-HoloLog. 01 recording

--Onminet connection secure

---broadcasting from <system error: location unknown>

[An old man sits at a desk squinting at a screen, the faint glow reflects light on his face he scrunches his features as seemed confused]

How in the world's do I get this damnable thing working.

[The man seems unaware that he has started recording a video log but after a moment he looks up at the camera and smiles warmly]

Oh, hello! I am Ulysses Whittimore callsign Old Boy, currently on route back to union space after the safe transport of supplies to a newly founded union world. What?

[Ulysses turns to talk to someone out of frame no longer paying attention to the recording]

What do ya mean I shouldn't talk about that? My own life? Noone wants to hear the stories of a wrinkled old man. Fine fine fine stop nagging me you horrid girl.

[He looks back smiling brightly]

Well my stowaway seems to think I should tell some war stories but who knows where to start when your as old as I am...

---Recording device full

--stopping broadcast

-omninet link disconnected

[dont-eat-the-algae]

Kelsier Essay Part 5

Towards this part of the essay I was running out of steam. Some spelling errors and less professional language.

Hoid in the Well: Secret History

When it comes to this scene, I won’t argue that Kelsier was being extra here. The man has been cooped up in a 5x5 spot for a long time, with no answers and seriously questioning his logic at becoming what he’s become. His only companion is an insane, unraveling god who barely speaks most times he “visits.” So when an actual man comes by, floating on what looks to be a corpse, Kelsier is immediately on edge.

All quotes are taken from pages 228 – 233, of Part 2, Chapter 1, of Secret History.

“ “Who are you?” Kelsier asked, stepping to the edge of his prison, eyes narrowed. “A spirit?” “Alas,” the man said, “death has never really suited me. Bad for the complexion, you see.” He studied Kelsier, lips raised in a knowing smile. Kelsier hated him immediately.” “

Seen from Kelsier’s perspective, this is a man that knows things and is holding back. This is a schemeing, conniving man, that is similar to the nobles he’s dealt with all his life. It doesn’t help that Hoid and Kelsier have similar personalities. Note Hoid’s words, “bad for the complexion.” A similar line is used by Kelsier at the very beginning of TFE. 

“Fieldwork hasn’t ever really suited me.” Kelsier said. “It’s far too hard on my delicate skin.” (Prologue, page 6, TFE).

“Got stuck there, did you?” the man said. “In Ati’s prison…” He clicked his tongue. “Fitting recompense, for what you did. Poetic, even.” “What I did?” “Destroying the Pits, O Scarred one. That was the only perpendicularity on this planet with any reasonable ease of access.” Kelsier has no idea what a perpendicularity is. Yes, he destroyed it. Did he know what he was doing on a grand scale? No. He was, to his knowledge, destroying the Empire’s main economic driver. Hoid treats him like a criminal when Kelsier was fighting against an unjust Empire, one that Hoid is very familiar with, having been to Scadrial before. Calling him names doesn’t help.

“Who are you?” Kelsier said. “I?” The man said. “I am a driver. A miscreant. The flame’s last breath, made of smoke at it’s passing.” “That’s…needlessly obtuse.” Well said, Kelsier. Hoid plays games, this we know from dealing with him in Stormlight. However, with Kaladin and Shallan he gives half answers, or none at all, in a playful, non-demeaning way. Here he’s laden with vitriol and spite, for no good reason. It gets worse.

“And you claim to not be dead?” “If I were, would I need this?” the Driver said, knocking his oar against the front of his small loglike vessel. [Kelsier notices Spanky for the first time, not knowing what a cognitive shadow just is yet.] “A corpse,” he whispered. “Oh Spanky here is just a spirit. It’s damnably difficult to get about in this subastral—anyone physical risks slipping through these mists and falling, perhaps forever. So many thoughts pool together here, becoming what you see around, and you need something finer to travel over it all.” “That’s horrible.” “Says the man who built a revolution on the backs of the dead. At least I only need one corpse.” Hoid is being ridiculous here. Yes, Spanky is a cognitive shadow, but as I’ve stated, Kelsier has no idea what that is. To his knowledge, this man is riding a corpse around. Hoid is also forgetting that the people Kelsier murdered were far less than innocent; Kelsier can make distinctions here. A rapist and murderer who regularly abuses his peasants is different from a corpse used to wade down a lake of thoughts.

