#you are spineless and a coward in all things :)

[candlewitches]

cannot sleep mostly because of pain but also bc i am still full of rage at the former (and now current again LMAO) execs of my former larp. like literally. “i can excuse (alleged) mismanagement, fraud, and embezzlement, but i draw the line at a sternly worded announcement”

[falinscloaca]

cat hacker reintroduces mspec lesbian discourse into my life my brain obliterates itself in ocd-fueled recursive self-argumentation

[heartfullofleeches]

Yan Cheater + Cheater Reader

Yan Cheaters are funny lemme try-

Yan Cheater who sees their darling dearest out on the town alone. You should be with them, but they'll fix that shortly. You're the person of their dreams and after so many failed relationships they're happy to find the right one. On their way over, their entire world crumbles as you're seen hugging and chatting up some random with a closeness you've never showed them. The unfamiliar face slings an arm around your shoulder as you walk off together - laughing as if you were without guilt.

You heartless bitch. How could you? After they'd give you their heart - their everything. Fine, fuck you - they could do the same thing. After crying through the night and crying their eyes they hit up a past fling to forget all about you; aggravated that all they can think of as the look at their partner is features that remind them of you. They ignore your calls, block you on everything, and have the time of their life with whoever's available... And looks like you.

The first time you saw them with someone else you turned tail and ran, saving your tears for a better time and person. Good - run off. You know what you did. They won't chase you - no matter how red their heart bleeds after seeing you after so long. You meet again at a party a mutual friend left in the dark was throwing. You, for closure - them, looking for a new body to take home. They couldn't even hide their disgust as you stomped up to them, two lockets in hand.

"What the hell did I do to you...."

They scoff. Trying to play innocent? "You know what you did."

"No! No I don't! You ghost me for weeks and never seem to be home when I try to talk to you, but the second I see you, you have your arm around somebody else. As far I remember, we were happy together. What did I do to you to deserve this?!"

"Hm... I think it was roughly a month ago. You and that little whore you met outside that coffee shop that just opened."

"Coffee shop?... Wha-" Your eyes widen. Unable to control your anger, you slap them across the face so hard the blow rattles in their teeth. They clutch their jaw. You little-

"That was my cousin, asshole!"

You toss the necklaces to the ground, two sets of initials engraved on their fronts.

"You didn't even bother to ask me about it before you ran off. If you really loved me, you wouldn't say something instead of jumping to conclusions. I knew dating you was a mistake. You spineless coward."

Their tongue feels heavy, likely cut on their teeth from your blow - bleeding; just like the heart they thought they lost. In a way - they truly had.

"Couldn't get a refund since they were custom" You spit on the fallen jewelry as you turn your back to them. "Happy Anniversary."

They fall to their knees, crawling after you as you fall into the crowd - grabbing your ankle. "No, baby. Please, baby - I fucked up bad, I know, but I can make this up to you. Sweetheart please - I'll delete everyone in my phone right now, even my parents. You'll be the only one. You're all I need. Baby, see? I'm doing it - look. Look at me - I'm sorry. Angel? Honey? D- don't leave me... DON'T LEAVE ME."

You have to change your phone number the very next day from all the calls you receive from the burner phones they purchased that same night to speak their part. Jobs too - as they stand outside and harass customers since your boss refused to let them in by your own wishes - accusing everyone of trying to take you away from them. You return home one day to find your front door unlocked and before you can realize the danger you step inside - your ex waiting with a carbon copy of every gift you threw out and wearing everything you ever gave them.

"Darling... I'm wearing that shirt you bought me last Christmas. I honestly thought it was hideous - but...it came from you. I'm wearing that hoodie you thought you lost too. I lied because I wanted to have something that smells like you to keep. It doesn't smell much like you anymore. Only my tears. I'm sorry - I won't ever lie to you again. You're perfect. My sweet angel. Please...give me a second chance. I don't know what I'll do if you don't."

[wisteria-lodge]

If you're comfortable answering, how do you think JKR intended Draco to come across, and how did he actually come across in your mind?

I think Draco was intended to come off as a weak and kind of pathetic bully. The Dudley Dursley of the Wizarding World. 

That’s how we’re introduced to him: “Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.” Almost he first thing we hear Draco say is the very Dudley-ish -  “I'm going to drag [my parents] off to look at racing brooms... I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." Later books re-contextualize this as a brag - he is not actually able to bully his father into buying him presents, and instead of Dudley's tantrums Draco likes to embellish things in order to seem more impressive and get the result he wants. But initially, I think Draco = Dudley. They both dislike people who are different, dislike Harry for being more special (and because they’ve been given tacit permission to bully him...)They’re spoiled by their parents. They’re even both platinum blonde. 

JKR loves the idea of an antagonist who realizes that they were wrong and *you were right* a little too late, and then has no choice but to punish themselves. (Basically the entire deal with Snape.) So - Draco and Dudley get some of that treatment too. After Dudley meets the dementor he breaks down, has a moment where he leaves Harry a cup of tea, and another where he says “I don’t think you’re a waste of space.” BUT Dudley’s initial breakdown is framed as pathetic (even a touch comedic.)The tea he leaves outside Harry’s door has gone cold, and when Harry steps in it he initially thinks it’s a dumb prank. Dudley says “I don’t think you’re a waste of space” only in response to a comment Harry makes. Hestia Jones is super unimpressed, and thinks Dudley should be doing more. 

Like, JKR is aware that it’s not *completely* Dudley‘s fault he’s like that. Dumbledore comments on the “appalling damage [Vernon and Petunia] have inflicted on the unfortunate boy sitting between you.” But the damage is still done, and Dudley is meant to be seen as a figure of pity. All this is supposed to read as ‘too little, too late.’ If Dudley were less of a coward, a stronger person, a better person, he would’ve brought Harry the tea directly. 

Now let’s look at Draco, who is given some *very* similar beats. We see him crying in the bathroom, comforted by Myrtle (a comedic character) very similarly to how Dudley basically goes into shock after the dementor. Draco and Dudley are both framed as weak, but able to see the error of their ways, and their breakdowns set up an important plot/character moment for Harry.

Draco’s little “I can’t— I can’t be sure,” when he’s asked to identify Harry at Malfoy Manor is another beat of ‘too little, too late.’ Harry takes Draco’s wand a few minutes later (absolutely castration imagery - just look at how the text treats Lucius losing his wand) and then Dobby shows up to low-key shame Draco by doing the job that he [narratively] was supposed to have done: rescuing Harry and friends, probably dying in the process. I do think that’s how we’re supposed to read that scene. And then Harry gets these very similar selfless beats of saving Dudley (from dementors) and saving Draco (from fiendfyre.) That’s why JKR is so baffled when people like Draco, think he’s attractive, or ship him with Hermione. It’d be like shipping her with Dudley, it doesn’t make sense.

But a couple things went “wrong” when Draco was released into the world. For one thing, I think a lot of people saw his more indirect underhanded approach (he likes rumors, smear campaigns, blackmail, poison, sneaky back entrances, tricking/provoking Harry into breaking rules) as evidence that he's clever, and not that he’s a cowardly, spineless little weasel.

Then because JKR is committed to making Draco look ineffectual and comedic, she also makes him… not that bad? Most of his bad behavior goes down between books 1 and 3, and I’m sorry - when you’re 12 your politics are your parents' politics. You are not not responsible for that. By the end of the series Draco’s politics *have* changed, pretty drastically, and they changed under challenging circumstances.

I also think JKR accidentally gave him a better relationship with his father than she meant to? Jason Isaacs plays Lucius Malfoy as cold, I could see him being a *bit* of a bully when it comes to Draco -  but in the book, they go on outings, Draco complains to his father, Lucius is patient with him, gives him advice, sets boundaries, sends him little newspaper clippings in the mail. Lucius and Narcissa are running around without wands during the Battle of Hogwarts looking for him, and it’s supposed to be like “here are the Malfoys defanged.” But it's just a sweet moment. And if you’re positioning Draco as a romantic lead, then yeah I’d say that “good relationship with his parents” is an attractive trait.

The movie also did Draco Malfoy a HUGE favor by saying that yes, he absolutely does have the Dark Mark. That is never confirmed in the book. You can make the case that he doesn’t have it, and he’s doing what he does and embellishing the truth to seem more impressive. Hermione doesn’t think he has it. Ron says “I still don’t reckon You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join.” If he doesn’t have the Dark Mark, Draco gets to stay a semi-pathetic minor villain. But the second he does have it… well now you have someone who was given this tattoo/brand thing the *moment* he turned 16 (Draco has a June birthday) and now is 100% stuck. He is on a magical leash to Voldemort. He can’t run, can’t hide. All he can do is ride out this thing as best he can, and hope it doesn’t kill him or his parents. That’s a much more sympathetic character.

And my last thing, about the moment where he lies for Harry in Malfoy Manor (movies frame it as 100% a lie, books keep it more ambiguous)... is I don’t think J. K. Rowling realizes that Draco is the first person in the entire 7th book who helps Harry, at all. Molly Weasley is actively sabotaging the Golden Trio's planning by splitting them up and making them do wedding chores. Xenophilius Lovegood betrays them, Bathilda Bagshot betrays them, Rufus Scrimgeor is no help, Remus Lupin needs *their* help, Dumbledore gave them a series of maddening riddles. Snape gives them a weird puzzle to solve (also he’s very much acting under Dumbledore’s orders…) So when Draco DOES put himself on the line to buy them a few minutes, it makes for a pretty striking moment. He also keeps to this lie even when Lucius tells him not to, he lies to Bellatrix, he is almost certainly going to have to repeat this lie to Voldemort, who can read minds… 

So I think most fans look at Draco and see someone who is arrogant, a little bit of a shit, but is also sensitive, clever, emotional, nonviolent. (He’s definitely got a little bit of boy band non-threatening sexuality going on.) Draco will go out on a limb for the people he loves, and he comes through when it counts. There’s a survivor-mentality practicality to him, which is especially appealing in a series where so many characters are so willing to martyr themselves.

