#and then the rest of the quilt is lit up

[phierecycled]

earlier this week i made a post about how hartford stage’s 1991 production of falsettos ended with whizzer on the aids memorial quilt. i’ve actually managed to find the clip of the scene itself and it’s beautiful

[villainbait]

Collective Warmth

Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: T | Teen Tags: fluff, kissing, whimsy, flirting, playful sylus, playful mc, date, picnic, yearning if you squint Summary: It's been weeks and finally you and Sylus are able to steal a moment for an afternoon rendezvous. Word Count: 550~

The two of you had made plans to have a small rendezvous in the park. It had been weeks since you had laid eyes on Sylus, work keeping you busy as usual and Sylus was off doing whatever it is he wanted. When you spotted him already sprawled out on a comfortable looking quilt in the grass, your heart leapt into your throat and your steps quickened to meet him. You’d never sacrifice honesty at the cost of your pride, but you had missed him. 

It was an easygoing afternoon, the waning sun bouncing to each one of the clouds above the two of you. What you chatted about was a secret kept only by the two of you, and both of your heads were bowed together intimately as Sylus feeds you the confections he had brought back from his latest trip. You forced him to eat one and he obliged you, his lips twisting when it was sour. 

“You know I dislike sour things,” he replied tartly, but he noted the way your eyes were full of mischief. You had done it on purpose and he scooped a dollop of the lemon icing from another treat, trying to smudge it on the tip of your nose. Yet he was too lazy and you were too quick, dodging his attack with a playful outcry.

“Hey!” You protested, popping to your feet with ease. “I’ll pay you back for that.”

“I didn’t even do anything, sweetie. Why are you so nervous?” Sylus drawled indolently, and he sat up straight as a sudden idea occurred to him; his lips curling with deceptive warmth. 

“Shall we play a game?” 

“Sure,” you replied, your eyes already sparkling with mischief. Before he could propose the game or state any rules, you smudged the lemon icing onto his cheek instead, your expression lit up with childish delight. "You're it!" You sprinted in the opposite direction across the greenery of the park towards the shade of a nearby tree. It wasn’t quite the game Sylus had had in mind, but he played along. Of course, you didn't make it far and you felt the tug of his evol dragging you back. Sylus’s echoing laughter was lost to the wind and distant rustling of trees dancing in the wind as he swept you up into his arms. Your stumbling protests are interrupted by the press of his warm lips against yours, claiming his prize for winning your little game. His kiss is playful, his lips grazing across yours in a way that leaves you breathless, but greedy for more.

You whine softly when he doesn’t immediately kiss you again and he chuckles against your lips at your impatience, but Sylus gives in, kissing you deeply as he urges you to wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you back to your blanket and sits down with you in his lap, pulling your bodies flush against one another. It was like you were the only two people in the park, the rest of the world drowned out by the collective pounding of your heartbeats and his lips against yours. Sylus’s expression is lazy with desire when he pulls back and he stares at you quietly; waiting. You realize he's waiting for you and that whatever you want from him is yours.

Will you take what he’s so willing to offer?

When your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for another kiss, the lingering smirk on his lips says you’ve made the correct choice. 

[daydreams-after-dark]

Blindfolds | Chan x Reader x mystery man (Minho)

chan x fem reader x minho.

Chan helps you fulfil your fantasy of having a "stranger" sleep with you

Word count: I think about 3k?

MDNI . Content warning below.

————- WARNINGS: unsafe sex, threesome, oral sex, vaginal sex, anal fingering, blowjob, orgasm, slight choking, cum eating, mystery sex, blindfold—————-

You walk down the dimly lit hallway towards one of the unused bedrooms in the holiday house you and your friends were staying at. You and your best friend, Chan decided the scenario will take place in a space that no one is using, to really maximize the mysteriousness of it the whole thing.

Butterflies are going crazy in your stomach, and you tug your satin robe tighter around your waist to try to settle them down. You feel rather sexy and feminine in the robe, the cream floral print against a gold background makes you feel like a queen.

You approach the designated door and knock.

“Come in.” Chan's voice calls from the inside. You swallow hard and push open the door.

You're immediately taken aback. The room is stunning. The decor is dark and moody, with the walls painted a dark grey blue, and the furniture looks as though it’s antique. Paintings of abstract naked women have been hung around the room.

There are various stained-glass lamps, emanating a seductive glow, and there is music playing low in the background. It sounds like French music. A woman’s voice seductively fills the room.

Then there’s the bed. Huge, King sized, so plush and high set. Chan is laying propped up against the dark timber headboard, he almost looks lost leaning amongst the generous number of over sized plush pillows. He’s wearing black tracksuit pants and a muscle tee. It looks out of place in such a sensually styled room.

“What do you think?” Chan gestures around the room.

“Th- this,” you stammer. “It’s amazing Chan.” You move towards the bed, stretching out your hand to touch the dark green quilt. It’s luxurious on your fingertips as you run your hand along the fabric and move closer to the head of the bed. The only thought going through your head is: Someone’s going to fuck you on this.

You perch on the side of the bed facing away from Chan, your feet barely reaching the floor. That's when you notice the black blindfold laid out neatly on the bedside table. Next to it is a bottle of coconut oil.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” Chan reaches out to touch your hand that’s resting beside you on the bed.

You inhale deeply and then slowly release the breath. How are you feeling?  It’s a mixture of feelings really. You're so very nervous. That you already know. But, you're also… excited. The idea of what’s about to happen is truly thrilling to you.

You can't believe your best friend Chan agreed to help you fulfil this fantasy. Of being blindfolded and fucked by a mystery person.

Chan smiles “We gotta get you ready!” He practically jumps off the bed and moves around to the side of the bed, taking your hand and helping you slide off the bed.

You've already discussed the details of how you're going to do this, covering safe words and safe gestures, what positions we are going to be in. These had been relayed to the mystery person who was going to be participating. The man coming to fuck you wouldn't be a stranger though. It was one of seven other men, that Chan knows extremely well. You've met them all too, and to be fair, you'd be thrilled to have any of them fuck you.

You stand in front of Chan facing away from him. There is tension in the air and your breath feels wobbly. He steps closer to you, and you can feel his breath on your neck and a pang in your chest. You'd really wish he'd kiss you. Chan doesn't know how much you actually want him. But he's never shown any signs of wanting you as more than a friend. He slowly reaches around, careful not to touch you too much, you wish he would, and pulls at your robe’s rope-tie.

It comes loose easily allowing your robe to fall open. Chan delicately pulls your robe off your shoulders letting it drop to the floor. You hadn’t put any underwear on, and now you're standing completely naked in front of Chan. And only Chan.

It feels extremely intimate and you're feeling self conscious. He hasn’t been this close to your naked body before. Goosebumps form on your skin. It isn’t cold in the room. Chan had thought of that too and had made the room a comfortable temperature. He’s so fucking considerate. You smile to myself.

You close your eyes and compose yourself. Fuck. You're really doing this.

Chan takes your hand again and grabs the blindfold in the other. He steadies you as you climb onto the bed where he resumes the position of laying down and propped up against a pillow and headboard. He directs you to sit between his legs facing away from him, and carefully he places the blindfold over your eyes and securing it at the back of your head. Your senses immediately heighten. This feels so erotic.

“Lean back on me.” He whispers as he guides you to lean back onto his fully clothed body. You can feel his hard, toned muscles flexing underneath you and his breathing is strained. Is he nervous? You can feel an erection beginning to dig into your back. Is this turning him on?

You imagine what this must look like, your exposed, naked body with Chan’s strong legs on either side of yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands so you rest them on your stomach. You don’t know where Chan’s arms and hands are, only that they aren’t touching you. You wish he’d wraps his arms around you. You wish he’d caress your body.

For a moment you try to imagine what it would be like if he did touch you. The sensation of him cupping your breasts, pinching a nipple, sliding his hands over your body. Then you remember why you're here, for a mystery fuck. A small moan escapes you. Did he hear you?

Chan nuzzles his face into your neck, resting his chin on your left shoulder. He's so close. “You already imagining a stranger inside you, hmm?” he whispers. You whimper. His voice turns you on beyond belief.

You don’t have chance to answer because there is a knock on the door. You suck in a breath. This is actually happening.

“Come in.” Chan calls out. You hear the door creak open and then close.

“Are you ready to begin?” whispers Chan in your ear.

“Mmm hmm, yes.” you reply.

“Good, because I think you are going to really enjoy this.”

He takes hold of your hands and places them on the bed either side of your body, using his hands to hold them down out of the way so you can’t go ahead and touch your anonymous lover. You had requested this. It makes you feel like you're being forcefully held in place, although you know you can change things if you want.

You feel the mattress dip slightly. Someone is climbing onto the bed near your feet. Who can it be? Is it Changbin? Or could it be Minho? Felix? Could it be Jisung?

A hand touches your ankle. You shudder, then very slowly and delicately it makes it way up to the side of your knee. Their touch is light and feathery. You swallow.

Then you feel a mouth, a moist, plush mouth just above your knee. You think he is about to take the kisses up your leg, but instead takes his kisses back down, making his way down to your ankle. It feels so sensual. Who do these lips belong to?

Chan releases your arms for just a moment so he can lift your legs over each of his legs, which are spread out wide on the bed. Then he goes back to gently pinning your hands to the mattress.

You sense the other man moving closer and a mouth reappears on your skin. This time it’s your inner right thigh. He drags his tongue from inside your leg near your knee all the way up your inner thigh, sending tingles through your body, but he stops before he gets anywhere near your pussy. He does this again, and then mirrors the action with your other leg.

His hands try to push your legs a little wider and Chan assists by moving his own legs wider again, forcing your legs to part just a little more. You're ready, wide open for whatever you're about to receive.

The touching stops, but you can feel him kneeling in front of you. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly in anticipation.

You're pleasantly startled when you feel a warm liquid landing on your breasts. The oil. Chan must have warmed it up somehow in preparation. You moan at the sensation of the oil dripping down around and between your breasts. You suck your breath between your teeth when you feel a pair of hands cupping your breasts, then squeezing and massaging the flesh in slow, but firm circles.

His hands slide easily over your oiled skin, and you squeal slightly when he squeezes your nipples. As the pinches and flicks become more aggressive you can’t help but arch your back and rock your hips at the sensation.

Chan shushes you. “We need to stay still and take it, remember what we agreed to?” That’s right, part of this was you needed to stay as still as possible, it was all part of being restrained. You compose yourself and stop moving. It’s so difficult but you're determined to play the part properly.

“Good girl.” Chan growls low. Good girl? You love those words.

More warm oil is applied to your stomach. There is so much that it coats your entire abdomen and runs down towards your core, and trickles down where your pussy lips meet. You feel bad for the bedding, it’s probably going to be a mess.

It feels so fucking sexy with your body being this slick and slippery. You feel like a goddess being worshipped and adored, yet at the same time you feel like a dirty whore who doesn’t care who fucks her.

You wait for the hands to return to your body, anticipating them all over your stomach and you moan and pant with the need to be touched now. You're desperate and on the verge of begging.

“Pl-please… please touch me.” you say.

“He wants you to call him ‘Sir’”, Chan whispers.

“Please touch me again… Sir.” you pant.

You let out a long, low moan as he pours the oil at the top of your pussy. It runs down through your lips and onto your asshole. You can’t help but try to wriggle with pleasure and frustration. Chan squeezes your hand, a reminder that you need to stay still. You don’t know where his hands will land next and the anticipation is pure agony.

The stranger lifts your legs up bending them so your knees are up near your chest. Chan removes one of his hands from yours to grip under your knee to help pin it against your chest, whilst the other man pins your right leg.

You feel the heel of a hand press firmly against your clit and begin to move in circular motions, much like they did with your breasts. It provides a grinding sensation that shoots pleasure deep inside of your abdomen.

“Fuck that feels so good… Sir.” you whimper as his hand swirls and presses on you for what feel like and eternity.

He then drags two fingers beginning at your clit all the way down to your asshole, dragging the oil and your slickness all the way down. Your cunt clenches as his fingers pass by the entrance, not stopping to explore. He presses a finger to your rim.

“Aaaah!!” you gasp at the sensation of the pressure.

He massages his finger against you, and you know you're going to open up easily for him. You are so aroused and so slick from yourself and the oil that it doesn’t take much for the tip of his finger to breech the entrance. You grip the sheets with your hands and pant shallow breaths as his finger slips in deeper, deeper, all the way in.

“You’re being so good for him.” Chan’s words of praise in your ear make you melt around the stranger’s finger and you're ready for more.