Kelsier folded his arms. This man was wary—thought he spoke lightheartedly, he watched Kelsier with care, and held back as if contemplating a method of attack.

Note the diction here; Kelsier is reading Hoid’s body language as he should; Hoid is planning to use the well to gain purchase in the spiritual realm and take that bead of Lerasium. He isn’t planning anything wrong per se, but Kelsier has no way of knowing that. All Kelsier sees is a man preparing to attack.

“He wants something, Kelsier guessed. Something that I have, maybe? No, he seemed legitimately surprised that Kelsier was there. He had come here, intending to visit the Well. Perhaps he wanted to enter it, access the power? Or did he, perhaps, just want to have a look at the thing Beyond?”

Wrong guesses, but good ones all the same for an ignorant man. Hoid does want something. So far, Kelsier’s waryness is completely justified. He tries to be polite, asking a simple question. “Well, you’re obviously resourceful,” Kelsier said. “Perhaps you can help me with my predicament.” “Alas,” The Driver said. “Your case is hopeless.” Kelsier felt his heart sink. “Yes, nothing to be done,” the Driver continued. “You are, indeed, stuck with that face. By manifesting those same features on this side, you show that even your soul is resigned to you always looking like one ugly sonofa—" “Bastard!” Kelsier cut in. “You had me for a second.”

Instead of even offering Kelsier a crumb of help, he instead insults him, for…very little reason. Hoid rarely kicks people when they’re down; he instead punches up. We notice this with the Rosharan nobility. He doesn’t insult the peasant waitstaff. Why is he insulting Kelsier? There is no reason to do so; he’s just being an ass to be an ass. Kelsier hasn’t even mouthed off yet.

So far Hoid has treated him like an inferior, insulted him and been “needlessly” obtuse, all while showing suspicious body language. Is it any wonder Kelsier is on edge and ready to defend the Well? He knows it’s for Vin; he means to protect it until she can have it.

The two go back and forth for some time, speaking of Kelsier’s bastard nature, skaa versus nobility, and Hoid applying some (I believe it to be dor, but I’m not sure) glowing stuff to his oar. (in an effort to prevent it from de-manifesting). As they speak, Hoid edges closer to the well. Kelsier has been watching him this entire time.

He begins to ask a question again, despite Hoid’s rudeness. “Is there a way to escape this prison?” Kelsier asked. “How about this?” the Drifter said. “We’ll have an insult battle. Winner gets to ask one question, and the other has to answer truthfull. I’ll start. What’s wet, ugly, and has scars on it’s arms?” Another insult to an innocent question, and now Kelsier is very on edge. He’s obviously deflecting. So Kelsier decides to be as extra as possible in an effort to scare him away. Now, a cognitive shadow would, realistically, be as scary as an earthworm to Hoid if it’s not on Threnody, but Kelsier doesn’t know this. Which is why he brings out his “I’m-going-to-murder-you” routine that goes into lurid detail and leaves Hoid speechless. Kelsier even throws in a shrug.

Hoid then dives for the well, and Kelsier grabs him, determined to disable him, kill him, or just prevent him from doing whatever he wants to do in the well. Which leads to their fight, where Kelsier does zero damage to Hoid and Hoid proceeds to torture him incessantly as a “lesson.” He did not need to go as far as he did. If Hoid had been truthful with who he was, what he was after, and perhaps offered explanations, Kelsier would have been less inclined to act rashly. Instead, Hoid is needlessly obtuse, rude, mocking, condescending and tortures him.

It makes his words at the end of RoW amusing to me, as Hoid cheats in this fight and was the aggressor in every definition of the word. Hoid strikes first by the very fact he jumped for the Well. Kelsier was merely defending it.

“Deal with your own stupid planet, you idiot. Don’t make me come there and slap you around again.” (Chapter 115, page 1238, RoW).