[syoddeye]

when he tires of your moping and brooding, vampire!price lets you go for some years. 

he watches you tear your way across another country, another age, bitter and angry. he used to worry, those first few ventures, that you’d pursue some silly notion of a cure or seek out your demise. that you’d waste your holiday and all his hard work. but, ever the paragon of patience, a being hardened by time and a devout observer of your habits—he knows you’re a coward. a spineless fledgling who can only dawdle for so long before you look for a hand to hold. despite his bite and all its benefits, it’s the one gift he never intends to bestow and a weakness he’ll never fortify.

historically, your separations end one of two ways.

the first and the more frequent outcome, begins with his rediscovery of an artifact or heirloom from your mortal life. (one of many he collected in those early days, before you knew the undead existed. before you knew he existed.) overcome with nostalgia, he tracks you down. you are never thorough enough to cover your tracks entirely or break your patterns. no matter where you go, he sniffs you out. communes. boarding houses. barracks. once, a convent.

he plucks you from your pitiful attempts at penance or enlightenment, drags you out by the collar, and forces your mouth to the nearest, weakest neck. rubs your nose in it like one would a dog. you put up a fuss and fight, but you drink. it’s instinct. stronger when closer to him. it goes down easier with his voice in your ear, anyway.

the second, rare and exquisite, are the times you crawl back to him. out from a dark pit of despair, caked in the soot and the shit of your own stirring. wounded, aching, and hungry. nothing tastes right without him. not enough necks in any part of the world to slake your thirst. can hardly savor a drop without him beside you to share. to hold your chin and wipe your lips.

so, after another world-ending argument, when you pack a bag and slaughter your human retainers, he simply lights a cigar and listens to the same grand overtures. you stamp your feet on the oushak, declare you won’t return, no matter what, and glare as he thumbs through a rolodex of names and faces. you don’t want an eternity of security and devotion? fine. hundreds more where you came from. 

(of course, your would-be replacements are pale imitations. dolls he dresses, trains, and plays with. breaks. things to pass the time with.)

months later, price jolts awake in the early dawn. he’s only just closed his eyes when he feels it, a vibration traveling down the web to knock him out of slumber. the last gasps of his dinner still wet his beard and stain his tongue, yet they sour with realization. turn his stomach. he knows at once that you, his creation, have found what you believe to be a safe harbor. and it is not some podunk village or bustling metropolis—it isn’t a place at all. but it’s not like your other fleeting romances or trysts. no. you’ve found someone bigger and meaner to sidle up next to. someone whose pedigree he doesn’t recognize.

the sum of his terrible lineage stirs. an antediluvian possession raises his hackles.

oh darl, just whom have you invited in?

[autumnteawithfriends]

To be honest, whenever critics of Hazbin say that they miss the old Charlie (which I 100% agree with, what the hell happened to her) Something I’ll admit is that I miss this Charlie the most

This was one of Charlie’s older designs and it was for the very early proto-drafts of HH and if I’m being honest? It looked amazing! While it still has Vivziepop’s infamous overusage of red deal, this Charlie design actually uses it well (unlike the shitshow that’s Alastor)

Also, the main reason why I miss this Charlie aside from the design, was the fact that she’s used to be legitimately extremely interesting. Here’s what Vivziepop changed about her exactly

(NOTE: This is all from the official Hazbin wiki if you want to read this)

As you can probably tell, she was a steampunk themed character like Pentious

She would’ve acted as a “den mother” character to a demon gang that would become the main cast

Her lobster looking arm was molten lava that could change into various things

She was not the daughter of Lucifer

She was (presumably) a sinner who died in the 1830s

To be honest, I wanted to see this Charlie over Charlie in the show because all of this is extremely interesting and it’s practically a gold mine for some story potential.

Like, imagine this Charlie interacting with Pentious. Considering her personality, imagine how she got to Hell. This Charlie had a ton of interesting story potential yet Vivziepop made her a spineless enabling coward in the series proper (and it’s not even setting up character development or an arc, she just thinks using her powers is “SO MEAN!!!!🥺)

Sorry if this was out of nowhere, I’m just disappointed at Hazbin’s missed potential for actually interesting stories and ideas

[cryobabyy]

Consummation Cooper Adams x Reader

Synopsis: Isolation and survival make you act in strange ways, but all is fair in love and violence.

OR

Cooper is keeping you in a remote and isolated location where he likes to play house with you and you cope by playing along.

Tags: NSFW 18+, drabble/short fic, breeding kink, dub-con, brief mentions of violence, Stockholm syndrome, shower sex, dark themes, by request, barely proofread, p-in-v intercourse, cr3Vm pie.

AN: Howdy! Breeding Kink isn't my thing, so I hope this satisfies all my freaks out there. Please note that this is considerably dark and not fluff. Tbh it will probably make you feel kinda icky (and slightly turned on?). I can't help it y'all I'm Ottessa Moshfegh pilled lol. Also important to note that Cooper is dead ass trying to knock you up in this. Like straight up. If you are looking for something more subtle this is not it I fear 😀. Enjoy!

con·sum·ma·tion (noun) 1: the action of making a marriage or relationship complete by having sexual intercourse." the eager consummation that follows a long and passionate seduction" 2: the point at which something is complete or finalized." the consummation of a sale"

Cooper’s hands always found their way into your hair. When you crawled your way into his morning shower, he sighed as he wrapped his fingers around your wet braid, big arms snaking around your naked waist and pulling you against him. His cheek rested perfectly on top of your head.

“Missed me?” He murmurs against your scalp.

“I was scared you weren’t coming back.” You confess, his chest fluttering against your cheek as he huffs a laugh. The very real possibility of Cooper leaving you here to rot makes you feel cold.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll always come back to you.”

His hands always ended up in your hair, exactly like how your back always ended up pressed against cold shower tiles; Cooper’s body between your legs, his hand spreading and holding your knees open. You were both delighted and horrified that he could pin you against a wall so easily. The stretch of him pushing in and out of you dampens the horror until all you feel is the warmth of the delight; hazy, muted, heavy, and all over you.

You loved when he fucked you numb.

So numb, you no longer paid mind to the dried blood washing away from his body, thick ribbons of pink water swirling at his feet. There was no ankle monitor strapped against your flesh if he was rolling your clit in his mouth. His hands had taken an orgasm from you before they had held a knife to your throat.

When you held his face between your hands and begged him to cum inside you, it was a thinly veiled plea for your life—for him to put something in you that would keep him coming back. Something that would keep you alive.

With a string of expletives, he obliged. He held you like that for sometime after, lazily pulsing inside you, using the obscene, white leakage to rub his thumb over your swollen clit.

“It’ll take better if you finish, baby.” His labored breath flutters against your mouth as he presses his forehead against yours.

Without a gun to your head, you nodded with a greedy whimper. Your mind hummed with the thought of newlyweds eager to become first-time parents, Cooper rubbing lotion over the taught skin of your growing belly, ultrasound appointments, and baby showers. A tiny, vulnerable thing swaddled in a blanket, pink and screaming—with Cooper’s hazel eyes, chocolate brown hair, and your nose and dimples. A baby with a monster for a father and a coward for a mother. A bastard.

You feel relieved when your orgasm finally rips through you. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of your asinine mind, you felt disgusted too. Cooper’s grip on your thighs began to hurt and the water droplets against your skin began to sting, but it all turned back to spineless fantasy as he lulled you through it with gentle praises

Almost there, sweetheart.

Just like that.

There we go.

Perfect.

Would it be so horrible if you were in love with him? Because you think you are.

Later on, when you’re making him coffee, he comes behind you and rests his hands on your lower belly. Repugnance and tenderness turn in your stomach. Cooper presses a kiss to the top of your head, keeping his mouth there.

“Do you think we could be happy?” He murmurs softly into your hair, thumbs tracing soft circles against your skin.

The monitor around your ankle feels heavy. You remember the sedatives he put in your drink, his wife and children at home, and this plush and comfortable prison he kept you in.

Your eyes flit toward the kitchen knives and you remember you could face the consequences of lodging one in his neck—if you wanted to.

You want to tell him he could never be happy. That his version of it could only be satisfied through violence. But brute force could be soft and safe if you surrendered to it. If you could bend something jagged and serrated into the shape of lovers, would you be spared from the rage inside of him?

“Maybe.” You say flatly, pouring Cooper his cup of coffee.

[vyzz-undercover]

im insane have a few kilos of:

[cato/f!ambassador] (1) (2)

(6,600ish words) (please fucking sedate me)

{i dont usually write in whatever perspective having a 'you' in this sort of context is, so forgive any oopsies besties!!!}

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•pisspoor cliche of 'oh no you're freezing haha body warmth eh?' trope

•mr. sicarius' insufferable ego

•tumblr's dogshit formatting from phone notes to the app

———————————————————————————————————

super special thanks to all the writers im too much of a spineless coward to actually @ because i only ever lurked on anon asks on old main for, like: moodymisty, mothiir, lemon-russ, the-raven-lady, scriberye and many others. you're all the unknowing reasons why i made an alt to post this, cheers for your amazing works and ideas!!! :3

———————————————————————————————————

It was doomed from the start, honestly.

Not to say he had any hope that an assignment would ever actually go easily for once.

It's supposed to be an apparently simple diplomatic procedure. Namely, you get to stand around, run your ambassadorial trap and bat your lashes and trollop about in front of pompous baseline fools. While he, Cato Sicarius, stands at attention in pissy formal wear; pretending like he's not a hair-breadth from an aneurysm watching it all take place.

Oh, and not to forget the brother who's a head taller than him, in full plate, and isn't being held to a standard of mock-humility.