“Sir… please.. I need… can you put in another finger?”

He slowly removes his finger and you feel two fingers at your rim now. He pushes them in, going ever so slowly. It’s a stretch but he’s moving slowly enough that you're adjusting along the way, making the stretch feel achingly good. He must be experienced at this sort of thing. He knows exactly what to do.

You bring your left arm up and wrap it around Chan’s neck, as whispers words of encouragement in your ear.

The volume of your moans and whimpers grow so loud now that it’s drowning out the sound of the French woman’s singing. The man moves his fingers in and and out of your ass maintaining a relentlessly slow pace. The burning sensation with every drag of his fingers makes you cry out.

“Faster… harder… Sir I need… more.”

He quickly builds up the pace. Chan releases your hand to bring his hand to your neck, wrapping it around your throat and squeezing slightly but not enough to cut off air. Then he brings his thumb up to your lips. You open your mouth allowing him to slip his thumb inside. You pull at the hair on the back of his head and he pushes his thumb further into your mouth. The other man continues to fuck your ass with his fingers.

A mouth lands on your pussy. His tongue swirls around and through your lips. The tip of his tongue slides inside of you. Chan starts to fuck your mouth with his thumb, pushing it deep into your mouth roughly. You want him to ruin you.

You're practically screaming from the glorious agony, your senses are on overload.

Chan removes his thumb. “Is this okay?” he checks in with you.

“Yes… But… I want his cock now.”

“Ahhh yes, I bet you do. Let’s sort you out, yeah?”

The fingers inside your ass are removed and you feel the man shift his position.

His thighs press against the underside of yours. Then… you feel the tip of a cock. He pushes it against your opening, making you let out a pathetic whine. Your body is begging for him to push his cock in.

But he doesn't push it in. Moments pass and still nothing happens. What is happening? A sense of panic makes it’s way into your body. Has he changed his mind?

“He wants to know if we can take the blindfold off?” Chan asks.

You pause. He hasn’t changed his mind. You quickly decide what you want to do. Whoever it is wants you to be right there with him, making this moment together. Not him fucking you, but you fucking each other.

You bite your bottom lip. “Okay.” you say shakily. Your breath quickens at the thought of coming face to face with the man who has been pleasuring you so amazingly.

Chan takes over holding your right leg up and two hands come to rest on the sides of your blindfold, the tip of his cock slips into you slightly as he leans in towards you, giving you a tease of what’s to come. You can’t wait until he is all the way inside.

Your blindfold slides off but your vision is slightly blurry. You blink to adjust your eyes and the man before you becomes clear.

Minho.

He is looking at you expectantly, nervously, like you might run away at the sight of him.

You reach up and cup his face. His cheeks are flushed and lips pink and swollen. He isn’t even being the one fucked right now but he looks like he is.

“Hey.” you say with a dazed smile.

“Hey.” He replies. “Is this okay…do you want to keep…”

You wrap an arm around his waist and pull him down on top of you. His hands reach around to your ass and he lifts your hips up and pushes himself all the way inside of you.

Minho is finally free to make noises now and he makes long low moans as he rocks his hips into you. He looks down to where you're joined to watch his cock glide in and out.

You still have one arm wrapped around Chan’s neck, your other explores Minho’s body. His toned body undulates like some sort of exotic python. He’s even more skilled with his cock than with those magic fingers. He brings his mouth down onto yours mirroring his tongue with his thrusts. A skilled, diligent lover.

You melt together as his long, languid thrusts become deeper and you’re being pressed into Chan’s hard cock.

Without warning, Minho pulls out and flips you over in one fluid move so that you’re on all fours.

You look to the head of the bed and see Chan’s hard erection inside his sweat pants. You’re about to reach for it when you’re dragged down the bed by Minho. You look into Chan’s eyes longingly as you’re being pulled out of reach and he just stares back at you. You want to please him so badly.

Minho pushes his cock back inside of you making you cry out. Pleasure washes over you, mixing with the angst of yearning for Chan. He slides his thumb over your asshole and presses it inside. “Ahhh.. Yes, Minho.” You cry, squeezing your eyes tight.

He pushes it in all the way and rests his palm and fingers on your tail bone. His grip is perfect to rock you on and off his cock. You love feeling so filled up. You’re so close now.

Chan looks fucked out, like he’s on another planet. His engorged, swollen red cock is now out of his pants and in his hand, but he’s not doing anything with it. He’s just holding it absentmindedly. His eyes glazed over as he stares at you.

Minho must notice him too. “Kitten?” he pants. “Do you want to help Chan out? Make him come?”

You look at Chan eagerly. You’re practically salivating.

“Come over here Chan. It’s okay.” Minho encourages Chan over but he doesn’t move. “Before I cum.” He adds, hoping that will spur him on.

Chan, as if possessed, gets up onto his knees and crawls his way towards you. Once he is close enough he offers you the head of his cock and you take hold of it with one hand and guide him into your mouth. Chan whimpers at the touch. You lick your tongue along his shaft and over the tip before taking him deep into your mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Chan whines high pitched.

“Don’t use your hands. Make him work for it.” Minho growls.

You do as you’re told and release your grip but keeping him in your mouth.

Something in Chan snaps. He grabs the back of your head and starts plunging his cock into your mouth relentlessly. He tangles his fingers in your hair as he fucks your face without restraint. It makes you gag. It’s hard to take him and your eyes water.

You look up at him, he’s staring at you while his cock thrusts into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you almost choke. Seeing Chan using you like this while Minho pounds into you from behind, is all too much.

You cry out around Chan’s cock as your legs shake and your cunt clenches around Minho. Your arms and legs buckle underneath you but Minho is there to hold you steady. He wraps an arm underneath you, keeping you in position.

Minho suddenly pulls out, painting your back in his cum with a long moan.

Chan growls and moans and pulls his cock out to massage his release into your waiting mouth and tongue. There is so much, coating your tongue and dribbling down your chin. He leans back onto his heels, shaking as he watches you swallow everything in your mouth, and then use your fingers to scoop the remaining cum on your chin and licking your fingers clean. He looks horrified and startled. Oh shit, have you done something wrong?

Chan quickly gets off the bed and pulls up his trackpants. “Fuck. I am so sorry.” He is so flustered.

“I’ll get the towels.” Minho announces and hops off the bed.

“Chan?” You whimper. He doesn’t seem to hear you. He’s is freaking out. “Chan!” You repeat, “I need you to hold me.”

Chan looks down at you, as though he is scared. What is going through his mind? Cautiously, he edges closer to the bed and sits beside you. You’re still in an all fours position waiting to have your back wiped clean, but you kneel up to let Chan wrap his arms around you. You nuzzle into his chest. Why is he so upset with you?

You feel him relax against you and he strokes your hair. “I shouldn’t have done that to you.” He whispers over and over. You don’t understand. You fucking loved that he did that to you. You’ve wanted it for so long.

“Oh Channie!” You cry. “I fucking want you, you idiot!”

Chan looks at you warily. “Really?”

You reach up and cup his cheek. “Yes.” You whisper, your eyes dropping to his lips. He closes the gap capturing you in a heated kiss. “Stay with me tonight, Chan.”

“Of course, baby girl. Of course."

Minho returned, cleaned you up and helped you and Chan hop into bed.

"I'm glad you two have finally got your act together." he said laughing as he said goodnight and left you and Chan to snuggle together.

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itshannjisung @kangnina @weareapackofstrays

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. 2 - Domination

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: LaCroix briefs Vincent on the new world he has just entered into, with the expectation that he will be an obedient ghoul. But Vincent is still struggling to gain the upper hand.

Author's Note: I made myself sad writing this - I want Sebastian to turn from Whumper to Caretaker already!

TW: mind control, emotional manipulation, strangulation, kidnapping

It was not LaCroix’s habit to keep his subordinates close to him. If it was wise to keep enemies close, then it was wiser to keep envious inferiors at such a distance that they had no opportunity to become enemies. Ghouls ought to have no knowledge of their master’s weaknesses, and no importance as anything other than pawns. They ought to view him as a solitary, impenetrable figure, above even their understanding. But Vincent Bisset de Gramont proved himself an enemy from the start, and therefore, an exception.

LaCroix repeated that name in his head and smiled, rolling it and playing with it, along with the bullet in his palm which he had decided to keep as a souvenir. Vincent had become so incensed when LaCroix refused to use his title that he determined on the spot never to use it again. The man had to be taught a lesson. “You are no Marquis any longer, let alone an ‘Autem Imperator,’ Vincent. Those titles have no meaning here. You will learn new titles. ‘Prince.’ ‘Regnant.’ ‘Domitor.’ And they will belong to me, not to you - as do all things where we’re going. Know your place.” He leaned back into the quilted suede of his seat, letting starlight and the dimmed glow of the cabin play across his features to what he hoped was a mysterious and intimidating effect.

“Your hubris knows no bounds, Prince,” Vincent spat back, clutching the arms of his seat as if his wrists were lashed to them. “They’re looking for me even now. Do you think you can walk into a High Table duel and make off with the highest ranking –“

“No one is looking for you, because no one knows you’re missing. Everyone who saw me believes they saw a kindly priest who said his respects over your body before helping that fellow – The Harbinger, I believe you call him – lay you to rest in a casket for your mortician to carry away. Tomorrow, that empty casket will be buried.”

A flash of panic before his pretty green eyes lit up again. “The mortician will – “

“The mortician wasn’t your man. He was mine. I sent a local friend to take his place, and to oversee the proceedings. You’re as good as dead, Vincent. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

He went as ghostly white as his travelling companion then. He remained very quiet while Sebastian explained to him the meanings of those important titles he’d mentioned, as well as other relevant words such as “Masquerade” and “Camarilla” and “Ventrue.”

LaCroix’s hope of entertainment during the flight was very much fulfilled. Vincent made for a captivating (if pitiful) image, with blood still smeared across his forehead and wetness sparkling in his eyes. LaCroix couldn’t stop staring at him and wondering whether he’d really cry or not. It filled him with a strange mix of sadism and sympathy that kept the Prince continuously in suspense. It sent him inexplicably trembling to hear Vincent say, “You’ll have to forgive me, Sebastian, I’m just so confused. Please…help me understand everything.”

He was coherent enough to ask intelligent questions though, and always seemed to latch onto those subjects that were a little too top-secret for a first conversation with a ghoul, whilst sighing that he was just so confused and scared. Clearly, he knew his way around a syndicate like the Camarilla and went straight for the vital information. When at last the Prince tired of this game and started to inquire about Vincent’s own organization, he refused to divulge anything.

It confused Sebastian a little. Every other ghoul he’d ever created had hung on his words in an ecstasy that totally drowned out the loss of their former life. They typically begged to repay him for saving them and fell over themselves to please him until he was either amused or disgusted. They certainly didn’t issue desperate pleas and threats about returning to their old life, or try to ply information out of him, or protect their old secrets. But Vincent? Well…there was no doubt that Vincent was affected by Sebastian. Sometimes his eyes lingered on LaCroix as if he wasn’t quite able to look away. But the look there wasn’t puppy love, it was…horror. Hatred. As if Vincent was looking at an old grudge who had wronged him grievously. Something wasn’t right.

He wasn’t in deep enough, that was all. He’d only taken the first sip of vitae – two still remained to form a full blood bond. And he was hardly a pliant individual, that much was evident. For now, Sebastian supposed he’d have to secure the ghoul’s cooperation via commands. “Vincent. When I ask you a question about the High Table, you will answer me directly, honestly, and without embellishments. Do you understand?”

A glazed, vacant look replaced the pitiful one. “I understand.”

There, good. Sebastian let out a breath, only just realizing how tense he had become, and began his inquisition.

He knew a little about the High Table already. It was not so different from the Giovanni, but even larger by membership the Camarilla, and impressive for a human construction. It was difficult to be anyone significant in either the human or kindred underworld without running across the High Table’s activities at some point. But the Autem Imperator (Sebastian might not call him by his title out loud, but he wasn’t forgetting it for an instant in his own mind) offered a unique view of its proceedings. Within minutes, LaCroix knew who held each seat, how communications passed between members, how those communications might be intercepted, into which countries their influence had spread (it was most of them), and even where the Elder resided.

It had been no idle tip, he realized, that suggested he should pay a visit to his home country and rest in the basilica that day. It had been, in fact, pure gold in the form of an anonymous email. He almost passed it up as an attempted ruse or ambush, even with all the power promised by the stranger on the other end. But it also spoke to a Masquerade violation, and even the Nosferatu could not trace it. The sender must have had a contact, someone who could encrypt on their level. So he went personally, just for 24 hours, with the resolution that he would return to the safety of LA as soon as possible.