Kelsier, The Ghostbloods, and the Malwish: Era 2, The Lost Metal, and SLA

It has been brought to my attention that, despite everything I outlined, I neglected to mention anything about Kelsier’s actions after the events of SH. We know very little: He had a pile of inquistor spikes that he and Spook experimented with. (Some people think he went spiking metalborn willy nilly, but these people are wrong, it doesn’t make sense, especially when metalborn were necessary to rebuild society.) We know he went and saved the entire Malwish people from extinction. I think this is a key point people forget. They were quite literally freezing to death in 60 degree (F) weather. They were forgotten by Sazed, a fan favorite whom everyone agrees is a great guy. Sazed just…didn’t care enough to help them. Kelsier created the incisors and unkeyed bronze minds and saved this entire race. 

Some people say “Well, they worshipped him and he was their leader.” If someone came and miraculously used technology you didn’t understand to save you, you would feel indebted to them too. It was a natural human emotion. Kelsier ran them for several years before leaving. He created the Bands of Mourning. (This is still under debate, by the way. I cannot give you answers how he did this.), hid them away. (Possibly because they didn’t work for him and giving them to someone else was extremely dangerous.) and left. After this he founded the Ghostbloods. I have another document that outlines the Ghostbloods and their machinations throughout SLA, and proved that while the Rosharan Ghostbloods aren’t all that nice, they certainly aren’t evil as a whole. Mraize and Iyatil are definitely villainous, and the organization on Roshar does it’s own thing, loosely following Kelsier’s orders. I doubt everything they do reaches his ears: Explain to me why Mraize would brag to his boss about chasing and imprisoning a young girl, while also bargaining with malicious occupiers. All Kelsier wanted to access to the oathgates, which Mraize successfully got. There was no need to inform of how he did it. Word reaches Kelsier regardless. It doesn’t matter how hard Mraize works at keeping his actions underwraps.

On Scadrial, Kelsier is far more in control, and his agents are far more benevolent. They have a bond; Kaise even refers to him as “Kell.” which is infers a level of intimacy (Friends, not lovers, you gutterbags) that harkens back his old thieving crew days. He’s very involved in the goings on of his planet, and cares deeply.

I’m not going to

To tie this long, rambling, and somewhat insane essay up, Kelsier is not a psychopath. He fits only one of the criteria, and only somewhat fits another. Since one needs to fit three of the traits in order to be diagnosed, the man is free from ASPD. Through the essay, I have showcased his empathy, his understanding, his patience, his trust, and his love of those around him. Hell, he says as much in Secret History when wandering, his soul cracking from loneliness. He’s a flawed man; he can be arrogant, egotistical, and impulsive, but he wants what is best for his people. This is not an argument whether Kelsier is a 10/10 moral blorbo. He’s not that. He’s not Kaladin, he’s no NuDalinar, he’s not Adolin. Why do people want him to be? The man was born in a society that was kill or be killed. His mother was forcibly murdered when they found out she was Skaa. This essay is meant to showcase why he doesn’t fit the criteria for being a psychopath. 

[mraprilfools]

Part 1

Previously on DwtRD

WELCOME TO PART 3 OF OUR SHOW EVERYONE! IT SEEMS THAT EVEN WHEN I HOLD YOUR HAND YOU ALL STILL MANAGE TO FUCK IT ALL UP SOMEHOW! IF YOU HAD SIMPLY CHOSEN TO KILL HIM WE COULD BE DANCING IN HELL TOGETHER MY DEAR, BUT IT SEEMS YOU AREN'T READY YET.

NO MATTER. I WILL TEACH YOU THE ERROR OF YOUR INDECISIVE WAYS.

OUR DEAR LADY @ladyadrasteia666 HAS RETURNED, IT'S SO NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN!

THANK YOU ALL AGAIN FOR COMING AND ENJOY THE SHOW!

A wicked blade of blackened roots formed easily between your hands. Its weight is familiar. Rather than hardened steel, it was closer to interwoven roots. Eyes sprouted from the surface, opening wide to gaze back at their master. Gnarled roots fed on blood bore beautiful lycoris flowers. The weight was familiar, once having been used to cut down countless Overlords and all the filth that Alastor had tossed into this realm.

Never had it plunged into the heart of an angel, and you found yourself wavering before such a prize. The golden blood of an angel was a rare treat, even if it would not ease the hunger clawing in your belly refusing to ever be sated. Like a most delicious treat, but reason had your blade hesitating. The angel’s three eyes locked on you. Narrowing into slits as his brow bent into a furrow.