He realises belatedly he's forgotten the Primaris' name. That shouldn't happen. He never used to forget things. Edict memory shouldn't let him. He shouldn't be able to—or, well—maybe his subconscious deigned it unimportant and emptied it out the proverbial airlock of his mind. It was admittedly largely inconsequential. He'd been told, surely. He remembers he was a Sergeant of some sort from his markings. He also remembers being gawked at by the Primaris, borderline felated by eyes alone. He's Cato Sicarius, afterall. Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of Ultramar—of course he'd been inspiring awe. But for some warp-damned reason, alongside all those great titles, his Father'd decided to add Master Babysitter of His Ambassador to the list. But Cato does doesn't let it bother him. He's always got better things to occupy his time. Like furiously glaring at you across the thunder-hawk, even if you'd been dead-set on counting the rivets in the floor plating.

You'd looked absolutely idiotic in an Astartes troop seat. Like a toddler in an adult-sized wheelchair, draped in furs that seemed a size too big; hiding a dress that looked a size too small.

Simply put, the entire assignment was to be an event in circle-jerking—until shit hit the fan with all the painful similarity of a Nurgling thrown headlong into a thruster engine.

To begin with, it was a trap—a trap where he's separated from brother-Sergeant 'whatever-the-fuck-riel' in the commotion and responding bolter fire. That'd left Cato pointedly responsible for evacuating you, the useless little chatterbox, by the scruff of your fuzzy coat through side halls.

On another note, of all the accursed biomes, he hates tundras the most.

Pointedly, it's exactly what seventy percent of this backwater, shit-hole planet is this time of year; whereas the other thirty percent is glacial mush.

He discovers firsthand just how much sloshy ice-water there is to be found as he kicks in a shutter door and gets doused for the first time of many to follow; only to vault from the eastern rampart. Sliding down a long, raised and sleet covered run-off canal that passed over the keep's lesser residential rooftops with you in his grasp.

Melt water soaks you both as he scrambles fights to a halt on the steep decline before the drop off. Wobbling balancing on the edge for a second before he manages to scud back up and down a side chute, worming through the raucous hellscape of filthy baselines and too-tight alleys into the scrappy frozen wilds.

There was little time to hesitate when he decides breaking into a dead-sprint with a soggy ambassador thrown over his shoulder's the modus operandi of the situation.

He didn't stop until he was at least fifteen clicks away, or rather—he only stops when he's able to recognise a spot to hide and await for emergency evacuation.

A half-standing shack. Probably some peasant's hunting hovel. Clearly in poor condition, and honestly, a cave would've been preferable—but he isn't about to pass up the opportunity.

The door doesn't even swing open when he nudges it with his elbow. No, it falls inward, because of course it does, and he grumbles belatedly when it thuds.

The inside of the structure is a damnable mess, but, at the very least, it's dry.

He moves to tug you off his shoulder and toss you onto a pile of rags in the far corner, but he hesitates periodically. Even through his own wet outer attire, he can tell very little body heat is coming off you. His hearing catches on the way your breathing labours below the incessant chatter of your teeth.

Some wretched part of him implores he let you down carefully next to the nested mess of dirty cloth; and for once, he acquiesces to granting mercy.

You curl up into a ball on the floorboards almost immediately.

In his eyes, you're the pict of some drowned rat. The fur coat you'd been wearing over your dress is just as soaked through as everything else. Your hair is full of small, frozen rivulets at the ends, mixed in with powder snow and ice; and all the while, you're whining softly and trying to coil tighter into a fetal position.

He's trying very hard not to just stand there and dumbly listen to your little noises of weakness like a salivating dog.

Instead, Cato turns and lifts the door back into place against the frame; then he activates the honing beacon on his belt.

No latency pings, no close contact.

He grumbles again, eyeing your shivering form over his shoulder begrudgingly.

He hates you.

He hates that he's the one who's responsible for you.

The fact he is also currently out of his power-armour because of this charade only makes him even more irate, impossibly.

Sure, he has his combat bodyglove on under the tacky regalia, but it's no real consolation. He'd feel a lot better if there was a couple extra hundred kilos of plasteel and ceramite on him.

He could've had his armour on, had someone else been the one to babysit you.

He would have preferred anything but sole custody of your wretched, annoying existence falling on him. But because he's the only competent Astartes around ninety percent of the time, and you're the root of all problems—it means he's the only one who's capable of handling your stupidity. He can't even imagine letting anyone else do it. You'd probably deafen Trajan with your yapping if he was in his stead. Or Prabian. And if Titus had watch of you, you two'd probably be—ugh, he won't even dignify the thought. He can't believe the man'd been Captain of Second Company before him, or how or why Agemman gave the captaincy to him. He understands why Titus'd been struck from most records aside from high clearance. To say nothing of the fact that one would think being a Blackshield for a century humble someone. But no, it seems crossing the Rubicon Primaris gave him his balls back.

Cato had almost flown into a blind rage when he'd heard him jokingly warning about rough weather to you on the embarkation deck the last time you'd been in each others general vicinity—because oh, of course Lieutenant Titus is suddenly a subsector-renowned fucking comedian as soon as you're there. Cato ought to subpoena the dribbling Inquisition like that little snake Leandros did. See how Titus'd like a real stage to perform on again. Maybe they'll have a new rendition of the cunted Rubicon Primaris to piece his sorry fat-arse back together once more by then. But he won't. He won't because Marneus would sulk, and Cato would feel bad. Plus, Cato's infinitely more likely to kill an Inquisitor than help one. But you—you little skank—you find Titus so funny. Hiding a giggle behind your hand, pretending to look demure and professional despite your wretched nature.

Why don't you smile at him like that?

You would be the death of him.

It was always all because of you. Every single time. Because you're so useless in any situation that can't be rambled out of. Which is all of them when you're involved, in Cato's opinion. His Father should leave the talking to professionals who wouldn't break a hip from a smack on the rear.

But now you are going to die of hypothermia, like a typical, pathetic little baseline—well, unless you start following his orders.

Cato tries not to think of how you were acting when rounds started going off earlier. Of course, like a spooked animal, you'd been all ears to his commands then. Hiding against him with your hands pawing at the side of his dress uniform as bullets careened across the dining hall, looking up at him with those big, terrified, caught-in-the-crosshair eyes—and, Throne, it had been so easy to pick you up. You were so soft flimsy, he could fling you around like a rag-doll if he really wanted. Manhandling you would be a singlehanded venture. He's liable to just hoist you up whenever you think yourself bold enough to bother him next. Grab you by your uniform's scruff and just pin you against a bulkhead, you'd be bent at the perfect height to—no—no, no.

Abruptly trying to distract himself, Cato draws his blade from it's ceremonial sheath and activates the disruption core, trying to stoke some sort of heated spark as he drove it into the fireplace.

He brutishly nudges it amidst the old wood and long dim coals. It isn't his finest moment of critical thinking, but it seems to be working; seeing as a few weak embers sputter to life.

Gratingly, he's aware that even a servitor would've known starting a fire in hostile territory was a fool's surest way at getting caught—but he has no other choice. Either he acts the moron and plays his poor hand, or you die from the shock of your chill; and if that happens, he'll have to face his Father's wrath.

And Guilliman would have his left testicle as a paperweight if you died under his watch.

In conclusion, if Cato is to choose between stupidity and complete failure, he's opting for stupidity. Which aggravatingly felt like an ongoing occurrence, ever since you started existing anywhere near him.

He reaches for your soggy swaddled form, and tugs.

Even practically hypothermic, you've still got enough of a two-faced-bitch's spirit hidden away in you to hiss and swat at him blindly. So much for his Father's claims you were of 'sweet, kind temperament.'

For a moment, he genuinely wants to throttle you for the outburst; but he swallows down the urge.

"You need to get out of those," he snaps, glowering down at you. "Or you are going to die."

Your response is a poignant little groan as you glance dizzily around the room.

Cato huffs, "There are blankets beside you, fool."

He holds up a dingy plaid throw, half fraying and stinking of stale mould. It was an assault on his vomeronasal organ, but he wasn't about to let you act the typical spoiled cunt routine of an Imperial ambassador. He would have you wrapped in it sooner rather than later, wether you liked it or not. You dying reflects poorly on him, afterall.

"T-T-Turn, p-p-please—" you say, but your stammering mangles the words into a juddering mess.

He growls, almost tempted to snarl something about 'the fucking audacity in thinking you can tell him what to do—' but acquiesces out of sheer force of will and pivots on his heel, settling into a martial line stance.

Cato can hear you struggling to wriggle free of your clothes. The whines of effort and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the almost comedic slop sound one miscellaneous article makes as it hits the rotted wooden floorboards.

Even if he's taking it to his grave, he's admittedly itching to look over his shoulder.

It's a completely degenerate urge.

But he's—he's wanted this. He's wanted this exact opportunity.

He's got it, now.

You're alone with him.

Nothing and nobody to distract or detract from your attention finally being all on him.

You make a fey little groan, and he takes that as a signal you're finished.

He rounds about-face, and, for lack of a better word, ogles the shape of your covered form.

You've dragged that pile of rags closer to the meagre fireplace, lying on it with the plaid blanket strewn over the top of you.

Even completely hidden beneath, he can see you are still shaking under the ratty thing. Even moreso than before, in all actuality. He supposes that's a good sign. It proves your feeble body is still well and keen on living.

But the suffocating concept you're bare weak, soft useless and needing pathetic underneath that scrap of fabric worms its way into his brain like a cancer.

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Tearing his gaze away, he finds the embers his blade coaxed are a small flame eating away at the old timber now.

Looking back, your shivering's subsiding, but your rapid breathing is increasing; which is surely not good.

He has an idea, which definitely isn't influenced by depravity at all—shut up.

Cato tries for a moment to actually unbutton his attire. His fingers are too large, unsurprisingly. And with the body-suit, he's got no leverage of a nail or two to do away with the dainty fasteners. So, ultimately, he tears the regalia down the front, sending buttons flying—and continues to pry and rend the sopping garments off his arms and legs until they're a pile at his feet.