Remembering at last to the original purpose of his visit, LaCroix asked his ghoul one final question, shortly before landing.

“Do you have an associate who would go by the initial ‘C’?”

Even under domination, he rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Sebastian held out the message on his phone. “Who could this have been?”

“Is it true that you can help someone live beyond death? If you really are I’ve been told you are, then come at once, to Paris. Come to the Sacré-Coeur Basilica just before dawn. If you’re lucky and I’m unlucky, you will find a man there who cannot escape death any other way. If you keep him alive, he will offer you knowledge and power equal to your own, pertaining to a human organization you may know as the High Table. Take him away from me, change him, disappear him, I don’t care. Only save his life and make him happy, and you will have my eternal thanks. He does not know, and will never know, what he means to me.”

- C”

“My bodyguard, Chidi.” His voice was strained almost to the breaking point, and his eyes still fixed on Sebastian’s phone even after the email was closed. Sebastian had no questions about whether he was faking his tearfulness this time.

“A ghoul of your very own, of sorts! Where can I find him?”

Vincent closed his eyes for a moment before mustering an answer. “…He’s dead.”

“Ah, splendid. That saves me a great deal of trouble.”

And then Vincent did what no ghoul, whether on one sip of vitae or three, should have been capable of doing. He sprung forward and closed hands around his domitor’s neck.

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

It took Vincent much longer than it should have to recall that Sebastian didn’t need to breathe. By that time, he was already being dragged off by the enormous, visibly supernatural thing that Sebastian had introduced as “The Sheriff.”

“Get this brainless lump off of me!”

“Hey,” The Sheriff grunted. Vincent paid him no mind, and continued addressing LaCroix with exactly as much civility as he deserved, all the while straining against the boulder-heavy hands holding him back.

“You will not SPEAK to me that way and you will not – “ Fuck, he hated the way his voice was shaking… “You will not speak of my bodyguard’s death as – as ‘splendid!’”

“And you will not speak to me at all until you can behave yourself!” LaCroix retorted. “SILENCE!”

The voice seemed to go out of Vincent’s throat. All his resistance had been used up in the outburst and he sunk numbly back into his seat.

LaCroix was panting, a shaking hand against his neck. He adjusted his tie and recovered himself enough to laugh. “Imagine trying to strangle a vampire! And the one holding your life in his hands, no less. You’re one to talk of brainlessness. And just when I was beginning to respect your cunning.” Vincent opened his mouth and nothing came out, so he spat in LaCroix’s face instead.

“Oh for god’s sake - You don’t speak AND you don’t move!” Vincent smiled as he watched LaCroix wipe at his face with a handkerchief, scowling. But another wave of terrible compulsion spread through his limbs, and then he was paralyzed.

It was such a strange feeling, being “dominated.” It was the same magnetism that drew him to LaCroix when he first laid eyes on him (that must be the “vitae” he had spoken about), but stronger, and more concentrated. Making him capable of magnificent feats, making him motivated, drawing his focus, making things important to him. As if a power was bursting out from inside of Vincent. It wasn’t so unlike being high, and not wholly unpleasant. But it was not his to control, not a part of him. It was LaCroix’s, and he hated it for that, and he hated LaCroix for that too. Maybe, if he just held onto that hatred…

But LaCroix’s conversation with his Sheriff broke his concentration. “No, I don’t want him in a cell, much less his own apartment. He’s not fully dominated and it’s a security risk. I don’t understand it, but I need to maintain a tight hold over him even if I have to do it by manual override. He stays in the penthouse, with me.”

If The Sheriff understood that, he conveyed it only by grunting.

Damn it. Any chance to get out of LaCroix’s grasp was slipping away. Again, he struggled to protest, but it was useless. He couldn’t speak. His own body was refusing him. It felt traitorous and alien and there was no one to help him, no one looking for him, no Chidi ever again and absolutely nothing he could do. If he had a voice, he would probably be screaming, he realized. But instead, for the second time that day, he floated on a sea of bloody misery, gasping worse and worse by the second. As the jet went into final descent, its weightlessness hit him in the stomach and drove home a second wave of fear.

LaCroix was watching him, leaning over him, speaking to him, in much the same way one might speak to a broken printer shortly before kicking it. He lay a hand on Vincent’s chest to feel his shallow heartbeat and the very core of Vincent’s being rebelled against the way that it soothed him.

“Why are you not calm? You shouldn’t be feeling this way, I don’t understand why it’s not working…” He fixed LaCroix with the most hateful stare he could manage without moving his facial muscles. Why do you think, you useless fils de pute? He felt tears rolling silently down his cheeks. Fine. Good, even.

Again, LaCroix’s magnetic voice overpowered his will with a rush, even more hideously blissful than before. Perhaps it was more in harmony with him than the last had been... “Be calm, Marquis. I command you. Don’t be so afraid.”

And all the wild contents of his heart slipped away into a soft, empty, merciful void.

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[chaosfae-writes]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

synopsis; a tender moment away from the chaos.

pairing; Alicent Hightower x brown!Targaryen!reader

a/n; a drabble for my love, mine all mine. requested by a lovely mutual from ao3. fluff for my gay mothers. they deserve it.

It’s a miracle from the Seven that the raven hasn’t been struck dead by the heat of Alicent’s eyes.

A letter has arrived, hailing from Dragonstone. Princess Rhaenyra declares her soon return to King’s Landing—- the note wrinkles under Alicent’s fingers.

It has been two months.

Two months since the incident with Vaemond—- who broods in his self-pity. He's been a sore thumb, he doesn’t quite mesh well in the king’s court. He reeks of the sea, and his insistence of traveling to Driftmark has not ceased.

Rhaenyra, nor Laenor doesn’t have any inkling that Alysanne has been born. Alicent has relished in her selfishness, savoring all her time with Alysanne, and you.

Even in the past days, Vaemond has barely held Alysanne—- Alicent ensured of that. Now the Realm’s Delight is to return and soil Alicent’s life once more.

A dread burdens Alicent’s mind as she tosses the letter in the fire’s pit, watching it smolder to ash within the flames.

Alicent worries. She worries that Rhaenyra will meddle. Snatch Alysanne under the guise of a doting aunt—- and her plain featured sons mingling with Alysanne, Alicent scoffs under her breath.

A sinking sensation caves inside Alicent’s cavity, her footfalls faltering.

Mutely Alicent enters her chambers, moving in the silence as a mouse.

Her quarters are warm, provided heat from the burning hearth. Thankfully, the windows are shielded by the floor-length double curtains—- white and green. A comforting dimness casts upon Alicent. Candles are lit, providing a dew hue.

A spacious chamber, meant for the queen, her only reprieve. In the corner, is a cradle with toys.

Sniffling as her shaky fingers unclip her earrings—- she stops in her tracks.

On her massive bed, there lay three sleeping lumps huddled.

Alicent quietly steps closer to the bed, a small tender smile curls at her lips. Sunk into the massive stitched quilts, pale and sepia arms interlocked—- and tucked in the middle is a small bundle with short tuft of silver, and chubby brown curling fists.

Helaena rests to the left, as you lay asleep on the right of the mattress. Alysanne stretches her small arms, and settles back in her sleep.

Alicent is grateful that you can understand Helaena—- and be her comfort. Helaena is a painfully shy, and odd child, but she is Alicent’s pride and joy.

That Targaryen strangeness, how sweetly you would coddle Helaena as a little duckling. Especially, when Helaena would get fussy, you always calmed her down.

It’s only you that Alicent fully trusts with her children, how you helped her when she didn’t feel any bond with them when they were freshly born.

Eased the burden of motherhood, let her rest when the children got too rambunctious, and she felt the threads of her sanity snapping.

Alicent quietly sits at the edge, her hand finding rest on your hip, caressing you through the embroidered quilt. A sweet sight that calms Alicent, the stresses melting away from her skin.

Alicent’s hand leans to Alysanne’s little chest, feeling her breathing under her palm. Her finger stroking the plump cheek, her small sleepy huffs. Moving to Helaena’s silver head, curling her hair behind the shell of ear.

Alicent’s body yearns to rest, she stands to get up for her vanity.

Alicent tugs on the emerald fabric, undressing and freeing her flesh. The dress falls in a wrinkled bundle by her feet, leaving her in her undergarment sheath.

Walking to her dresser, as she untangles the gold ringlets from her thick waves. One by one, removing the rings on her fingers —- all but one.

The one you gifted her, on that day on Dragonstone. Alicent can still feel the warmth of the sun, and the sweet whispers of shared vows. She twirls the bejeweled ring between her finger tips, a small smile curls.

Bare from jewelry and confining lace, thick waves of curls bounce down to the nape of spine, Alicent’s eyes gaze through her mirror—— catching yours in the reflection.

She hums a giggle. With a grace to her step, Alicent walks to the bed. Curling under the quilt, you gaze at Alicent sleepily. Cuddling Helaena’s little body to her chest, Alicent interlocks her ankles with yours.

You can tell by the way Alicent’s eyes droop that she’s been thinking too hard —- worrying too hard.

Tenderly, your knuckles graze Alicent’s cheek. “What ails you, my dearest?” The pad of your thumb soothes under her eye, cupping her face. Alicent holds your hand in hers, eyes closing with a dejected sigh.

For a split second, you stare at her red cuticles.

“Nothing of importance.” Alicent says, kissing your wrist. “The council’s insistent bickering over the realm.” She swallows.

It pains Alicent not to be honest with you, but your love for your sister has not yet simmered. She intends to keep you away from Rhaenyra as long as she can, hoping that a distance can be reached between your eldest sister and yourself.

Not only for yourself, but for Alysanne’s future.

“As the Princess, I order you to stay,” both of you giggle quietly. “I command the Queen’s presence.”

“Ah, how could I disobey an order?” Alicent jests. A happy toothy smile. A comfortable heat encases you both. Alicent plays with Alysanne’s soft tuft of hair.

“How did they fair the day?” Alicent asks.

“They fell asleep rather quickly,” you say, looking at the girls adoringly. “Helaena was excited to show Alysanne her toy bugs.”

Alicent scrunches her nose, “I prefer the wooden ones, I found one crawling near my dresser.” You suck in your lips, to stifle the laugh that rips in your chest, shaking.

Alicent tuts, “Pray to the Gods, you don’t discover a beetle dancing in your sheets.” She speaks through a laugh, her smile wanton now. Her cheeks glowing.

Small conversations, and a few kisses flowed through the hour. Within the noon, all fell in slumber, hugging in embrace.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

I was watching the boy, the mole, the horse and the fox, and was one of the lines that made me think of a small scene for a drabble.

Where during a bad storm, as Mc is comforting Julian, holding him close and cuddling under the blanket or in a pillow fort to dampen the noise of the storm. To try and help him relax, Mc says something like, 'When the big things feel out of control, focus on what you love, right under your nose.' Followed by 'The storm will pass.' While gently messing with his hair.

Inspired by this scene from the movie;

https://youtube.com/shorts/Eyxkv8Cyo5w?si=lrsC82nmDliycwoJ

The Arcana Drabbles: Comforting Julian during a storm

You knew as soon as you saw the grey clouds brewing on the horizon that it wouldn't be an easy night for your beloved doctor. What you didn't expect was for it to escalate as quickly as it did. You'd planned to have several more hours before the storm hit, but by the time you made it to the front door of your shared home, the rain was already splattering down in fat drops of water and lightning was crackling across the sky above you.

"Julian? I'm home!"

No response. The house was dark when you walked in, making you wonder momentarily if he was still at his clinic. Another flash of lightning lit up the sitting area as you walked through it and you miraculously heard a faint whimper despite the thunder rolling through the house.

"Julian?"

"Here."

The embarrassed, shuddering whisper came from inside the shadow of the couch. When you rounded the corner, Julian was wound up tight in a ball on the floor, lanky limbs curled in on himself, one hand stuffing his glove into his mouth to muffle the sobs that sent tears streaming down his cheeks. Oh ... it really is bad, this time.

"I'm sorry -" Another rumble of thunder makes him jump, his mouth snapping shut as he tucks his face into his arms. He flinches when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and you can feel the ragged, rapid breathing wrack his bones. His voice cracks when he tries to speak again. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be like this -"

"Don't be sorry," you tell him, "I should've come home sooner."

He doesn't have much to say in response to that, too busy rocking back and forth as he clenches one knee with his fist. You lean forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders and he buries his face into your neck with a sob.

"Can you stand up?"