Your sweating palm re-seated itself on the handle. Your eyes searched for the quickest and easiest place to cut him down. A single strike through the heart? You shifted your weight back, preparing for a thrust for the heart.

Kill him or Free Him?

Death or freedom?

Were you the kind of person who’d do anything to escape or did you earn your place here like all the other Overlords?

“I make things so easy for you, and you can’t even do something as simple as make a decision now?!” Alastor’s voice broke through stepping through the shadows again incredulously. He now stood between you and the angel, looking upset! Or as much as he could when he was always wearing that damnable golden smile.

"If his only crime is questioning a higher power... Then he knows that the system is broken. He has potential, and that should make him valuable, Alastor. Rather foolish of you to just want him dead. I'd go so far as to say it's unlike you." You argued. With a bit of boldness you attempted to cut Alastor while he stupidly lingered in line of your blade. However...

The blade of gnarled roots passed through a figure made only of mist and shadows. The smile on the deer’s face widened, and brilliant taunting laughter echoed through the land.

“You cannot kill me in here my dear! You’ll have to escape if you want to accomplish that. But to answer your question...” The gentleman bowed, turning his attention upon the gagged angel still staring at you, and only you with intense hatred.

“We must all make sacrifices my dear for the greater evil! I needed to be sure that you remembered who you were. But it seems you still aren’t ready to leave. A shame!” The glow in his eerie red eyes struck out a little more, the curling edges of his smile stretching until green stitches tugged at his grin. “Very well! You’ve lost your potential ally AND your sacrifice! I cannot tolerate such hesitation! That is for stories of redemption and hope. Our ballad my dear is something far more treacherous!”

With a flick of his wrist, the earth swallowed up the angel. To places unknown within this realm. Your disappointed host is now strolling around you with his cherry-tipped fingers locked behind his back. The disgustingly cute fuzzy ears bounced with each step.

“We cannot suffer a stall here either. Now, that just wouldn’t be entertaining. So we have our next choice! Disappoint me again and I will be MOST unhappy.” The filter of Alastor's voice cracked on the emphasized word, ominous dark symbols swirling around his microphone. It was a threat.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned forth three portals. The left displayed a beautiful bountiful garden on the other side. Prey and predator alike roamed without fear across the land. The middle boasted a world with a blood-red sky and a plain empty world where the blackened earth seemed to stretch on for eternity. The right was a cloudy utopia, where beautiful people adored with pristine white wings idly flew across the light blue sky.

“Pick a portal, any portal! We shall see if your pity for the Angel will last. Then when you are done, we will try this again! Unless I’m getting bored of course.” Alastor confessed, casually turning his attention away. “If our audience leaves us, then this show comes to an end after all. How fickle our lives are.”

“What are you talking about…? There's nobody here” You asked.

“Don’t worry about it, ignorance is bliss as they say! So which will it be?”

Part 4

[vital-information]

"In 1946, the term 'homosexuals' appeared for the first time in an English Bible. This new figure appeared in a list of sinners barred--according to a verse in the Apostles Paul's first epistle to the Corinthians--from inheriting the kingdom of God. The word change was made by leading Bible scholars, members of the translation committee that labored for over a decade to produce the Revised Standard Version (RSV) of the Bible. With an approach inspired by text-critical scholarship, many of their choices upset readers of the older King James Version, the favored Bible of Protestant America since the colonial era. Amid the outrage over other changes--to the red-letter words of Jesus and the old Shakespearean idiom--another modernizing innovation went virtual unremarked. Two enigmatic Greek nouns, referenced in the King James as 'effeminate' and 'abusers of themselves with mankind,' now appeared as a single, streamlined 'homosexual.' Subsequent Bible commentaries approached the new term as age-old tradition...