Then he sets about a more strenuous matter. He releases the locking mechanism at his clavicle, and promptly undoes the thick claps over his pectorals so he can pop free the catches beneath, peeling the layered material back and shucking his arms and hands loose of their constraints.

The top of his bodyglove hangs around his hips now, and he sighs. The chill is of no real annoyance to him. He's built to endure most conditions. Sure, it's cold—but Astartes run hot. And right now, he's boiling for so very many accursed reasons.

He settles on his side next to you and scuds himself to bracket the pile of fabric.

"Move closer," he bites out.

He tries not to groan when you actually do, and surprises himself when he manages to stifle the sound. Even through the blanket, he imagines his warmth is a welcome change to freezing.

"T-Thank you," you say softly, soaking in his body heat like a banal reptile under a sun's rays.

He likes hearing timidity on your lips.

He supposes it stems from his habit of humbling you. The opportunities are unsurprisingly plentiful. He often finds enjoyment hearing you back-pedal when he would cut you down for so much as genially inquiring on Astartesian discussions. Putting himself in the middle and shutting you out, even if you were welcomed in them prior to his arrival.

If you want to ask something of his Brothers, it'll be his answers.

All it ever took was a growl and a curt reminder to know your place. Then you'd fumble and take two steps back. Snipped down to size as you ought to be. Forced to suffer an ounce of the shame he feels. Oh, and then your big doe-eyes'd cast down at Cato's ceramite boots, fussing; trying to apologise to him.

In truth, it's adorable pathetic to watch.

You look so hurt.

It's an act, he's sure of it.

You play at being difficult to anger, and that makes you just that bit more grating. You've unknowingly caught him with an unfair advantage. One that his prowess as a statesman and a warrior cannot seem to scratch. He's always left feeling robbed in your presence. In a way that furiously giving in to the alien urge of palming himself afterwards doesn't ever fix. He's toey and irked to be excluded when you talk to other Astartes, but simultaneously darkly glad that you shy from such antics with him.

It's paradoxical, yes. But no, he's not a hypocrite. Though some part of him is scolding him for being one. No, he's aching to sink his proverbial claws into you—though he won't ever say it to a soul. He won't because he knows he's not supposed to have tastes such as this. A pit in his gut taunts that the stint he'd suffered in the Warp is to blame. But he's the commander of Roboute Guilliman's Victrix Guard. He is not aberrant. The sidelong, fraction-of-a-second glances Cato receives from his Primarch when you enter his office to give briefings surely mean nothing.

It's clear why you have his Father's favour, but he'll never admit that either. Aside from Guilliman's desperation to find baseline company for some strange reason. You're surely just a pet to him. Like a small rodent he pries off a little wheel and sets out in a clear sphere to roll about on the bridge, or something.

To say nothing of his brothers' behaviours.

They won't show it in a group, but he knows the Astartes beneath him preen at your every query.

It's complete lunacy.

It's heresy.

You must have somehow beguiled them all, just like you've done him.

But you're still right there—right where he wants you.

And damn it all, does he want you.

He wants—he wants you on your front, squirming underneath him. No, wait, he wants to see you—but then you'd need to be on top. He can watch, like that. Then afterwards he'll have you on your back, perhaps. Why not sideways? You're already like that, now. Or—or... who's he kidding, he'd take anything, and everything.

Throne, he's so hard he swears he is going to have a brain haemorrhage. He feels like he's already had one, honestly, for all his thoughts are hazing. It's a million leagues worse than the time you'd accidentally called him 'Lord Sicarius' by accident instead of your usual choice of 'Commander' and Throne, he'd rubbed himself raw after that.

Maybe if you weren't such a whorish little wretch, his fantasies wouldn't be running so rabid right now.

You wriggle and your half-covered back slides up against his front.

Cato's never held himself stiller in his life.

Your skin feels like fine silk to his spiralling mind; and even worse, your damnable wriggling doesn't stop. You start making little movements with your feet to try to get circulation back in them—and again, there's a fey similarity to your behaviours and some soaked rodent he recognises.

Decidedly, you've realised it's not enough and promptly jut your feet backwards between his quads. Still continuing the motions, but more furiously.

The touch is dangerously close to the cradle of his inner thighs.

He swears he actually feels the blood drain from his face in mortification. The touch is meagre, but it's real. It's more warming than any he's ever known. And of course, to add insult to injury, that blood drains straight to were he's already painfully hard—which is currently pushed against his navel, halfway jutting out of his bodyglove's zipper.

Thankfully, you withdraw yourself from between his legs and sigh again, snug.

Then, you shuffle closer.

Your rear scuds right up to the swell of his confined cock.

Cato's immediately beside himself in an instant, flying into a rainbow of emotion. First, he's disgusted. Then he's seething at the audacity—which makes him furious—and finally, he's... he's ecstatic.

He groans, raring like some rutting animal; but the sound ultimately leaves him as an angry, subvocal snarl of transhuman harmonics.

You flinch, and wriggle away sharply, and he repeats the sound again at the loss of contact. You're only a hair away from being there still, he can feel how close you are—but you remain just beyond him again.

"My—my apologies, Commander... I-I—" you blurt out, voice still a little chill stuttered, "I didn't... I didn't mean to overstep."

He inhales steadily. He notes you're doused in human stress hormones; but he's acutely aware of a honeyed smell just below the surface. It's so suffocatingly sugary it's actually hurting his nose to scent the air. It's addling his thoughts, turning his focus to mist.

He can smell you failing to juggle all the reactions and thankfully rottenly settling for the one that makes you reek of mollasses.

"Come back, shut up," he hisses. "And stay still."

Sweet-stink radiates again before you swallow sharply.

There's an eternal breath of time in which he's about to go mad with anticipation, and the instant you're slotted against him again.

Some base urgency sends him frotting forward, and the thick, leaking head of him that peaks out the top of his zip brushes against a warm cunt; all thanks to that blanket of yours having slipped loose slightly, and lo, the blessed horrid consequence.

He'd live off the way your surprised gasp makes his nerves thrill.

"Is—" you wheeze, "Is that...?"

He grimaces, unsurprised you're ever stupider than you look. Recklessly, instead of lying—instead of saying 'no, it's a combat knife,' his mouth decides he's to act the most pathologically honest town crier alive.

"It," he intones sharply, before the words "...is your fault," leave him as a rushed hiss.

A belated pause wins out for a moment, and he's mortified as he realises what he's just confessed. There's a leaden feeling at the back of his throat. One option to recover the situation is that he could just hit you on the head. What'd be a shiner of a punch to a brother would be a terminal concussion to a baseline. Then, he'd tell the Primarch, oh yes, you died. Very sad. How? To shreds. To shreds you say? Truthfully, he can't really bring any actual conviction to the plan. He wouldn't. The notion is merely a hypothetical, in a perfect world where violence solved everything. Because if you die, Guilliman will send him to an Agri-world to be some peasant's plough-puller or someshit for a few centuries—and Cato's going to kill himself before he has to suffer that indignity. Uriel would never let him live it down. He's bound to suffer the same consequences, ultimately. Even if he's got no idea what an Astartes with a sex drive would be liable to be punished for. Oh, right. Corruption. So now, there's a credible witness to his flaw and one that his Father'll believe, worst of all, and... abruptly, you reply instead of scream in revulsion, your voice a mumbled little squeak as you say, "I didn't know—I mean, I didn't think—"

"Believe me, I am well aware you lack the capacity to think," Cato cuts in, and swallows down a snort at his own mean spirited joke. He's fucked, and for some reason he's suddenly further struck by the hilarity of the bastard, warp-spawn wiles of fate and chance. May as well be hung for the sheep as for a lamb, he decides.

Your breathing gains a shallow edge, and he feels you make as if to inch away again.

"I said not to move," He growls, and keeps you flush against him—holding you there by way of folding an arm across you.

"I just... uh," you reply, "I'm just..."

Your ass grinds back against him.

There's contact, your skin against the flushed, drooling head of him that feels painfully tender—and then you ruin it by speaking again.

"Curious, I suppose...? I was of the belief the Adeptus Astartes didn't..." your voice is soft, at least; slow and distracted, "Have an appetite for... this sort of thing?"

Cato momentarily stays fixated on the breathiness of your tone, and has to remind himself he's supposed to be angry at being robbed of silence—so he grumbles, "I told you to shut your trap," and promptly smothers a palm over your mouth.

You make a noise that sounds vaguely like a mumbled curse and settle, breathing hard through your nose to compensate.

Still, your rear presses back against him.

Cato takes the gesture at face value and fusses, roughly wrenching his bodyglove down to his thighs with his free hand.

Unconfined, his cock slaps the small of your back, and he manhandles you to readjust so it glides between your thighs instead.

Everything in place, he skews his hips forward, and his eyes roll back at the smooth, sublime drag of skin against skin. It's genuine perfection, wet and soft and molten.

The little hitched breaths you steal through your nose with each roll of his hips make him grind faster. Pressing closer with each, until the abhorrent, sticky sound of him steadily fucking against you is nigh deafening.

"I go in or I stay out," he says, and he can feel his molars grate against each other as he adds, "...or I can stop."

You shake your head furiously, or at least as much as the huge mitt on your chin, maw and jaw allows.

"Then decide," he snaps. "In?"

Cato hears the cartilage in your gullet move as you swallow dryly and nod.

Chuffed with your allowance compliance, he hums—and then it's his turn to hesitate.

When he draws his hand from your mouth, he curtly says, "Stay silent," and starts as if to tell you to arrange one way, then decides against it; dithering uncharacteristically. Then, rarer yet, Cato stumbles his words as he adds, "Move on to y-your front, then."