No response, just a series of quick nods against your shoulder. You lean back and pull him with you towards the bedroom. He's freezing.

"Take off your boots and get under the covers. I'll be right back, okay?"

"Okay." He sniffles shakily and takes a seat on the mattress, fumbling with the ties on his boots in the twilight of your unlit house. You scurry out to the stove to heat up some water and grab a lantern or two.

When you get back, it's to a shivering lump under the thick quilts Mazlinka gave you and a rapidly darkening room courtesy of the rain beating against the window. You set the lantern down on the bedside table among the clutter of his spare eyepatches and patient notes and climb onto the mattress.

"Can I come in?"

You don't get a verbal response, just a corner of the blanket lifting as he makes space for you to join him. He clings to you as soon as you lie next to him, curling his legs up around your hips, pressing his face into your chest, and twisting his fingers into the back of your shirt. You rest your chin on his curls and take slow, even breaths as your wrap your arms around him in turn.

"I'm here."

"Thank you."

The trembling begins to subside, letting you wriggle one arm free to place the hot water bottle you brought with you at his lower back. He shuffles to accommodate a more comfortable snuggling position.

"Ah - that's some lovely warmth, my dear."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm sorr - I mean," he catches himself mid-apology and tilts his head up to meet your eyes, "I'm ... feeling better, I thi-"

Another crash of thunder makes him jump, and you can feel the shivers running through his body as you hold him close. You can tell he's trying to hold himself together by the strain in his shoulders and neck but that doesn't stop the front of your shirt from slowly soaking with tears. You wrap yourself around him again, feeling him curl up smaller, and bury your nose in his hair.

"When the big things feel out of control, focus on what you love, right under your nose." He stills for a moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath before lifting his face again. You slowly slide his eyepatch off his head and run your fingers through his hair. "The storm will pass."

He loosens his grip, sliding up the sheets to lie face-to-face with you, and offers you a watery smile despite the sound of the wind howling around the corners of the building. "I love you."

"I love you too."

He tangles your fingers with his and pulls them to his chin. "Thank you for being here."

There's so much you want to say to that, but for now a kiss will have to suffice.

[yuesgirlfriend]

of birds and honey

part 1

(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU

summary: the year is 1312, and your fathers knight follows you to the wood.

The great hills surrounding the castle are a patchwork of green and yellows, as they always are during the summer months. Gray skies up ahead do nothing to dampen the mood of the castle; everyone is bustling about, preparing for the feast marking the new battalions arrival, as if their presence signifies something happier than impending war. 

She can see them, now, where she is perched atop the highest wall-practiced, without fear- in a way her old governesses would have certainly called unbecoming of a lady. But did not the bible speak of the virtues of a young lady- justice, fortitude, among them?

(It takes great fortitude to learn the secrets she has learned, to climb over steep walls like they were bales of hay, to listen to words she would have heard anyway, had she been born a man. Listening from the eaves and skulking about is an act of justice, not a sin.) 

The men, traversing down the trail, look like ants, she thinks- where she sits high above them, balancing on the stone, they look like children's toys. Tiny wooden figures, a small boy's idea of heroes, lined up on the yellow-green patchwork quilt. 

When they finally ride over the moat and into the stronghold, they look like any other collection knights she has seen- some cloaked, some helmetless, all shining in the half clouded, setting sun. 

That night is boisterous and rowdy, like any other feast. The courtyard is crowded with people- servants, villagers, everyone coming together to eat and drink and be merry. The tables are laden with the finest of foods. The smell of roast goose and heron, wine, and vomit hangs in the night air with the shouts and bawdy songs. The new knights drink and eat and throw things, singing their songs with everyone else.  The castle hums with life, every voice and every soul another cell in one great organism. 

(The whole time, she sits quietly as a lady should, but listens as a lady shouldn’t. No one notices, and why would they notice the Lord’s waif of a girl, silently eating at his right hand? The servants, the townspeople, even her father speak of her when they think she isn’t listening- she is, to them, as unnaturally quiet as a changeling and as likely to smile as a mourner. Such a shame, my lord, that  her birth took your wife, god rest her soul. And for the child to not even be a boy…)

The stories that feast are rambling and, wine drunk, but the message is clear- they are hired soldiers with no Christian names, under orders from the king to protect the stronghold that is her home.

But one stands out. The only one still wearing his painted  helmet, and as such doesn’t eat or drink with his companions. Instead, he sits on her fathers left side, speaking in low and gruff tones only when spoken to. 

She picks at her food as her ears pick up words like more men and allies and a thousand dead, all spoken in an accent she thinks more suited to a farmer than a soldier.

As the feast begins to die down, dancers lying about drunk, he walks with her Lord father, presumably to show him a weak point in the castle walls.

She follows along, unseen, silent footsteps trailing behind them in the shadows. The knight with the painted helmet is tall and broad when he waves a hand at a wall that, upon closer inspection, does seem weaker than the rest. A chink in the castle’s armor, he says. 

The fire dies out, people lay around in drunken heaps, and rats are scurrying for food in corners of the room by the time she retires for the night. Her maid is nowhere to be found- based on the way the Scotsman and her were wrapped around eachother earlier, it is likely best not to go looking for her- so she wanders alone to her quarters, a candle in one hand and a half eaten honey cake in the other. 

The halls are dimly lit labrynths, and every footstep she takes makes a wet scuff along the perpetually damp straw covering the chilled stone floors. She does not believe in sneaking about when not needed, and enjoys a reprieve from constant surveillance as she licks honey carelessly from her fingers, focusing more on the sweetness of the honey cake than her surroundings.

And just as she turns the corner to the starcase, a hand shoots out from a shadow  and grabs her arm. 

Her gasp is muffled by a large hand, gloved. His other hand plucks the candle from her grasp, rests it on the narrow windowsill behind him. She scrapes and thrashes at the silver of his forearm, scrambling to reach for the knife at his side before he speaks. 

“Pray, be silent, Lady- I know you are able.”

In response, she bites down on the gloved hand, hard. The man hisses but doesn’t let go, only roughly spins her to face him; and this is when she realizes it is the helmeted knight, eyes and armor shiny in the candlelight. 

She shoves at his arms, and he concedes, letting her retreat three steps up the stairs before he takes her by the hand again. 

“Release me, sir, or you will not enjoy the consequences,” She hisses. Something furious inside her is growing like a wildfire. 

“I meant no offense, but only to warn you, fair lady,” he says, seemingly contrite, but with mirth in his voice. Is he smiling, behind that hideous helmet? 

“Warn me?” She rips her hand from his. “Of what? Churlish knights, skulking behind corners?” She turns to go. 

“You are one to scold on skulking behind corners, Lady. ” Her feet freeze where they are on the steps. 

 “Yes.” His voice is rough. “You are not as invisible as you may think- not to those trained to see, Lady.  You should exercise more caution, when listenin’ from rafters and castle walls like a little bird.” He tilts his head, eyes trained on her, like a cat looking at a tree it’d like to climb. Or a bird it’d like to claw.

“I have been told you have a lovely mind. It would be a waste to see it dashed on a tower’s stony base.” 

For the first time in ages, she forces her eyes to meet anothers. His are dark, redless, with what looks like coal smudged on his eyelids and undereyes. His eyes never falter from her stare, as would be proper. His pale lashes don’t so much as flutter. 

She turns and continues walking upstairs- but before she rounds the corner, she looks behind and down to where he stands, at the base of the stairs, licking remnants of honey off his glove. 

[miaowitch]

Lonesome Ride (18+)

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Read on Ao3 or below !!

Cole Cassidy / GN!Reader (Overwatch 2)

cw ⋆｡‧˚♡ smut, swearing, grinding, power bottom pov, plot what plot, cumming in pants, high tension, canon/reader

summary ⋆｡‧˚♡

You get swept away by the Deadlock Gang, outlaws and violent maniacs. Or are they? Cole Cassidy is your watchful guardian, but you wonder if he even feels anything as you spend countless nights together. Will he ever reach the breaking point?

1.2k words

It was nice to have moments like this. Alone, resting at an inn for the night. It was the only inn you’d seen in days, traveling with the Deadlock Gang wasn’t for the weak. You wouldn’t consider yourself weak, but being abducted by a gang wasn’t in your plans for the month. Cole Cassidy, the young gun criminal, kept his eye close on you. You were technically his, in every sense of the way. 

Not that you hated the concept of a new life, you were practically begging. With a boring life at home, it was easy to imagine a big adventure. This was your big adventure. You wouldn’t admit it, but it wasn’t a bad life. They weren’t the gang of hardened criminals the paper made them out to be. You weren’t bound, just monitored. You weren’t starved or dehydrated, you were treated like a human. 

Which is what brought you to the inn. Instead of camping for the 5th time on low supplies, Ashe directed the gang to a nearby spot her old friend ran. Cole took responsibility for watching you, but you knew he’d much rather be drinking by the fire with the rest of the gang. He stayed in the wooden chair by the window in the room, chewing idly at a lit cigar. You’d gotten used to being in shared company, sharing a horse with the man had gotten you pretty close. 

Being pressed up with your back to his front, bouncing rhythmically with each gallop. The smell of his cigars was familiar now from being so close against him. You might’ve been a little pent up from the repetitive motion, but that didn’t matter. Cassidy hadn’t said much since you’d made it to the hotel. It was…a little awkward. With a free hand, he played at the brim of his hat that rested in his lap, letting his brown hair lay soft around his face. The radio in the room broadcasted a radio show with the occasional news break. It was easy to forget he was an outlaw in moments like this.

You let out a sigh, breaking the silence between the two of you. It was loud enough for him to make a comment. “Bored?” His deep voice inquired. “I guess.” You laid back onto the bed with another sigh. Your legs hung off the side of the bed, swaying slowly with your boredom. “It’s not like you’re being forced to say.” Cole replied, “You’re the one that asked me to bring you along.” It caused a small twinge in your head. He was annoying. His tone was slightly bitter, but you weren’t sure what was up his ass. 

“I know.” You hissed, shooting back up. “No one is asking you to sit in here, I’m not going anywhere.” Matching his frustrated tone, just to watch his expression shift. “Y’know, I’m not askin’ for your damn attitude either. Y’don’t see me crying!” Cole took the cigar from his mouth, resting it between his pointer and middle finger. “In fact, I didn’t ask for you to ride with me either.” He muttered, but you understood. Then, as if to distract you from the first part, threatened. “Maybe I should just pull someone else in to deal with your crazy ass.” Yet a smile had already formed on your face, realizing what was wrong with Cole Cassidy. 

Your fists clenched around the fabric of the quilt laid on the bed. Leaning forward just slightly, you figured you would try something. “What was wrong with riding with me?” Asking that made him tense up. The brim of his hat became clenched in a fist. The hat rested higher in his lap now, holding it tight to hide his tightening pants. “Do you really not want to deal with me anymore?” Standing up, you stood in front of him, as if showing off in your thin sleepwear. “Now..I-I didn’t say that.” He cleared his throat, avoiding your stare and placing the cigar back between his lips.

Stepping closer, you now stood with your knees almost touching the chair he sat on. Standing between his open knees, he now couldn’t look anywhere else. Now, he looked right at you. Hooded eyes, he needed something that he wouldn’t admit to. “Are you okay, Cassidy?” Sharply, he inhaled as you moved away his hat, placing it right on your head. “Couldn’t big bad Cole Cassidy say he wanted to fuck me?” You smile, teasing him as his face flushes with a deep blush. You slowly crawl onto his lap, legs falling on the side of his own.

“Ohh, darlin’....please..” Cassidy begs under your grasp. Thighs placed on either side of his legs, straddling him while putting pressure in the center of his groin. You adjust, grinding up on his coarse jeans. “Please what?” You ask with an innocent tone, keeping quiet for no reason at all. Cole squirmed, looking down between the two of your bodies. Grinding up onto his lap, the thin fabric of your pajamas didn’t leave much to the imagination of what’s beneath his jeans. You let a hand hold onto his shoulder, the other closed the lace curtains behind Cassidy. 

Now his hands gripped onto you, guiding you…using you. His right hand held onto your waist, his left onto your thigh. You let out quiet moans, sensitively twitching each lap you’d make on his hard cock pressed on your crotch. The only reaction he’d given was a furrowed brow while pulling you harder onto his dick. He groaned, laying his head onto the center of your chest. “Gh- Please, don’t stop.” Cole pleaded, his teeth gritted onto the cigar that still sat between his lips.