Some Bible readers, however, responded with surprise to this textual change. In everyday use, the verse in I Corinthians had other meanings. The author of a 1956 advice book on how to write sermons recounted the embarrassing tale of one minister's well-loved sermon. That sermon, delivered on various occasions, expanded on the 'general meaning' of the Apostle Paul's reference to the 'effeminate,' which the pastor took as warning against 'the soft, the pliable, those who take the easy road.' The take-away point was that Christians must undertake the difficult path of faith. It was a fine sermon, or so the pastor thought, until he read the RSV. He discovered 'to his amazement and chagrin; that 'effeminate' was translated 'homosexuals.' The confusion was a lesson, the author of this advice book chided, on the need to use recent translations. A check through earlier Bible commentaries confirms that outdated reference tools may indeed have contributed to this pastor's error. An eariler edition of The Interpreter's Bible, published in 1929, said nothing at all about homosexuality in its commentary on the same verse in I Corinthians. It noted that the Apostle Paul was keenly aware of the 'idolatry and immorality' of the pagan world. However, the named vice that so perturbed the apostle was 'self indulgence of appetite and speech,' an interpretation that more readily fit with the pastor's call to a disciplined faith. If Christianity did indeed set itself against homosexuality from the first, then this popular Christian reference text neglected to make that prohibition clear.

Several scholars of American religion have puzzled over the peculiar silences of early twentieth-century Christian texts on the topic of same-sex sexuality. After surveying the published Christian literature of that time, Randall Balmer and Lauren Winner concluded that during those decades, 'the safest thing to say about homosexuality was nothing.' They note that even the published commentary on 'sodomy,' which would seem to be the clearest antecedent to later talk about homosexuality, yielded little that would illumine a long tradition of same-sex regulation. Although many Bible reference tools mentioned that damnable 'sin of Sodom,' the muddled and circular commentary on this 'loathsome vice' offered little that clarified its nature. Historian Rebecca Davis, on her own hunt to find Christian teachings about homosexuality, similarly notes the profound absence in early and mid-twentieth century Protestant literature--and especially in the writing by conservative fundamentalists. 'The extant printed record,' she observes, 'suggests that they avoided discussions of homosexuality almost entirely.' Adding further substance to this void are the findings from Alfred Kinsey's study of the sexual behavior of white American men, conducted between 1936 and 1946. The study suggested that Christians, although well acquainted with the sinfulness of masturbation and premarital intercourse, knew very little about what their churches had to say about same-sex acts. 'There has not been so frequent or so free discussion of the sinfulness of the homosexual in religious literature,' Kinsey wrote. 'Consequently, it is not unusual to find even devoutly religious persons who become involved in the homosexual without any clear understanding of the church's attitude on the subject.' Before the 1940s, the Bible's seemingly plain condemnation of homosexuality was not plain at all.

...

What this book [Reforming Sodom] shows is that the broad common sense about the Bible's specifically same-sex meaning was an invention of the twentieth century. Today's antihomosexual animus, that is, is not the singular residue of an ancient damnation. Rather, it is the product of a more complex modern synthesis. To find the influential generators of that synthesis, moreover, we should look not to fundamentalist preachers but to their counterparts. Religious liberals, urbane modernizers of the twentieth century, studiously un-muddled the confused category of 'sodomitical sin' and assigned to it a singular same-sex meaning. The ideas informing this shift germinated out of the therapeutic sciences of psychiatry and psychology, an emerging field of the late nineteenth century that promised scientific frameworks for measuring and studying human sexual behavior. Liberal Protestants were early adopters of these scientific insights, which percolated through various early twentieth-century projects of moral reform. Among the yield from the convivial pairing of medicine and morality was the midcentury translation of the RSV. The newly focused homosexual prohibitions evidenced the grafting of new therapeutic terms onto ancient roots. The scores of subsequent Bible translations produced in later decades adopted and sharpened the RSV's durable precedent. In the shelves of late twentieth-century translations and commentaries--none more influential than the 1978 New International Version, which quickly displaced the King James as America's best-selling Bible--American Christians read what might be called a 'homosexualized' Bible. Instead of the archaic sinners and enigmatic sodomy talk found in the King James, these modern Bibles spoke clearly and plainly about the tradition's prohibition against same-sex behavior. The subsequent debate about the implications of these self-evident meanings overlooked a nearly invisible truth: the Bible's plain speech about homosexuality issued from a newly implanted therapeutic tongue."

Heather R. White, Reforming Sodom: Protestants and the Rise of Gay Rights