He doesn't know why he asked for the least preferred option when he'd been deliberating over the hypothetical for so long previously but nonetheless you, miraculously, comply without complaint. And despite himself he frustrates as you roll, his cock slipping away from between your thighs.

Draped in covers, he can't see much of you aside from the shape of you slowly arranging onto your hands and knees; before your chest sinks, and your ass stays up.

Like a rabid dog, he scrambles onto his haunches and scuds over behind you.

He's not entirely sure what to do first, and harrumphs.

In answer, your back arches even further in a dangerously luring bow, a display of willingness whorishness that turns Cato's thoughts to mush. Ass up and still in the pile, covered in blankets and rags, it's painfully easy to tug you from them just enough so that a decent portion of your raised lower half is exposed to him.

All he's able to comprehend the very next instant in some hind-brain, primitive way is a shapely ass, and a pretty pink cunt.

He grabs your hip, and the size comparison is so stark his head swims. With the span of one hand, he could palm a whole globe of your rear.

He does just that, and spreads you to take a nice long look.

You've a glossy sheen of clear slick that's starting to string down where it's collecting between your labia, and Throne—it's that. That's the sweet smell. And it's all for him—you're everything he's wanted.

Inspecting, he finds the hole leaking lubricant and a much, much smaller one below it—the vagina and then the urethra, he reasons by way of thinking back on a baseline biologis graphics; and, eyeing lower to a hooded fold, he finds a swollen little nub.

Pointedly, he's got a suspicion of what it is and turns his curiosity to it.

It's an easy target for his large thumb, even as slippery as your lust has made you, and—

A shaky little keen, then your knees pull together; body curling.

"Keep your damn legs apart," he grunts, wrenching them wide, and splaying a big palm on your ass to lift you into an arch again.

He's tempted to just bask in the glory of it all, grope, smack, lick—make you beg for it until he's sure you know he's in charge. Until you're as high strung for him as he's ever been for you. But he's frenzied, and well beyond being able to linger on those broader wants; not when he's got an Ambassador to fill.

He's aware of what your clit's really for now, and keeps rolling the pad of his thumb over it until you're squirming. It doesn't take long until your hole is visibly twitching. Nothing but a sloppy, wet mess of your own whorish excitement for him, as you ought to be. Cato bites back a longing sigh as he gets the delight of watching a fresh rivulet of slick string down your thigh.

And when he works up the gall, he jams that same thumb to the hilt in your cunt.

Your insides squeeze around it, and you start shaking, then. But it's not from the cold. No, anything but that. You're warm now, and he's deliriously happy to find you're as soft inside as the rest of you looks and feels. Warp damn him, he's no better than some slavering genestealer wretch fiending for its pound of flesh.

Your smaller baseline frame makes every part of him look huge in comparison. Even his thumb is big. And you're so much less—and the fact the disparity is so glaringly obvious plays havoc with his brain; but he's got an idea. An idea that he refuses to acknowledge sounding painfully like a boarding action to him.

With little tact, he sidles up and positions himself so his tip slots right against you, while stretching your opening with his thumb.

Lining himself up with his other hand, he nudges your entrance, smearing precum in with your wetness while inching forward; sliding his thumb out in tandem with pushing his cock in—and his efforts succeed.

Cato's transfixed watching the head of himself fill the gap, sliding in—and you let out a muffled yelp, still half-buried in the blankets like some stuck animal; your thighs juddering as you suck in air.

Honestly, he's glad you've smothered yourself like that, because he can't imagine keeping it together if you were actively watching him. He thinks the stark reality of it would have him run right out of the shack. Even the idea of having your pretty damning eyes on him makes him swoon sick.

With an over-eager roll of his hips, a shiver races up his spine. But he earns a cry from you.

He takes a deep breath.

There's a twinge of pain-smell and the vaguest hint of blood in the air, but it's impermanent compared to the amount of lust.

He pushes a little more, and you ripple internally around him; making a racketing, breathless noise—twitching before slacking, and then twitching again. A few perfect little moans escaping you at last.

Abruptly, all he's able to give a fuck about is the sensation of wet and hot, and how you're finally all his—it's a strangling fit, but it's satisfying a craving bone-deep. Infinitely better than his war calloused hands.

He's so dazed by the new sensation he's massaging small circles with his fingers on your flank, humming lowly.

But the involuntary mercy didn't stop you from jackknifing when he bucks in more—each little motion seating him deeper and deeper.

He yanks you backward and you stop squirming for a moment.

When your wriggling starts up again, he holds you still with the sheer willpower only a neurotic control-freak could muster. He stops your motion, yes—but your insides also stop shivering around his cock and he's resentful of that.

Nonetheless, you make to move again then, keening and bothering him; but you're seemingly struck daft when he bottoms out at last, hitting your cervix. Your internal muscles tense on the intrusion, practically cramping on him, blinding him with ecstasy for a heartbeat as you clench down hard; and a squeak of surprise escapes you. Your legs lock stiff for a moment, air venting out your lungs in shock.

You garble out a sweet, hoarse curse that sounds more like a sob than anything.

Cato supposes the theatrics are what an orgasm on something his size does to a woman. And he finds he's appallingly keen to see and hear you do it again. Keen to feel it, too. He adjusts himself and grinds, making sure you're getting every bit he's got to give. It's no small feat of restraint from Cato to not simply drive into you with all his might like a hydraulic press.

Maybe that'll make your tight little hole cinch up again? He thinks you'd like that. No—no, you should be begging for him to keep fucking you. You should be thanking him while you're at it too, really. Thanking him for deigning to take you to begin with.

Your arch falls away to a prone slump with a muffled whine, thighs trembling, leaving him straining forward to stay in you.

He is irate at your antics, now; and his retaliation betrays it.

Cato seizes your hips and yanks you back up his cock, shimmying you a little so he's nice and sheathed and stuffing you full, nigh folded under him. Warm cunt stretched taut around the base of his thick cock, like a perfect scabbard.

He's suddenly absorbed in watching your covered form consciously trying to counter the overwhelming forward mass of him starting to drive into you like he was part battering-ram.

"Better than all those limp-dicked, bastard lordlings you've let empty in you to even chance a cushion near my Primarch's table, hm?" His tone is little more than a scathing drawl, pulling almost entirely out of you just to dip the head of himself in.

You moan into the fabric smothering you, and he holds you with a controlled desperation.

"Answer me, you little shit."

He watches you nodding desperately beneath the cover a second later, failing to get an actual reply out around your huffing and puffing.

Cato groans, "Far keener for Astartes cock, aren't you?"

You nod again, needy.

"Throne, you're pathetic," he chides harshly, delighting in the soft whine of protest you make when pulls out to the tip one last time. "All that haughty bullshit, just to turn out to be so—so easy," then he's sliding back to the hilt and starting his rutting anew, grinding into that perfect spot that has your insides shiver around him again and again. "Isn't that right? This is all you're really good for?"

Beneath him, you're too much of an insensible mess to even think about answering; and somewhere in that depraved miasma of sound, he swears you're trying to say his name.

So, understandably, he inches forward on his knees and boxes you under him. Pinning you under the span of his bulk, two big hands firmly planted either side of your blanketed head.

He can see a few strands of your hair sticking out from beneath it and he can see the fog of your breath and the tip of your nose through a tented section, and only one of your hands—clawing out at the scraps of fabric.

"Prick-dumb animal," he sneers, flagrantly showboating; trying to sound as if he's not feigning lucidity and completely at the mercy of his lust.

He drops from his hands to rest on his elbows, manoeuvring a forearm under your head to prop your chin up. He's so bent over you that your ass is practically glued to his massive pelvis.

You can't stifle yourself now.

The sounds you make when he starts ploughing into you again are unrestrained and absolutely debauched. Practically music to his ears. He can feel your saliva smearing across his arm, and he's absolutely stupefied at the mantra of 'Sicarius, S-Sicarius, Sica-ah—rius—' you start panting. To say nothing of the keening whimpers that escape when you're not crying out for him. Louder with each thrust, and warp damn it all—his edict memory is never going to let those gorgeous sounds go. He's going to fiend off you mewling his surname like a full dose of battle-chems until he fucking dies.

Cato groans and delights in the involuntary squeeze you make around his cock again; your hips skewing up into his own, meeting him.

He just wants one more thing—he wants—no, needs—he needs to hear you scream his name in that reedy voice. Telling him that you like him playing guard for you, and you're all his and you love hi—

Rather abruptly however, you're cinching down on his cock as you come again. Throne, your cunt may as well be Marneus' clenched powerfist the way you're wringing him for everything he's got. Crying out like you're inconsolable, and so painfully eager and—oh, fuck. He tries to hold off, but it's of little use. The dam cracks, and it's all too much for him far too quickly.

"You rotten w-whore—" the words leave him in between ragged, staggered pants, gritting his teeth even though it's achieving absolutely nothing. "Stop s-squeezing, I-I—"

He's finishing in you the next second and letting out a rough, unbecoming moan instead of the rest of his sentence; despite trying to muffle himself against your shoulder and save face. Emptying all his pent up spend as deep as he can inside you and rutting himself deliriously into oversensitivity. The simple feeling of it is a more profound experience than he can even begin to explain—and he's rendered daft. Fighting just to stay awake against the warm, coddling bliss running rife in his nerves as his muscles twitch.

Still trying to recuperate, he's drunk with afterglow for a few seconds. Head beside yours, sharing the same air and hurried breaths.

In his stupor, he notes that your hair smells nice even after everything. And he tuts softly, resting his eyes. Lulled by the soft sound of your hyperventilating evening out and the continuous, weak fluttering of your cunt around him, hot and tight, and still a perfect fit.

He almost understands why mortal men so frequently fought over baseline women, now.

Almost.

Because then you start squirming again.

Pointedly, he opens his eyes and begrudgingly lifts himself away, slipping free and leaving a big sloppy smear of combined fluids across your ass and thighs as he settles into a kneel.