As if you could stop, with the combined desperation from you and Cassidy’s grasp on you, but it just wasn’t an option. Your speed quickened the longer you went on, teasing at him through the same dusty jeans you’d been grinding against for days now. Cole wouldn’t announce it, but you knew he was close when he started bucking his hips up against you. Startling you, but it’s not as if it was unwelcome. You now held on tighter to keep up with the ride, arousal was intoxicating the two of you, you needed this probably just as much as Cole did. Choking on your name, he repeated it like gospel. As if you were just to be used by his own pleasure, his hands now moved to your ass. Giving him more control with your motion in his firm grasp. 

Combining his forceful moving of your ass against his now throbbing dick, and bucking his hips up; Cassidy’s only thought was finishing you off. Your chest rose and fell quickly against his face that he buried against you, hiding from your teasing smile. Watching him melt under you just grinding against him, watching Cole Cassidy lose himself without even taking his pants off. He moaned out your name in a strained tone, the cigar dropping as he let his guard down. 

His tension melted away under you, fully relaxing while you still sat on his lap. Panting, but not fully satisfied. His head laid back, neck balancing on the back of the table chair. Eyes closed for just a second before cracking one open to look at you. Still looking, hoping he wasn’t done. A sly grin finally cracked on his face, “Look who’s beggin’ now.” He chuckled, grabbing back onto your ass and standing up. Lifting you in his arms, he kissed your quivering lips. Carrying you closer to the bed, and mentally preparing for a long night.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHT: VEAL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the eighth chapter in the series. Apologies for the reupload, the first was the incorrect version.

---

You lie in Hannibal’s bed like a bird fallen dead through a window, the back of your hand across your brow, to its fevered heat. The muted rush of the shower sifts under the bathroom door, or perhaps it is only the rain, or both at once, a sonic symmetry.

You feel something of yourself washed away in it, a dune left dry in your defeat. Almost in apathy you turn on your side, thighs closed over the moisture between.

Hannibal returns to the bed in pyjama bottoms, his hair damp, and smelling expensively clean. Rather than meet his eyes, you look at the pictures over the bed— Japanese woodblock prints, you think, the figures rendered indistinguishable by the hearth-lit dark.

“Why did you break into my house?” you ask, as Dr Lecter climbs in under the sheets, beside you.

“I curate all things in my life with ambition to procure their highest quality,” he says. “Frequently this entails a thorough knowledge and familiarity with their origins. I had to be quite certain of yours before I began our therapy.”

You envision him, in the market of life, touching your name in the letter your parents had sent to him for the synaesthesic taste of you.

“Like going to a vineyard to look at the grapes,” you say.

Hannibal smiles, charmed by the observation.

“Quite so. I believe you would make a most excellent wine.”

“Spit me out,” you mutter. “Pour me away. I’ll spoil.”

“Or age into magnificence. You dismiss your latent potential.”

You feel one of Hannibal’s deft hands tracing your back as comfortably as a paramour of ten years’ intimacy, a subtle exertion of dominance. Each stroke is a statement: I am king here, and you will kneel with your lips to my shoe.

You shrug from his touch, carving a gully of mattress between you.

“What makes what you’re doing to me any different from the Silicone Lover?” you ask. “To me, you’re one and the same. What makes you any better than he is?”

There is a practised caution as Hannibal answers.

“An elevated craftsmanship. There is little artistry in his dolls.”

The weather makes an ocarina of the windowpane, so like a scream as to be a cipher of dread.

“You’d murdered people, haven’t you?” you ask, softly. “I can feel it.”

Silence, then, densely impenetrable. You dare not glance over your shoulder, nor take even a breath in the certainty that you have smelled death on this man like a fox.

“You are tired, little one,” says Hannibal. “Go to sleep.”

He speaks almost blandly, the deflection more terrible than an answer.

“You’re not going to... do it with me again?�� you ask.

Hannibal looks up at you from his pillow, his eyes a gelid null. To prise his face, lid-like, from its cistern of penumbra— you would give your heart to do it, eager to part with so useless an object in the trade.

“In the morning, perhaps,” says Dr Lecter. “Not now. Rest.”

As though by the conjuration of some fell magician you do, lying as far from the man as you’re able without tumbling from the edge of the bed.

You dream again of the forest, dirt-drowned and blood-mired in the October deep. The stag-horned man has his spade to your throat, one foot on the blade; only a second figure, a streak of night, coaxes the digger from his mortal blow.

“No,” he says, in Will Graham’s voice. “I want to keep her.”

The nightmare closes on the stag-man’s answer.

“Then, for your sake, she lives tonight.”

*

The light is the blue of Neptune’s morning as you choke awake in Hannibal’s room. Your dream hangs upon you like a mantle of lead. You wait for it to lift, and it doesn’t, for the stag lies beside you, his face made gentle by sleep.

As you lean over to extract yourself from the quilt his hands are at your wrists with an oily quickness, holding them above your head against the pillows. Fear thickens your throat, stoppering the cartilage of all ensuing sound— yet Hannibal is smiling, as he peers down at you, quite playful, a laddish glee about him.

“It’s early,” he says. “Are you so eager to leave my bed already?”

“Yes,” you say. “Obviously.”

Dr Lecter draws back the sheet to look at your body, a hand following his gaze until you are wet around his fore and middle fingers.

“Not so obvious. You welcome me.”

The head of his cock meets its slick mark, and you pull at the fist that restrains you, shamed and flushing against your delicacy in his arms.

You’re as supple as leather against him, the slow wax of his cock in your channel unfairly pleasant.

“I don’t want it,” you whimper even as you ache to ribbon your legs about his hips to lead him in. “Dr Lecter—”

He takes your jaw in his hand, the cup of his thumb against your windpipe recalling his deathly potentiality. You feel his pulse through it, and wonder that such a man can be alive, is not merely a vampiric creature stepped from some crumbled ruin, bloodless, wanting.

“Are you going to murder me, one day?” you ask him, in a child’s plaintive whimper. “If you do, don’t just throw my body away, like the Lover. Send me home to my family. Say it was my fault. An accident. Just let them bury me.”

Hannibal releases your throat, opening his hand, instead, against your heart as though he may rejoin its broken halves with its warmth, a soft, red, clay.

“You must trust that your life is precious to me,” he tells you. “It becomes more so with each day that you are here.”

Were you free of him you’d recoil, but now can only wince and utter your rejection of what is surely a saccharine lie.

Hannibal’s grip tightens on your wrist, and as he thrusts into you again you shut your eyes against the Lyrid shower of orgasm. You sense him leaning over you, pleased that you’re fawning when you could fight.

The Silicone Lover’s victims didn’t resist, and they died for it, floating, forgotten, through the lichenous entrails of the riverbed. You think of your dream, relieved from your grave by the man that first fucked you, and you realise yourself on the cusp of some epiphany, though its nature eludes you in the midst of ministrations.

A telephone rings, shrill in the sapphire room.

Dr Lecter presses an apologetic kiss to your brow and withdraws, still hard, pulling his pyjama shirt around him.

“Excuse me, my dear.”

He picks up the telephone receiver and leaves the room with it, noiseless as a spectre on bare feet.

You lie, prone, hearing your heart thump against your temporal membrane in a tinnitus that returns in times of particular agitation. As a child you’d imagined it as boot steps along some grimy underpass, the approach of some villain without a face you now know to have come.

Hannibal reappears, his expression guarded.

“It seems we are to receive another visitor today. My colleague, Alana Bloom, would like to speak to you.”

You climb out of bed, sucking a breath through your teeth at the cold.

“Really?” you ask. “How come?”

“Jack’s taken a liking to you. He has asked Alana to act as a neutral third party throughout your treatment.”

Though as cordial as ever, you discern a particular coolness to Hannibal’s tone you take as disapproval.

“You know I didn’t really tell Jack anything, right?” you ask, following Hannibal into the bathroom. “He doesn’t know what you’ve done to me. He has no idea.”

“No,” says Hannibal, taking his toothbrush from a cabinet by the sink. “But you’ve given him cause to believe you’d fare better in a specialised unit, amongst your peers. That’s not the impression you’ve given me.”

You think of the competition of inpatient treatment, amongst the women, the ferocity with which you’d starve yourself to shame their ranks with your commitment.

“My doctors used to threaten to send me to Forest Ranch or Six Stream,” you say. “They were like bogeymen for me. Now I... I don’t know. I heard they don’t let you out until you’re weight restored.”

Dr Lecter watches you plucking at your body in the mirror, an unconscious motion you withdraw from as you catch his eye.

“That’s not what I seek to accomplish,” he says. “It would be a predictable outcome in which relapse would be imminent. Here, I only expect flexibility from you, an open mind. Belief in my guidance.”

He pauses to brush his teeth, even this menial act carried out with a dignified grace.

“But Dr Lecter,” you protest. “If someone did what you’ve done here to Will, you’d want him to try and get away, right? You can’t be mad at me for trying.”

Hannibal spits into the sink, and it occurs to you that you’ve witnessed something quite intimate, an act unimaginable of such a sophisticated man.

“Any action that threatens my liberty to act and live as I please will be penalised,” he says. “I value my freedom above all things.”

Except Will, you think.

Aloud, you say, “I value my freedom, too.”

Reaching politely across you to the hand towel, Hannibal comments, “Yet it is hunger you kneel to as your God.”

Stung, you sit down hard on the rim of the bath.

“What would you have me worship instead?” you demand. “You?”

“A dangerous question. Priestesses in many cultures have been known to abstain from sustenance in servitude to higher powers. Likewise, some saints historically starved themselves to imitate the suffering of Christ, or else to demonstrate a miracle.”

Hannibal touches your chin, smoothing its obstinate edge.

“Were you to survive on manna alone would you think yourself relieved of what crosses you bear? Or is it that in evading sustenance you are purifying yourself in order to be worthy of an immaculate God?”

There is something in his words you relate to, though you’d lie on a bed of nails before expressing this to Hannibal Lecter.

“Come downstairs,” he says, into your silence. “I’ll make breakfast. Don’t misbehave, when Alana arrives. I wouldn’t want to be ashamed of you.”

*

There is something in the avocado toast, or else the accompanying orange juice, a medicinal venom. You think of past nights you’d drank yourself into a mirage of vertigo, each ending, moaning, on a bathroom floor as though the liquor had changed you back to the child you’d been in Jekyllian fashion.

You are like that now, gawky and uncoordinated, walking flat-footed in Hannibal’s wake as he makes order of the living room in preparation for Alana’s arrival.

Overfull, you wear your body like an ill-fitting dress, its clinging garments a mile from the outsize sweaters you yourself would have chosen. Shapeless, smothering, warm were your selections, in swatches of Nyx, lacquered nails and canvas shoes to match.

The colour of your dress is of suitable darkness, if not the style of it. Your teenage years remain indelible upon your sense of taste, time seeming to have broken down like an ancient engine in the decade your starving manifesto began.

Today you feel even younger still, a state contrived by Dr Lecter to tighten his control upon you in company, and make an obedient daughter of his embittered victim.

With scarce hope of turning any friend of Hannibal’s against him, you conform to his rigid will. Curling up with your head on the arm of the sofa, you count out seconds into minutes, another childhood habit.

Hannibal turns to you, appraising your ennui with a dry amusement.

“You’ll like Alana, my darling,” he says. “Just as you liked Jack.”

“Would they like you if they knew what kind of man you are, Dad?” you ask, cuttingly.

“They would not. That is why there are many faces I wear, and with them I choose only the most pleasant mask.”

Dr Lecter glances at another of his favoured woodblock prints on the wall, a depiction of kabuki actors in varying guises, and you see with a cold vein of shock that he has, across the house, hung up his soul for all to see, if only they knew it.

“You, too, take pains to manufacture appearance,” says Hannibal. “You play the part of the embittered introvert well, but there is a quarter of darkness, even a malice that is beginning to ascend the oubliette you have built to keep it in.”

Snorting, you shove your face under one arm.

“Wonder why.”

“I saw it in my office. It long precedes Will and I.”

There comes a jaunty little knock on the front door, the sound of a guest entering the foyer.

Dr Lecter smooths his manner into one of welcoming warmth, an alarming opposition to the man that fucked and restrained you to the tragedy of climax but two hours past.

Footsteps tread lightly through the house, with the click of low-heeled boots.

Alana Bloom appears, her hair smoke dark, her narrow eyes the blue of an enchantment, and of Hannibal’s room. Something of winter, in her beauty, pale skin whiter still against a suit of fitted darkness.

As with all women you meet, you analyse Alana, helplessly, finding her slim in the way that suggests health, but not restriction; you would know it at once from the shape of the bones in her hand or shoulder blade, a bloodlessness of the lips, a slow death in her gaze, the fairy-tale of hunger.