You're still presenting yourself as Cato scrubs a palm across his face, and blinks slowly.

He glances down for a moment and swallows.

He's hard—still.

Just as ready to rut as he was to start with, despite the fact he's only just finished.

And, much like a beast in season, he genuinely contemplates another round—what would be the harm, anyways? He could be sliding himself back into you, right then, and he doubted you'd do anything but buck up to meet him. So much for some diplomatic prodigy. You're little more than a mewling wreck. And what better way to prove it than another wet layer of your mixed fluids on his cock?

A soft sound escapes you abruptly and he looks back to the place he's itching to slam back inside of.

A few fat rivulets of his cum drip out your abused entrance, but you're too well-screwed to even care, it seems.

He thumbs one of your folds aside and smiles smugly at the mess.

He's tempted to stuff his spend back into you and give you another load. Let it leak down your thighs as you pad past his men on the flagship, that'd make them well aware of who you really admire—

At that brilliant jarring thought, blazing post-clarity arrived; an abrupt and unsettling feeling. The fact he'd even—even dignified your almost Slaneeshi-tier temptation—the fact he's raring to go again—he must already reek of your lust, and you of his—and Emperor have mercy, one quick scenting betrays everything, his men would tell their Father, and—you—you groan and worm yourself back under the blanket, likely truly feeling the chill now without his body to warm you.

The urge to say something becomes almost suffocating all at once, and Cato opens his mouth—just to be interrupted by a beep.

Hesitation seizes him, and he eyes his pile of half-frozen attire in the far corner.

Eighteen and a half seconds pass and it beeps again, indicating a second for every minute of arrival estimation.

The tracker beacon has finally done it's job.

But the matter of hastily cleaning up what insanity just happened becomes the real concern now.

Suddenly stuffed to the brim with adrenaline, Cato gets to his feet with Astartesian speed. He tries to take a step but sways, almost toppling. Looking down, he realises himself; and gingerly stoically waddles marches away from you, his bodysuit stuck around his knees. There's a cupboard in the other corner, covered in a frosted cobweb that looks a little like gossamer. Rifling through it provides him little. Most of it's contents are iced through, but a bottle of what stinks like absinthe is good enough, and he doesn't think it matters what he cleans up with. He definitely does doesn't look like a servitor on broken wheels as he scuds on his heels back beside your pile. And if he suffers any more injuries to his ego, they definitely don't include him bungling a kneel and being forced to wobble down on to his haunches. It's not his fault he's mentally accommodating for power armour that, currently, isn't there.

Pausing, he pokes the mound of scraps you're under, trying to rouse you.

When your answer to his 'kinder' effort results in you whining and curling up tighter, he settles for tossing any mercy out the window with a petulant grunt; and identifies the shape of one of your legs and tugs you half-free by your ankle like a speared fish, earning a yelp as the cold assaults you.

Grabbing one of the loose rags in your pile, he saturates it with spirit and scoops you up under the hips, before starting to wipe away the evidence.

You begin thrashing almost immediately when the rag makes contact. Then you're practically yowling, "It hurts, it h-hurts—wait, wait—" and okay—yes, maybe using high proof alcohol to clean the smell and slime of his cum off your freshly fucked hole wasn't his best idea. In his defence, you're one of the most stubborn baselines he's ever met, and you should learn to handle a little pain. Secondly, booze is the only thing that stays liquid at freezing.

"Enough with the bloody caterwauling, woman," he barks, effortlessly holding you steady despite your struggling. "It's not that bad, toughen the fuck up."

When he's done with you, he's actually remorseful of the situation. Certainly not his finest choice. Because now you're sniffling weakly, fussing about the residual stinging; and then you promptly scramble back under the blanket.

"There was nothing else I could use, okay?" He says sourly, scowling at the bundle of fabric you disappear into; before tossing the soiled rag he'd used to clean you into the fireplace to ignite.

He grabs another from the pile and douses it, wiping himself off—and at last, he's finally able to start to pull his bodyglove up over his hips. Wiggling and straining to fit the thick, skin-tight material over his still very much erect cock.

From the edge of his vision he can see you've peaked your head out to watch as he fixes the sternum latch in place.

He gives you a cursory glance, but nothing more.

He ultimately expects you to look away like the mouse you are—but no, what actually happens is worse. You just keep silently raking him with an expression that makes him feel like he's made of glass and every secret he's ever had or ever known is laid bare.

He can't stand it.

It makes Cato want to sneer at you fiercely in the hopes it would scare you off, remind you he's an exemplar of the Adeptus Astartes and shouldn't be stared at—something, anything except that look.

"Get up," he turns sharply and snorts.

The beeping is once every two and a half seconds, now.

Two and a half minutes, then.

"You let me fuck you," he bites out.

You're sitting now. Covered in one of the larger articles of rags. A tartan, fraying thing crumpled atop you, frowning and looking dejected. Then you open your mouth to speak but promptly stop. He can tell you're trying to form a diplomatic reply, and he grumbles, fuming.

"Tell anyone of this—" Cato's well aware he's being cruel as he adds, "—and I'll wring your little neck, Father's favourite pet or not."

You finally look away.

And he finds he can't stand that either.

So, to souse his bruised ego, Cato decides he's going to burn the shack down as soon as the transport lands and you're onboard.

He also decides he's going to burn that tacky formal tunic of his too, simply because he can.

[thefirstknife]

New article with more details (from Jason Schreier who first broke the story). If you can't see it, I'll copy the whole text under read more.

About 100 employees were laid off in total (8%) and one of the main reasons listed is "underperformance," "sharp drop in popularity" and "poor reception of Lightfall."

So you know when for the last year and a half content creators have been shitting and pissing on the game as a full-time job and the amount of negativity and ragebait content became the only thing to make content about for them? Well they certainly won't take the blame, but I will let it be known. These people either don't understand the influence they have or they do and they're doing it on purpose, and I don't know which of these two options is worse, but I am 100% confident that their campaign of rage and hate contributed to this.

You don't base your entire community around constantly hating everything about the only game you play (despite clearly not enjoying it anymore) and somehow avoid galvanising thousands and thousands of people into perceiving the game negatively. Imagine being employees who have barely worked there for 2 years and the only community reception they've seen is 24/7 hate train for their work and then they get fired because of "poor reception" and "drop in popularity." How can they not take that personally? I am absolutely devastated for these people who delievered a banger product and who were met with an unrelenting barrage of toxic gamer children which ended up having more sway over their boss than them.

Which brings me to the next bit and that's FUCK THE CEO. He is now my mortal enemy #1. I am projecting psychic blasts directly into his brain. What an absolute spineless coward who is more willing to bow down to fucking gamers than to protect his own employees. This is absolutely rage inducing because this has happened before. From the article from 2021 about the toxic culture at Bungie:

Reading this shit from the new article absolutely fucking sent me into blind rage because I immediately remembered this. Another instance of employees suffering because of comments on reddit. And because of toxic players. And proof that leadership is not protecting employees and is instead siding with players.

Match made in heaven. Asshole gamer content creators and asshole CEOs, all of whom sit at home on piles of money made from someone else's labour. I hope they all explode. None of the people that worked on this game deserve this.

Another article with an infuriating comment from the CEO:

In an internal town hall meeting addressing a Monday round of layoffs that impacted multiple departments, Bungie CEO Pete Parsons allegedly told remaining employees that the company had kept “the right people” to continue work on Destiny 2.

"Kept the right people." Really. Veteran composers weren't the right people? Die!

Bloomberg article in full:

Bungie’s decision to cut an estimated 100 jobs from its staff of about 1,200 followed dire management warnings earlier this month of a sharp drop in the popularity of its flagship video game Destiny 2. Just two weeks ago, executives at the Sony-owned game developer told employees that revenue was running 45% below projections for the year, according to people who attended the meeting. Chief Executive Officer Pete Parsons pinned the big miss on weak player retention for Destiny 2, which has faced a poor reception since the release of its latest expansion, Lightfall. The next expansion, The Final Shape, was getting good — not great feedback — and management told those present that they planned to push back the release to June 2024 from February, according the people, who asked not to be identified because they weren’t authorized to speak publicly. The additional time would give developers a chance to improve the product. In the meantime, Parsons told staff Bungie would be cutting costs, such as for travel, as well as implementing salary and hiring freezes, the people said. Everyone would have to work together to weather the storm, he said, leaving employees feeling determined to do whatever was needed to get revenue back up. But on Monday morning the news got worse: Dozens of staffers woke up to mysterious 15-minute meetings that had been placed on their calendars, which they soon learned were part of a mass layoff. Bungie laid off around 8% of its employees, according to documentation reviewed by Bloomberg. Bungie didn’t respond to requests for comment. Employees who were let go will receive at least three months of severance and three months of Bungie-paid COBRA health insurance, although other benefits, such as expense reimbursements, ended Monday, sending some staff racing to submit their receipts. Laid-off staffers will also receive prorated bonuses, although those who were on a vesting schedule following Sony Group Corp.’s acquisition of Bungie in January 2022 will lose any shares that weren’t vested as of next month. The layoffs are part of a larger money-saving initiative at Sony’s PlayStation unit, which has also cut employees at studios such as Naughty Dog, Media Molecule and its San Mateo office. TD Cowen analyst Doug Creutz wrote in a report Monday that “events over the last few days lead us to believe that PlayStation is undergoing a restructuring.” PlayStation president Jim Ryan announced last month that he plans to resign. Many of the layoffs at Bungie affected the company’s support departments, such as community management and publishing. Remaining Bungie staff were informed that some of those areas will be outsourced moving forward.

[fyodior]

june 19th

✦ pairing: dazai x gn!reader

✦ notes: my 4th installment of blurbs for my boy's birthdays (bbb). i love him so much it hurts. let's all pretend this isn't 2 days late <3

✦ warnings: surprisingly sfw, talks of death/suicide (it's dazai), minor angst but painfully sweet at the end

✦ wc: 1k

Birthdays were hard for Dazai. The congratulations, the gifts, the cake, the smiles, only reminded him of one thing – he survived another year. A concept that was still difficult for him to grasp. It was admittedly getting easier, slowly finding things worth living for, but still hard. When he spent so much of his life, so many of his formative years, hoping for nothing but death, it’s hard for that not to be in the back of his mind.

When birthdays felt like a failure. When the number ticking up made Dazai feel like a coward. A further reminder that he hadn’t built up the guts, that he was still naïve enough to think there was something worth living for, and he just hadn’t found it yet. A spineless fool who could never practice what he preached.

The only thing that made him crack a smile when he was strongarmed into blowing out the candles of the cake that Elise demanded, was how antithetical it was to wish for death at a celebration of his birth. A paradox of his own creation.

Dazai could never really understand why anyone wanted to celebrate his birth. He couldn’t think of a single person who, for a reason outside of personal gain, would be sad if he died. Sure, Mori and much of the Port Mafia would mourn the loss of one of their most cunning executives, Odasaku would miss having a drinking buddy, and Chuuya would miss having someone to antagonize, but no one would miss him. No one would miss Osamu Dazai as an individual and a soul, for all that he is and is not.

So why was it worth celebrating his life – the opposite of his death?

You were the first person Dazai ever met who actually cherished him for who he was, and not what he could provide. His life meant something, meant everything to you, and was more than worthy of celebration.

The first to look him in the eyes and tell him you would be sad if he died.

“You are so much more than a Port Mafia executive, or a Detective Agency detective – you’re so much more than No Longer Human, and even more than my partner,” you whispered to him one night. “You, are Osamu Dazai. A soul unlike any other, and a soul just as worthy of existing and being loved.”

Of course, he never really quite believed you – and you didn’t much expect him to, either. Not with how this life had treated him. He spent his whole life being told his worth extended only as far as what he could do, never who he could be.

Even when you spent hours gently unwrapping every single bandage that adorned his fragile skin, and kissed every single scar that marred his body, Dazai still didn’t quite comprehend. Not even when you helped him wrap fresh ones, each sealed with a kiss, assuring him that he didn’t have to hide but you would always support his comfort. But that was okay. You didn’t love just to receive love. You loved because he was worth it.

So when his birthday came around, the first of which the two of you would be spending together, you were very intentional with plans. You wanted to make him feel loved and cherished and worthy, but not push him past his limit – or make it feel artificial. It couldn’t feel like it was just going through the motions and playing out the stereotypes of a birthday. It needed to be suited to Dazai, so that he could see that it was on purpose.  

Just a typical weekday, you turned off his alarm and woke him with a gentle kiss, whispering a sweet “happy birthday, my love” against his lips. Not even Dazai could fight the way his lips curled into a smile. You washed his hair in the shower and rewrapped his bandages for him, and he even let you apply a few swipes of mascara on his fluttery eyelashes, telling him it was so he could look extra pretty for his special day.

Sending him off to work with a perfectly crafted latte and a flurry of I love you’s, you sat down on the balcony with a paper and pen to write his birthday letter – his only gift, aside from the exorbitantly priced bottle of sake you bought to pair with dinner.

Dear Osamu, it began.

I am a lovesick fool. Your heart has corrupted me in the most irreversible way possible, and your soul has eternally entangled itself with mine. You blind me with your kindness, your passion, and your devotion. I have more love for you than there are stars in the sky, and you are worthy of every atom.

It is only when the ink of your pen starts to run dry that, three pages later, you decide to conclude the letter.

Happy birthday, my one true love. You matter. The letters were lacking in opacity but enriched with love.

And when Dazai finally arrived home, telling stories that likely were not supposed to grace the ears of non-Agency employees, you surprised him with a simple, yet very deliberate dinner. Crab and sake – just what he liked. The laughs got louder as glasses were poured, and tears collected at the corners of his eyes as he read through your letter. You matter, he mouthed silently as he read the line.

And for the first time in his entire life, an inkling of a sliver of a thought entered his mind, that maybe, just maybe, you were right.

[spinchip]

You’ve been living in a death machine

(Warnings: Character death, ice-related injuries)

There’s a certain liberation, a release of tension that comes with this. With the pressure of the staff back in your hand, the wood grain against the sensitive sensors delicately woven into the pads of your fingers. They’d torn your code open and tangled their hands in it and ripped and ripped and ripped until they took everything that made you who you are. They wrenched free your love, your generosity, your kindness- There was no mercy left in your power core. There was nothing. Then they handed you the staff, and resurrected an evil they didn’t truly understand. They couldn’t control you. They didn’t know they couldn’t control you. Turpentine poured in one ear and all the goodness and morality washing out the other, scrubbed clean of the weak and soft parts of himself. The gentleness of your edges has been filed down sharp and rigid, dragged across a whetstone and sharpened to the precision of a razor blade.

You are the Ice Emperor. You missed this.

There is relief with the loss of Zane. You are the same person, of course, but without the burden of guilt and shame. Without the restriction of fear. While upon the throne of the Never Realm, you had come to respect some of the people under your rule- those who stood and fought, who were strong and relentless and clever, who kept swinging even as ice encased their legs and grew steadily higher. You respected the Krag. You respected Akita.

(And out of respect for them, for their prowess as warriors, you didn’t dare hold back.)

You did not respect that part of yourself. A soft, sad thing. Afraid to raise your hand too quickly, unable to utilize the hundreds of killing tactics you had perfected and as such losing so miserably it's almost comical. Almost. You’d have laughed if it didn’t fill you with a humming miasma of deep seated fury. You spent all this time letting yourself fail, asking for pain when you cowed away from a finishing blow. You didn’t remember how far above them you are. You were a coward- spineless and scared, without the nerve to exercise your power.

The Emperor is no such fool.

The girl in front of you takes a sudden step back when you raise your eyes to meet hers. A vicious satisfaction bubbles up your throat, crowding against your teeth. Your presence expands, filling the room and all its corners, commanding attention- the temperature drops until her breath fogs in front of her mouth. She wants to carry in her eyes what you do. She covets the cold detachment that comes second nature to you. She envies your brutality.

She is terribly, horribly frightened by your rage.

The purple crystals glittering around you might be considered beautiful by someone who cares about things like that. You don't even notice their glow. All you care about is the staff and the blood lust sitting under you skin, nestled between your wiring.

Ripped from your home, flooded with feelings so foreign and wrong they rewrote your personality until you were nothing but a bad memory- and now, dragged back out to fight without your advisor at your side, ordered like a dog- Destroy the Ninja! Like you were a prized pet bred to obey. The room was filled with others- people you recognized, people who hurt you when you were too scared to hit back. (The Mechanic, Mr. E, all of them comfortable in their successes against you- they don't see the threat sitting at their feet. They don't even realize they should run.) They laugh and they jeer and they poke and prod and provoke you. They didn’t know what they’d done. They didn’t know who they had invited into their home- their murderer welcomed with cruel smiles and pitiful commands that they thought you would mindlessly follow.

You wanted to make them scared.

You stand to your full height, not curled up and defeated on the stone floor anymore. The girl doesn’t move as you rise to tower over her, staring at you and trying to form the right words to have you bow down before her. She is a pitiful thing. Her eyes glimmer with the hunted desperation of someone who has fought for every breath she’s ever taken. She thinks she will survive this as she has survived everything else.

You raise your hand and she flinches. The room grows quiet. Gently, you reach out and press your finger against her forehead. It only takes a moment- a tap.

She gasps, her whole body convulsing as she chokes on nothing, futilely trying to take in air. Her legs crumple and she hits the floor with a thunk.

You started with the brain. Ice unfurling slowly through her frontal lobe all the way to her cerebellum before curling down her brain stem. Slow enough so that she knew exactly what was happening to her, but too quickly for her body to go numb to the sting. You could see it in her eyes, a terror that only comes when a painful death has surrounded you- when you know there was no way out of it this time. You let the ice trickle down her spinal cord to her lungs, filling her capillaries and cracking delicate tissue when she tries desperately to breathe. It sunk into her heart last. Brain dead in 2 seconds, collapsed at 3.

You raise your head, staring at the sea of horrified faces.

You're going to enjoy this.

[hugemilkshake]

Snow anon here and can I ask for a part 2 of the nervous reader? The one who was nervous about the plot attacking them or hurting them but their very presence seems to calm everyone down and make them all focus more in y/n's happiness and comfort rather than their selfish hatred for eachother?

Ideas....maybe Custard, during the odyssey, had made the mistake of being mean to y/n and just as y/n is thinking 'oh great, here we go...' thinking plot is finally kicking in....angry cookies swarm Custard like a swarm of angry bees.

And maybe throughout the beast yeast adventure....y/n was given lots of love from the faries before and after shadow milk possession...

Y/n thinks mystic flour is gonna turn em to dust but no...mystic flour makes em a small hammock out of her silk and gently rocks y/n to calm them down after being so scared...making sure they are cozy and comfortable.

Enjoy the milkshake! Now bestie I don’t remember the first part of this request but I’ll still do this.

Also don’t mind the custard cookie hate. I hate him and I see why his wife left him.

Saved by the plot

-platonic-

You were so so nervous, you were going around and talking to the Crème Republics Elders and some were more nice than other. Like Captain Caviar Cookie! He was actually a pretty chill dude!

But when you met Custard Cookie… you couldn’t even fathom how Clotted Cream or any of the other elders dealt with this… rotten jelly of a man!