Some disorders of eating are invisible even to your eye, of course, thinness being no requirement for the trickster king of starving, but it is one guise it wears, when close to the edge, and the most familiar. Alana, however, is rosy with an undeniable vigour, having the face of a woman that adds sugar, unthinking, to her coffee, and enjoys a beer after a long afternoon.

She is the unachievable: beautiful, and well. You are suddenly, sourly jealous.

As Hannibal casts a mild glance towards Alana you see that there is a comfortable and entirely mutual attraction between them. This woman does not know the depths of Hannibal’s carnality, imagines him an affable eccentric, a sometime lover, nothing more. She returns his look with a crooked smile, and again there is that sanguine pulse of envy through you, turning you almost against her.

“I’ll leave you alone, for a moment,” says Dr Lecter, lightly. “I’m sure you’ll find Jack’s concerns largely unwarranted.”

“We’ll see,” says Alana, then, addressing you, she adds, “Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.”

You watch Hannibal dissipate into the shadows of the doorway, doubting he goes much further than the wall beyond.

“Hi,” you say, at last, quite listlessly.

Your mouth is loose around the word. You’ve never wanted less to speak.

“You know who I am, and why I’m here to see you today?” Alana ventures.

Her voice is soft, level, the tones of therapists the world over. Perhaps she hopes to incur a bond between you, to pierce your ice with a pick of female sensitivity.

“I know about you,” you say. “Dr Lecter told me.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

You see the tension in Alana’s forehead, an attempt to read the glaze in your eyes and coiled skink of your posture.

“You’ve made quite a friend in Jack already,” she says. “Usually he wouldn’t get involved with any of Hannibal’s work outside the FBI, so him asking me to see you means a lot. I want you to understand that. I’d also like you to know that while we’re both close to Dr Lecter, if this situation truly isn’t right for you, we’ll express that.”

Unmoved, you pluck at the edge of a couch cushion, letting Alana wade through the quiet alone.

“I have to admit that I was shocked to hear that you were staying here with him,” she says. “It’s... unusual. I’m still trying to figure out that decision.”

With Hannibal listening, an omnipotent threat, you only blink, rubbing your socked foot against the carpet.

“But,” Alana continues, sitting down beside you, “Hannibal has explained to me that he thinks you’d be unhappy in a facility.”

You edge away from her, trying not to look at her slender wrists, the small, lacquered fingers.

“Well,” you mutter. “I’m not happy here.”

“You weren’t happy at home either, so I’m told,” says Alana, softly. “So where would you be happy?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t felt it in a while, I guess.”

Misery overcomes you, and you begin to shiver, which Alana, with seamless tact, elects to ignore.

“When was the last time you were happy that you remember?” she asks, and you shake your head.

“You won’t like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Rubbing your eyes with the side of one hand, you say, “It was at my lowest weight. I felt so light, full of, you know, good cheer and kindness towards people because it was just easy to be nice when I felt good about myself. I knew I looked sort of scary, but I thought I looked sort of amazing, too.

“It’s weird. How I hated how sick I was. I hated myself, and I cried all the time, and yet I loved it. I felt like I belonged somewhere— there was this community for people like me, and I fit in. I was one of the best. Then the doctors said I had to gain weight, and it was all ruined. I lost my place, and I was back to feeling awful every minute of the day.”

You take a breath, cursing the childishness of your every mannerism, that you are so much less of a woman than the being beside you.

“Here, Dr Lecter controls everything,” you say. “Not one single thing is my choice, or what I’d do. I don’t even have a TV in my room. Everything I ask, he says no. I don’t have a future. Everything feels grey and pointless, and I wish he’d just leave me alone.”

Something pushes against one of your fists: a subtle square of tissue.

“I agree that there needs to be quite a few changes around here,” says Alana. “Maybe we can start by asking Dr Lecter to set you some short-term goals. Has he discussed any with you yet?”

“He wants me to finish a book,” you say, reluctantly. “The Idiot. Dostoevsky.”

Alana’s low brows rise.

“Wow. That sounds a little intimidating.”

The statement could easily be patronising, but isn’t. Like Jack, Alana has her reservations, and does not conceal them.

“So far it’s actually pretty good,” you say. “Sad, though. It’s about this poor guy who’s sort of in frail health, and seems kind of strange, so everybody is horrible to him. Every chapter you hope somebody will understand him or treat him right, and nobody ever does.”

“I see,” says Alana. “Maybe Hannibal is trying to make you be a little kinder to yourself. You’re an intelligent, creative young woman with a future ahead of you. I think Dr Lecter sees that in you, wouldn’t you agree?”

The affection in her eyes is so sure, so wrongly led, that it breaks you like antique glass.

“Alana,” you say. “What if I told you that Hannibal was—”

You remember his presence, suddenly, eavesdropping as you yourself have often done.

Alana frowns, her folded hands stilling in her lap.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Don’t answer, you think, but your tongue unlatches of its solitary accord to speak.

“I don’t feel safe around Will and Hannibal. I don’t really like... men. There are things that have happened to me. I— I feel dirty all the time. When they look at me, touch me, it’s exactly like that.”

“I promise you that Will and Hannibal are not like that at all,” Alana says, firmly.

“You don’t know that,” you snap. “You don’t. They could lie to you.”

Alana looks at you for a long time before she answers, treading a pinched line between sympathy and duty.

“If something happened to you, I can help you report it. Even if it was a long time ago. Historic cases are a lot harder to prove in court, but it might benefit you to have it on record.”

“And if it was recently?” you ask, with daring abandon.

“Depending how recently, there’s a process you’d follow,” says Alana. “For instance, you could go to a hospital and have a rape kit taken. They’d document the evidence, take photographs, and your statement. It would be thorough and difficult, but it would help you find justice. Is that something that would be helpful right now?”

Forthright and serious, she nevertheless does not—cannot—believe that Will and Hannibal are your injurers, looking back through the tunnel of past at some assailant yet unnamed.

“I was just wondering,” you mumble, and Alana withdraws, realising she cannot get through to you.

“Alright,” she says. “I’m going to have a talk with Hannibal. See if he’s willing to make some adjustments for your comfort. I’ll come and see you again in a week or so to check in on you. It’ll be nice to catch up.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It will. Bye, Alana.”

You look down, seeing the tissue ripped into dehydrated snowflakes in your hand.

Quietly, sensitively, the woman leaves.

It is half an hour before Hannibal renters the room, danger lying, flat-bellied, beneath his affable smile.

“I overheard your conversation, with Alana,” he says, plainly. “The thread of some notion of leaving with her. Of alerting the police. Let it go. I will never leave a trace of myself within you when guests are expected, little one.”

He pauses, seeming to search your face for a response that is not there.

“You don’t expect to see justice.”

You allow the pieces of tissue to fall from your hand, picking off the last damp shreds with the border of one bitten fingernail.

“No.”

“Then your attempts to escape are entirely self-harming,” says Hannibal, in genuine disappointment. “All your life you’ve been looking for someone to take responsibility for the acts that you must do to survive. To be caged, to you, is liberty, for behind such bars you’ll no longer be culpable for shame or failure. Why do you spurn what I would gladly give?”

“It wasn’t given,” you say. “It was forced.”

“By necessity, yes. For you to consent, you would have been made to acknowledge your own sin, and you’re not capable of that, are you, little one?”

Hannibal leans down and kisses a tear from your cheekbone.

“Soon, you will attend a therapy session with me. You will tell me what you were on the verge of offering to Alana.”

*

In the early evening, Will Graham arrives; you see him crossing the driveway from a window, pulling a leaf from one wayward curl with a grimace. Since Alana’s visit you’ve been on the couch in a drugged malaise, but upon hearing him stamp dirt from his shoes on the welcome mat you are taken up by the senseless notion to go to him.

He is not Hannibal. He is the man that saved you from the earth, in your dreams. A beast, but one you may learn to ride, being that, in his rudderless madness, he seeks companionship in the dark.

Certainly, you are not yourself, to think this, are exhausted to the point of insensibility by Hannibal’s slow cruciation of the mind.

Orphaned from logic, you run to Will, catching him as he strolls through the foyer. You behold a startled look of horror before you leap into his arms, unable to articulate yourself beyond a howl of sobbing hurt. He stands, ossified against you, an indurate oblong of disgust.

Then, with the suddenness of resignation, he sags into a nearby chair with you in his lap and rocks you there until you quiet.

His heart is quick under his shirt, his hands at your back quaking, dismayed. Glancing up, you see his mouth is a near lipless line, but then it breaks, and he hushes you, more as though you are a pet than human.

“An unexpected sight,” says Hannibal, looking into the foyer. “I didn’t think you had much liking for our girl.”

Will grinds his teeth.

“I don’t. But I do pity her. I’m afraid that by the time we’re done with this experiment she’ll be dissolved by our cruelty.”

“Like the little mermaid by the sea,” Hannibal comments. “Condemned by love’s rejection. Will you continue to rebuff her, after this?”

“I’ve been participating since the beginning.”

“And so you see that cruelty is often a necessary force. A common occurrence in nature, and in the culinary world. Veal is a biblical evil, for example, infanticide for the selfishness lusts of men.”

“We’re selfish, alright,” says Will, adjusting your weight in his arms. “Besides, doesn’t cruelty affect the flavour of the meat?”

Hannibal laughs indulgently.

“Are you intending to eat her, Will?”

The younger man lifts his chin.

“Are you?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” Dr Lecter replies, with a wicked merriment. “But in the other, we’ve both sampled her, and have no regrets. Do we?"

[iifishizzleii]

Touchy Ronald Weasely

Ron, who grew up the ‘cuddle bug’ of the family, was an incredibly tactile fellow. He was always touching someone, someway, somehow. Whether it was by a hand on their back, an elbow on their shoulder, a hand ruffling their hair.

Harry wasn't used to it, at first. It wasn't a surprise, considering how he was raised by the Dursleys. So, it takes him by surprise just how tactile his new friend is.

When Harry’s unpacking his trunk, Ron sweeps by and claps his hands on the boy’s shoulders before squeezing them. Ron hooks an arm around his shoulders with an easygoing smile as they walk to their next destination. He messes with Harry’s hair even more so when the boy first wakes up and Ron is passing his head.

Ron fixes his glasses from across the damn table during supper.

But, to Harry’s surprise, he isn't put off by it. He doesn't jump like how he used to when Uncle Vernon or Dudley suddenly slammed their hammers of a hand down on him. He doesn't flinch or pull away.

It's probably because Ron has ‘comfort’ hands. Hands that carry a reassuring weight, warm and friendly.

And Harry isn't the only one who notices this.

Once, when Hermione and Ron were going to visit Harry, who’d landed himself in Madam Pomphrey’s care after a Quidditch game, she’d nearly walked right off a moving staircase.

But, Ron had snagged her back before it was too late. He wasn’t even harsh with it, quickly grabbing Hermione by the sleeve of her robe and tugging her back. He then fixed her uniform, deftly smoothing it back in place with an eye roll.

Ron only scolded her, commenting something about, “The brightest of the century witch being killed by a staircase,” although Hermione doesn't remember. Her heart was beating too quickly in her chest, cheeks burning.

She's pretty sure that's where it all began.

And when they're dating, and Hermione shows him her O.W.L’s (which she passed with flying colors), Ron is reaching down to cup her face. Hermione stands there with a bashful smile, giggling as he peppers her face in kisses and praises.

Ron is always touching her when they date. He leans on her shoulder, plays with her hair while she studies, and fiddles with the fingers of her free hand as she uses the other to flip through the book she reads.

Hermione isn't used to having a friend (much less boyfriend) be so touchy-feely, but with Ron, it just feels right. So, Hermione welcomes the change eagerly.

Bonus:

And then, both Hermione and Harry find out that Ron is a little spoon.

It's their eighth year, months after the war between Hogwarts and Voldemort. None of them can stand to be apart from each other— especially Ron, who’d been grieving the lost of his brother.

So, one night, on a night when he knows this is something all of them need, Ron drags the two to the Gryffindor Common Room. And then, he's piling them together under quilts handmade by Molly, tucked near a dimly lit candle.

If Ron sticks himself between them, neither Harry nor Hermione comments on it. They simply wrap their arms around their friend, eyes slowly closing as they tangle up under the blankets.

It's how the First Years find them hours later, the trio a sleeping mess of limbs, a blanket strewn to the side, Harry’s nose buried in Ron’s shoulderblade, a leg tossed over him, while Hermione’s face is pressed into Ron’s chest, a knee resting against Harry’s thigh.