You especially didn’t feel any better when Custard Cookie called you a spineless coward when you told some of the elders that didn’t have the guts to fight the cookies in the white masks

Custard Cookie was pretty soon yelled at by an onslaught of cookie, ranging from Wildberry, Crunchy Chip and Gingerbrave to Clotted Cream and the other elders. But the one cookie that probably insulted him the hardest was Captain Caviar.. he was brutal

After that Custard Cookie avoided you like the plague. Probably because he was embarrassed that so many cookies came to your defense. But you did meet Light Cream Cookie! And let’s just say that you have not clue what Light Cream saw in Custard Cookie.

—————

You were shaking. You were possessed for goodness sake! It was not pleasant being told that you acted like some sort of doll or puppet.

But the Faeries were so kind to you, making sure you were mentally and physically okay even when some of the faeries were also possessed and did some more brutal things like walk on hot coals

—————

The gentle rock of the hammock you were in was not helping you. The beast of apathy put you there and was trying to make you calm down? But you doubted the beast even cared. You probably were put there to torment Dark Cacao if he ever saw you again

[burr-ell]

"the tendency of this fandom to only engage with what THEY want these characters to be#as opposed to what their creators are trying to do and the stories they want to tell" slap this on a bumper sticker, you just summed all cr discourse (about PCs at least) in 2 sentences

It truly is maddening (and it's not by any means exclusive to the CR fandom). The reason why the discourse always goes the way it does is that at the end of the day, the loud fanwanky people only see what they would do, if they were self-inserted into the story, as a valid choice; and they are, more broadly, fundamentally disinterested in what others think or feel. There are several examples of this, and the variety of spaces within the fandom that produce these ideas is an indicator that this isn't endemic to one specific group of people.

-Keyleth is an important character whose feelings and choices are validated by the other PCs and cast even if they still disagree with them, in spite of how she and her preachiness get in the way of the Murderhobo Jubilee? It's not because the cast are all friends and they genuinely believe Keyleth is valid and are interested in how these discussions and choices can guide the story. It's because Marisha is the DM's girlfriend, and also here's my totally unbiased theory that my pet favorite players Sam and Travis secretly hate Marisha and Keyleth.

-Vax's presence is still felt and nodded to in the post-canon VM oneshots? It's not because he was an important character who mattered. It's because Liam wants to make everyone talk about his tragedy because he has Main Character Syndrome. Scanlan Wishes for Vax to appear at the wedding? It's not because he cares about Vex or because Sam and Liam wanted a sweet tribute to Vex and Vax's relationship and by extension Liam and Laura's friendship. It's because Liam thinks Vex's life should always revolve around Vax, and Sam wants to enable him and jerk himself off as the one who facilitated it.

-Beauyasha and Fjorester become canon? It's not because the players wanted it and it happened naturally. It's because there was a secret behind-the-scenes push to "force" those ships to become canon instead, and like, Dani Carr is some sort of shipping puppetmaster who made the players do it, and "they" (whomever "they" is) decided to sink Beaujester or Widojest because it was "obviously" going to become canon before the pandemic hiatus gave them time to "make the corporate-approved ships happen".

-Beau and Caleb try to reform the Empire and dismantle the Cerberus Assembly from within? It's not because it makes sense for their stories or that people who would take this position regarding a corrupt government might have a valid perspective that differs from your own. It's because the people at Critical Role Productions LLC are all spineless neoliberal cowards who won't commit to real activism. The best activism, after all, is violent, and violent revolutions have always resulted in stable aftermaths, and the real world has never demonstrated that this mindset is foolish.

-Relatedly: Caleb doesn't kill Trent personally? It's not because the most poetic justice would be to deny Trent the thing he wants most from Caleb. It's because "Limo Brain" is too obsessed with tragedy to have the stones to do "what needs to be done".

-Asmodeus, DnD Satan, turns out to also be CR Satan? It's not because it fits with the cosmology and the lore; it's because Matt Mercer is too attached to the "establishment", and the Prime Deities should have actually turned out to be the bad guys because of my personal baggage about Western religion and Christianity they're a little mean to my blorbo sometimes.

There's a pattern here: fans had expectations that they'd built up for themselves after projecting and building up fanon and deciding what players meant before they explained themselves fully, and when the players strayed from that, they were derided for all manner of reasons. I think we're seeing that same pattern play out in C3 as the story progresses in a way that fans dislike, and in fact we have seen fanwank spread whenever someone does anything that interferes with personally catering to a) the favored ship and/or b) the favored philosophy. (Orym, Ashton, FCG, Percy, Pelor...all valid when they affirm the Fandom Opinions and all disdained when they don't.)

Don't get me wrong, I think there's a place for comfort stories that deliver a personal catharsis. And I'm not going to dismissively say "well if you want it so bad make your own" because, as an artist, I am very familiar with the fact that creating is hard and draining and sometimes you just need to consume instead. But when you become so wrapped up in yourself and your feelings to the point where your perspective is the only valid one, someone else's feels like a betrayal when it isn't. It's always "They aren't doing what we wanted and here's why they're terrible people because of it" and never "Hmm, why is this what the cast wants? Let's examine that."

This isn't a new phenomenon, but I think it ultimately stems from not assuming that other people can differ from you in major ways in good faith. There are a lot of reasons for that (some more understandable than others), but I think you rob yourself of the potential to enjoy something new when all you do is demand what you already want. No matter what you're doing or where you are in life, you tend to become a better and wiser person when you open your mind to what other people have to say, no matter how mundane the subject matter. Sometimes the stories people have to tell are challenging—and the only healthy way to deal with that is to engage with them on their own terms.

[gwyns]

if i saw gwynriels or eluciens making the same type of posts e/riels do, i and many others in the fandom would be on them so hard. this goes beyond disagreements over a book series, these are serious things that could have real life repercussions

all e/riels are spineless cowards. if they actually cared about people and were feminists like they claim, they'd denounce those within their circle who send rape and death threats to people but no, they think it's more important to go after fictional characters for words the author made them say

they're not real fucking people. the real people are getting the most vile shit sent to them by your fandom and you don't give one fuck about it. stop pretending. i'd rather you all just go mask off and admit you tolerate this behavior because they're all your fandom has left and you don't want to have to own up to being wrong. then i could give you the littlest bit of respect because you were at least honest but instead you choose to go around and get upset and start up a crusade on behalf of fictional characters. well, congratulations! elain is safe and coddled in your little fantasy world

but where's your compassion and empathy for the people who have to manage their mental health while getting told they're worthless and should get raped, beaten and die? does that sit well with your soul? do you feel proud when you see this? if you answer yes to any of this, i suggest doing some serious self reflection

i genuinely hope you all get the help and love you need because it's clear as day you've been deprived of both your entire lives

[hjartasalt]

Hello I know you’ve given your stance on this a few times but I wanted to ask a someone outside the USA what they think!

I’ve seen some people outside the US say that voting for Kamala would be abandoning the Palestinians, especially since she’s also under Bidens administration and hasn’t done much in her seat. (I’ve also seen people say things like this makes you spineless/a coward etc etc to turn your back on them for your own needs)

And ive also seen people outside the US say that not voting for her and voting 3rd party would be throwing your vote away/just giving it to trump and would be disservice to everyone involved.

Ive even seen people say that we should try and push for someone else to take Kamala’s place but I worry that it’s too late in the game for that?

I just want to do the right thing for everyone impacted and I’m just feeling tossed up between what that would even be? I just wanted to hear your thoughts!

This isn’t at all malicious or mean-spirited! I earnestly just want to think of other people

Thank you!

The best thing to do at this point, for everyone, is to vote for Harris in November

[bethanydelleman]

I've been thinking about Willoughby, Crawford and Wickham and how they play somewhat similar roles in their respective novels without being the same character.

Crawford is bored and his flirting is just meant to entertain him. He doesn't care about what this does to the woman or potential consequences (mainly for her, his behaviour seems to be based on plausible deniability. He never openly courtes the Bertram sisters so he can't get shunned for that). He's indifferent rather than malicious.

Wickham is a gold digger, he likes the attention but would never do anything to hurt his potenial prospects (running away with Lydia seems to contradict that but 1) he refused to marry her (until he was bribed by Darcy) because he was still betting on finding a rich heiress and said it was Lydia's own fault for coming with him and 2) even though it was a fairly public stunt I doubt it would be talked about outside of Hertfordshire or Meryton (and why would Lady Catherine tell her friends when they don't know the Bennets or Wickham? Then again, who knows with Lady Catherine?).)

Somehow Willoughby feels like the worst of them all. He seduces girls because he has nothing else to do like Crawford but when he gets Eliza pregnant he dips and abandons her which feels malicious or at the very least cowardly. The way he leaves Marianne, ignores her and then his marriage is even more spineless.

He really is the most detestable out of them all.

(John Thorpe would be on this list but he has neither the charm, looks nor brains to seduce anyone. He is playing this game completely alone but convinced he's winning big time.)

I agree with you!

The big difference with Willoughby in my mind is how far he'll go. Henry Crawford and his sister may joke about how he doesn't plunge girls too deep, but he walks a very careful line of plausible deniability, as you say, for both himself and the Bertram sisters (and we assume for other women he's flirted with in town).:

Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general notice. (Ch 12)

He leaves both of the Miss Bertrams with their reputations intact when he departs from Mansfield for Bath.

This is very different from how Willoughby behaves, where everyone in his and Marianne's circle is pretty certain that they are engaged. Also, Henry Crawford pretty pointedly "dumps" Maria Bertram, while Willoughby ghosts Marianne and leaves their relationship open ended like a coward, as you pointed out.

Another despicable thing both Wickham and Willoughby do is prey on women who are of lower status: Eliza Williams and the tradesmen's daughters of Meryton. We are never told that Henry Crawford does anything like this, his game is played with social equals and we are never given any indication that the unmarried women he flirts with are in danger of physical ruin. His affair with Maria Rushworth at the end is awful, but Maria was a married adult and she knew what she was getting into, the narrator even confirms that it was her idea. It's on a different level from what Willoughby and Wickham did with younger women who had less ability to understand the consequences.