[javiersprincess]

tags: wc: 600 sfw, gn reader, reader is getting older, crying,established relationship, mention of death and morality. angst and fluff. @itoshisoup for you miss mao.

synopsis: the woes of mortal life catch up to you, and you can't help but worry about what happens when you are no longer there.

You had found a gray hair.

That’s what started it all - Zhongli had come home late to your shared home with it all dark, not even the front lamp lit. He finds you in bed, wrapped in sheets and quilts as if to hide from the world. He sits on the side of the bed your body isn’t curled against and places his non-gloved hand on the formation of your head. The darkened flesh pulses with the energy of geo and the lines are the only light in the dim room.

You call his name and it’s muffled, but he is quick to affirm that yes, he is here. You take your head out of the blankets and he finds you with tear tracks and mussed hair.  Orange eyes goal like coals and soften as he looks at the mess you’ve made of yourself. Zhongli asks what’s wrong and fresh tears spring from your eyes.

“I’m getting older.” You say and something in the orange of Zhongli’s eyes softens from cor lapis to a flame, Zhongli is filled with some sort of melancholy at your despair.

“You are human my dear, it is how it must be.” You sniffle, wiping your nose with the back of your hand when a tear rounds down the edge of your nose. His hands come to hold the softest part of your face, just as his hands hold the softest parts of your heart.

“When I die, I won’t be with you anymore - what if,” You stumble over your words but manage to utter them with the comfort of his thumbs rubbing into the smooth panels of your face.

“What if when I die, you don’t remember me anymore,” you utter punctuated by another wave of tears that spill down your tears.

“That won’t ever come to pass my dear,” Zhongli says, his voice soft like the rumble of a lit hearth. Warm and kind, promising all sorts of comforts in the shape of teas and soups. You look at his red eyes and your own hands come to rest on his that still hold your face.

“If you could make me immortal - could you?” 

“No.” His answer comes swiftly and is as stern as stone. You deflate and hurt paints your face as his refusal but his hands anchor you in the moment rather than what you feel.

“Why not?” You feel like some sort of child asking for something that they can’t have and an emotion you can’t describe flashes across Zhongli’s handsome face. Pain, grief, jealousy, and acceptance dance in the embers of his eyes.

“Your human life is among the richest and most profound things in the world. It will give you more happiness than anything. You are so fortunate to be born a human and to have a mortal life.” He says and it’s like his words are gospel and the fog of your despair of events not passed is blown away; you understand why out of all beings in the vast history of Liyue he was the most followed and praised. You nod, following along with what it is he says.

“One day, you will die and I will be the one to bury your body. And I will envy the earth that wraps around you.” He reassures you and you let him press his lips to your forehead and from his lips he rests his own forehead on yours. Even with touch alone, you can feel the difference in your bodies - his weight, his warmth is unnatural but it is yours all the same.

“I will never love another the way I love you. Never.” He murmurs into your skin and those glowing arms wrap around your form with the same devolution as the earth that would one day hold your body in a way Zhongli could not, but for some time.

For now, Zhongli will savor every moment he has with you, like shards that will be for the king of all jewels and that there will never be another.

[mossygirl333]

Could I request for Boba Tea - body worship with Astarion with female human reader please?

AN: Coming right up! Hot and fresh <3

Bakery Order: Boba Tea - body worship

Astarion x human!wizard!reader

Tw/Cw: smut, porn w/plot, Astarions Lowkey a munch, some blunt dirty talk, mentions of weight and gaining weight, intimate, established marriage

SMUT UNDER THE CUT!!!

The room was dimly lit, candles flickering silently in the corners. Settled in front, a giant ornate hearth, the fire crackling and causing you to squint your dry eyes. Deepened shadows, tall and looming lined the walls.

The Inn was nice, clean, expensive but you had been travelling for months. Astarion told you that you needed more rest. Everyone did.

"Darling, you keep pushing yourself. Those silly little spells wont do anything when you have bags under your eyes the size and color of dead coals. Now rest in this nice place and let me pay for Utamo's sake!"

A snort of laughter left your lips as you remembered his words, settling into the bear skin rug, fur thick and soft under your hands. Halsin was...quite surprised when his room had one as well. And quite uncomfortable.

"Whats so funny my dear?" The door quietly shuts beside him, settling down a goblet of wine. His blood red eyes settling onto your form. Lithe but strong, graceful and regal he was. But those hands could snap a neck and tear a tendon quite easily.

Those fangs under those sly smirking lips could do a lot more too.

A shudder ran down your body, barely suppressed as you finally met his eyes. Curling up in your quilt a bit tighter. "Just thinking is all. About Halsin and his shock."

"Ah yes, that nature obsessed hunk." He jokingly gags, sliding in beside you. Opening up your arms, Astarions joins you under the covers. Ring gleaming in firelight. "I'd rather you just focus on me instead. The pretty one, maybe?"

"I thought the pretty one was me?" You ask, staring down at him as his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast. Nose nudging against the cleavage.

"I think we're tied." He snickers, pressing a tender kiss to your jaw. Pausing for a moment before pressing another one. "You smell good my dear."

"Me or my blood?" You raise a brow, tracing his neck with your nails, before burying them in his white locs. Thick and curled, gentle against your palm with the smell of his bar soap.

"Aren't you made up of both? But as much as I love your blood...I'm not exactly looking for that tonight." He trails his eyes down, palm gently resting on your thigh.

"I've gained weight." You curtly state. Sighing as you watch his hand sink into your thigh.

"Happy weight."

"Still weight."

"It looks good."

"I doubt you can even pick me up anymore."

He huffs, and grabs your chin. Making you look at him. Expression slightly soured and exasperated. "Shush! By Lathanders light, shush! Enough with this nonsense, I'm not going to listen to the woman I love insult herself like she's some cow. Because you aren't. You...You are beautiful. Understand me?"

You pause, sighing and locking eyes with him. Watching as the firelight flickers across his sharp features. Strong nose, round ruby eyes filled with slight hurt and thin lips pulled down into a pouty frown.

"It's just hard. Looking different than before. I'm afraid I won't be pretty to you if I change too much." You admit. The insecurity slightly bubbling up. It was true. Pants are slightly tighter now. You needed a size up in your bras and to be honest, looking at everyone else, you felt like the only one who's gained some.

"I don't care if it's 3 pounds or 300, you...you my dear are the most stunning, beautiful woman in this entire city. In the entirety of Faerun, I have never once witnessed a person who so similar reminded me of the sun. Hell, I hadn't even remembered what the sun looked like before you. Before this all. Why would I abandon the woman I'm marrying, the woman I want to have children with for something so daft as weight? Do you take me for an idiot?" He cups your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. Eyes full of sincerity and softness, hands cold but gentle.

This was what Astarion was to you. And what you were to him. The sun and the moon. A yin and yang situation that played on like prose poetry. Bright smiles and sharp tongues. Magic and madness. Lives played out like chess games by their masters but broken free. The white piece and the black piece. Now off the boards, no longer tied down by it. No longer held under cruel scheming hands.

They had each other.

And they wanted each other.

You hadn't really noticed he was kissing you until your back hit the bear skin rug. Snapping out of your daze, hands coming up to his face. Whispers between kisses sent between you, breathless and quiet, neither of you could hear each other.

But it didn't matter. You just needed to know he was there. And that was all you needed.

His knee nudges your thighs apart, his lips trailing down your neck. Pulse thumping under them. Soft and cold, undead but how his heart burned for yours.

Slightly hitching, you make room for his body. Thighs sliding up to rest on his broad shoulders, his hands pushing up your shirt. Desperate to get to the hot plump skin underneath, tongue darting out to taste it. Trailing down new stretchmarks he stops at your pants. Eyes coming up to meet yours again.

Quietly nodding, he situated you so he could toss aside your garments. Shorts and underwear dangerously close to the fireplace.

You laugh, reaching over and snagging them away. "Dummy."

"My bad, my love. Wouldn't wanna burn your knickers and start a panic, imagine that. Gale runs into a half-naked you and my face shoved in your cunt while the hotel burns down."

A shudder of arousal seeps down your core, now dewy and dripping, an opened flower full of nectar for your lover.

He sighs, lifting you up slightly, breath thick against your folds. Watching. Waiting. Before the tip of his nose nudges against your clit.

A whine leaves your lips, thighs squeezing against his temples as he groans. Mouth hot and heavy against your pussy, fingers denting into the plush fat.

"Feel so fucking beautiful wrapped around me, my love-" His tongue slips into you, licking up stripes. Collecting that tangy slick on his taste buds.

You squirm slightly but his hands keep you there. Nose buried in your clit, taking huffs of your smell. Desperate for more. "Please, darling, hold still, let me taste you."

You slowly grind yourself against his face. Riding the bridge of his nose. He chuckles, slipping his fingers in gently. Hips jerking, two digits curling and searching for that spot.

The pads of his fingers find it, spongy and warm. Pressing up into you, the coil in your belly growing tighter and tighter.

Mewls left your lips, drawn out and high pitched, Whining and writhing beneath him as he devoured you.

It wasn't so different than when he fed. Laid down and swallowed whole. Desperate and wanting to quell the fire in his bones. To feed the beast inside of him. But instead of bloodlust, a curse from his cruel master, it was the sexual desire and lust of a man. A craving only you could stop.

The coil snaps, slick flushing into his open mouth as he licks you clean. Shushing your pleasure filled cries, riding out the waves of heat and shock.

He pulls away, chin glistening as your thighs tremble. Let down slowly.

"Shh my dear....God you did so well. Look at you!" He giggles, pressing soaked lips to yours. Tangy and sweet, your slick heavy in his tongue. "Glowing I tell you. Orgasms suit you well."

You were pliant and soft, eyes heavy and content. Barely able to muster a breathy laugh before melting into his embrace. His body laid beside you.

"I love you." A whisper finally leaving you, enough breath entering your lungs to speak.

"I love you more, my dear."

AN: OMG OMG OMG I THINK THIS IS THE BEST THING I"VE EVER ACTUALLY WRITTEN????

[how-serene]

Try A Little Tenderness

Pairing - Bob Taylor x Neutral!Reader

Summary - Bob comes home to find you, and the sweetest surprise.

Word count - 874

Warnings - slight mention of anxiety, fluff, comfort, gender neutral reader, bob crying, no use of y/n, soft moments with bob

A/N - Just a lil date night with Bob, my boy deserves the world. Decided to upload it early!

Bob walked inside, shoulders finally easing as he shut and locked the front door. The little nauseating ball of anxiety he had been carrying around with him throughout the day dissipated. He could almost feel the warmth on his back emanating from the kitchen light. Somewhere, you were humming a mindless tune, causing the trembling of his hands to still. 

You were home. 

He placed his shoes on the floor by the entrance door, and hurriedly turned to find you. Although he never had to look too far. Not too long ago his home was more of a shell, bare boned on the inside with not so much as a dining table. Suddenly you came along, and the empty vessel of his house became a home. Little parts of your presence were everywhere. From the patterned quilt thrown over the back of the couch, to the thrifted clock you found in the shape of a whale that hung in the hallway. It was a lovely reminder that you were here, all the time. His eyes ran over the little bits of clutter you added to his home before he finally found you, in the kitchen. 

You had an apron on, a wooden spoon clutched in your hand as you stirred whatever was cooking on the stove. The savory aroma of tomato sauce wafted into his nose as he slowly approached you. You looked over your shoulder, smiling at his presence. He watched as you shut the burner off, and turned to throw your arms around him. 

He melted into the embrace, your body warm from being in the stuffy kitchen for so long. He felt your fingers scratch the back of his head, toying with his dark locks. 

“You’re home early,” you said, voice muffled as he held you against his chest. You pulled back, brushing back the hair over his eyes. His gaze lingered on you, trailing over your sweet features that left him breathless if he stared too long. You quickly pecked his cheek, your soft lips causing heat to rise to his face. His heart stuttered from the action. 

“Come on, handsome boy, I want to show you something.” You grasped his hand, dragging him to the dining room. You were buzzing from your own excitement, feeling nerves swell inside as you approached the surprise. 

‘What are you-

His words faded as his eyes took in the sight. The cheap, wooden dining table was dressed with a white cloth, as lit candles and various flowers decorated the top. Your own hand never left his, though he could feel you were shaking. 

“I originally planned to have everything done before you came home, but you showed up earlier than I thought.” You explained, running your thumb over his knuckles (if only to distract your own nervousness.) 

His eyes stung as they began to water, he swallowed the tight lump forming in his throat. You were so sweet. Oh god, you were too sweet and too good for him. This wasn’t even the first time you’d done this, but it still knocked him back every time. 

“Bob?” He heard you call his name, somewhere far off in the distance. You entered his blurry vision, looking at him with concern. Your warm palm rested against his cheek, thumb brushing against his skin. 

“T-Thank you” he stuttered out, his voice small and quiet. Your lips met his, only briefly, making his head feel fuzzy. You gently nudged him toward his seat, hands guiding him to sit down. 

“I’ll be back,” you rushed back to the kitchen, and brought in a pan filled with pasta and that familiar smell of spaghetti sauce. The apron was gone. 

He rubbed his hands over his knees, as he watched you place the pan on the table (with a pair of tongs) and sit across from him. Your eyes met across the small dining table. He drank in the lovely sight of you, all golden and light as the candles flickered and swayed. An overwhelming wave of fondness washed over him.

You looked away from him, fidgeting in your seat. 

“Well, let’s eat.” 

The Platters played from the speakers, the voice of Tony Williams filling the living room. Bob and you were curled up on the couch, the candles on the table beginning to dim. The dirty dishes were piled in the sink, forgotten as Bob rested on top of you. His ear was pressed against your chest, listening to the faint thump of your heart. He sighed, as your hands ran through his hair, causing him to sink further and further away. He struggled to fight against the drowsiness pulling his body under, but the sound of you quietly singing along only further soothed him. 

I love you, he thought. The words on the tip of his tongue yet never leaving his mouth. He felt himself drift off, snuggling further into your chest. 

Maybe he’ll say it to you another time, when he was confident enough to look you in the eye. 

You deserved that much and more, he believed. 

Tony Williams' voice filled his head, before he finally succumbed to sleep. 

"Each day I pray for evening Just to be with you Together at last at twilight time"

[whimzeee]

Audaciously Yours,

Ramazith tower has ten billion stairs.

At least that’s how it feels to a pair of drunk fools leaning on one another while trying to climb them.

It’s late evening, perhaps a bit too late to be proper. Dinner lasted into the night and was served with one glass too many of the finest wine Dammon had ever tasted. At the hands of the three siblings he had been hosted like royalty that night. After Cal and Lia had called it a night, Rolan and Dammon stayed a bit longer. To have a conversation they could no longer pretend wasn’t needed.

They had both needed a drink or several to get through those nerves. One more so than the other. And the effect shows plainly; Dammon’s fingertips are a bit numb, but the entirety of Rolan’s legs seem to be that way.

He has Rolan’s arm hooked around his shoulders in the dimlit staircase. His warmth slumped against him. Arm around his waist, hand on hip. He’s not sure if the purple blush on Rolan’s face comes from the wine, or from the words they’d exchanged at long last. It’s no less pretty either way.

“Nearly there,” he encourages gently.

Rolan pauses, huffs an annoyed breath. “I am going to figure out portals…if it kills me.”

“Before these stairs do?”

“Mm.” Rolan glowers, but from the way his eyes blink, it seems less a glare of frustration and more just that he’s trying to see clearly. Were Dammon sober, he’d have stifled the snicker that bubbles up. He’s too tipsy to catch it in time.

Rolan’s sharp gaze is blunted and slow as he turns the glare on him. Maybe it would have been scary if he hadn’t started laughing too.

“Alright,” he slurs, gesturing loosely forward. “Laugh at me all you’d like, if you get us up these…damned steps.”

“I’m sorry,” Dammon giggles. “You’re just so...intimidating when you’re sober. It seems silly now.”

“Am I?” Is he…pouting?

“No,” Dammon corrects quickly. “Perhaps not after all.”

Rolan’s arm has begun to slip from his shoulders, so he hefts him higher—closer. Rolan's body curves to fit into his own and Dammon feels his face warming.

“I was the one intimidated,” Rolan mutters quietly. “You won’t believe how nervous I was. Still am, honestly.”

This is a brand new side of him. Rolan’s never been so honest. It’s always pomp and face, lace and ruffle when he talks. Always so concerned with decorum. Never just…real. Real like the friction between them as they lean drunken on each other in the small hours of night.

“No need for that,” he soothes, and pulls him up one more step. “It doesn’t need to be scary.”

Many missed steps and poorly stifled giggles later, they finally pour through the door to Rolan’s room. Dammon looks about with a mix of giddiness and trepidation. It feels like he’s not supposed to be here, somehow. But he is. For the first time.

It’s sparser than he’d expected. Cozy, but minimal. Organized so neatly it barely feels like a bedroom at all. But for a few books and two standing picture frames on the nightstand, one would hardly know whose room it was at all. A standing three-pronged candelabra next to the purple-quilted bed holds three perfectly un-melted lit candles, even though they must have been burning all night. Ah, right: Archmage Rolan. Downstairs he has a chandelier whose crystals lit up in different colors with a wave of his hand.

Dammon hauls the Master of Ramzith Tower's ragdoll body over to the bed and eases him down to sit. He takes this opportunity to get a closer look at the portraits. One is of Rolan and his siblings—gods help them trying to get Cal to sit still for that long. The second is quite older, faded and creased in some places. It depicts an older tiefling woman he doesn’t know, with a baby in her arms and a very young girl at her side, her hand resting on top of the child’s head. He recognizes the girl's horn shape, shared by the woman.

In the state Rolan’s in now, Dammon knows that if he asked he’d easily get an answer. So he doesn’t. It feels wrong. Like cheating at chess.

Rolan’s staring blearily at nothing, his head drooping. Dammon can’t help but smirk, biting his lip to keep from laughing at him any further. “Here,” he says gently, kneeling in front of him. “Let me help.”

Rolan’s eyes focus as he watches the blacksmith take his boots off for him. Unlaces them neatly and slides them off one by one with painstaking gentleness. When he’s finished, he’s a bit startled to see how big Rolan’s eyes have gotten, how he stares at him in…well, shock, really.

“Um… Was that okay?”

“I.” Rolan shivers, breaking the gaze as he feels suddenly self conscious. “Yes.”

No one has ever done something like that for him. So small but…just. Taking his shoes off for him. No one has ever.

“Are you. Sure?”

Rolan covers his face with his hands and falls backward onto the bed, flopping like a limp fish.

Dammon’s eyes peep over the side of the bed before he rises up onto his knees, leaning on the bed with his elbows. He observes Rolan quietly, waiting, but he doesn’t say any more.

"You've gone very quiet very quickly. Are you alright?" His smile fades to the touch of concern. "Not feeling sick are you?"

Rolan stares up at him like a first-time stargazer. His wide, shining eyes striving to focus.

"Rolan?"

"Mm. Mnyes."

"Did you hear the question?"

“Hn. 'F course."

Dammon waits, then huffs a laugh. "Would you care to answer it?"

"...I'm not sure."

"You're not sure what? ...Not sure you're going to answer or not sure if you're sick?"

"Right. Yes. You understand."

Dammon chuckles again, hanging his head. "Ohh, I wish I did."

Rolan catches his laugh, humming a lazy giggle as his sharp teeth flash in a manner he'd never allow sober.

Dammon takes a moment to admire it until it fades, Rolan's eyes slipping closed and his breath falling into rhythm. There is the faintest tug of disappointment in his heart, like when the top edge of the sun dips out of sight. He pulls himself to his feet and reaches down to lift Rolan’s legs, turning him rightways on the bed. He carefully places his head onto a pillow--fine downfeathers. Rolan must have been miserable on the road. While pulling a blanket over him, Dammon has the quite sudden thought that he wouldn’t mind doing this every night for the rest of his life.

For a moment, he waits there, staring at the gentle peace in Rolan's sleeping face. A thousand daydreams float through his buzzing mind. His hand twitches with the impulse to reach out and brush that stray lock of hair out of his face, but he's just sober enough to hold it back.

He'd better leave while he still has that much self control.

Before he can move two steps, he hears a short gasp, and Rolan snatches his wrist with surprising speed.

"W-what—"

"I am, actually," Rolan's voice tumbles over itself; he's more drunk than Dammon thought.

"Am...what?"

"I—yes, I'm. Feeling ill, actually, yes."

Dammon may have been concerned, had he not recently learned that Rolan is a terrible liar. His smile spreads slowly, like a new candle wick that must melt before it lights.

He sinks to his knees by the bedside, leaning on his crossed arms on the mattress. Rolan’s grip moves to his bicep and won’t let go. "Quite stricken, are you?"

Rolan swallows. "Terribly."

Dammon leans closer. His eyes glow in the candlelight. "Then I can hardly leave you all alone, can I?"

He can practically hear the perfectly fitted clockwork gears that power Rolan's mind grind to a halt. He looks for a moment as if he really is ill, the way his face pales and breath quickens.

"St…you must stay with me."

"Mm. Seems I must."

Despite having just insisted on it five seconds ago, Rolan shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. "No, no, of course not. It wouldn't be proper. Not proper at all."

Dammon's mild eyes sweep over Rolan as if he's never held such fondness before.

"Never much cared for what's proper," he smirks, gently prying Rolan's hands away from his face. "Unless you do."

"..."

"Would you like me to stay, Rolan?"

"Well...but. It wouldn't be..."

"But would you like it?"

"...Yes."

He smiles. So bright Rolan's eyes close against it. The hand that grips his is heavy and solid. The heat it stokes in Rolan’s chest going to make cinders of him. Once the fire hits him he’ll change shape—and does he want that? He won’t survive the night. Morning will see him darken again, made brittle by cold water. It’s not going to turn out. He’s sharp and thin and riddled with impurities. No matter how careful the hands that strike him, he will break beneath the hammer.

He jumps at the sound of Dammon’s voice. "Can you sit up a moment?"

Rolan opens his eyes just enough to glare. "Nn. Why."

"So I can take your hair down for you."

Rolan's squinted eyes go wide an soft. How is he going to say no to that? He tries to sit on his own, but because he is never one to miss an opportunity, he begins to roll and tilt toward the edge of the bed.

"Oh--gods, don't fall." Dammon catches him quickly, arm around shoulders. Rolan's entire body freezes. His face is buried in the crook of Dammon's arm, he can smell warm steelsmoke and hearth. And...rosemary. Has he used cologne?

It's too soon that Dammon pulls him back to balance, sitting him up properly. Rolan sways in place, hoping the cover of being drunk is enough to explain the starstruck glaze in his eyes.

Rolan must bite his tongue to stop himself making an absolutely unacceptable sound when he feels Dammon's fingers thread through his hair. Sharp, careful nails scrape the base of his neck and drag upward along his scalp. The violent shiver that overtakes his body is about as controllable as a sudden rainstorm in summer.

"Sorry," Dammon laughs, and begins to pull away.

"Oh don't you dare stop."

A pause, another small breath of laughter. Rolan wishes he was sober, so that he could memorize that beautiful sound in vivid detail, be sure that he could recall it at any moment he chose for the rest of his days.

With a touch so delicate as to belay fear, Dammon carefully pulls his hairtie free and shakes loose the wiry, tangled locks. With no comb nearby, he uses his claws. It's not the touch of a smith, but rather a jeweler, precise and delicate and no more than needed. So gentle. So unbearably delicate. Torture.

He wishes he’d grab a fistful and pull.

Rolan sucks in a breath and even he is surprised at the volume of the smack that comes from his hands against his own face. He's gone mad. He’s out of his godsdamn mind. He's terrible.

Dammon instantly lets go, flinching back. “What!” he pulls on Rolan’s shoulder, trying to get a look to see if he’s hurt himself. “Are you—wh-why—”

Rolan groans and flops back onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow instead. “T-thank you, that’s quite enough!” he panics.

Completely bewildered, Dammon reaches toward him, but hesitates.

He said it didn't need to be scary, but. It is. It’s still so new between them. Fragile and uncertain without structure. A seedling too delicate to bear weight just yet. It's only ten minutes ago they've confessed to feeling something more. Dammon wants this, he’s sure, but he’s painfully aware that he has no idea what he’s doing. How fast to move. And Rolan…deserves the best, after all of it. He deserves joy. Dammon wants to abandon caution and explore this newness, but more than the thrill of it all he wants this—the idea of them—to give Rolan something safe. It needn’t be painful, uncomfortable. It needn’t intimidate either of them.

“Wait here a moment,” Dammon says, his voice calm and soft. He pulls the blanket back to Rolan’s shoulders then steps softly away.

Rolan stays frozen in place, listening over the sound of his own pounding heart as Dammon leaves the room. Once he hears him on the stairs, Rolan sighs, cursing himself under his breath. The mess this man has made of him…shameful. Shameful, the way he’s acting. Drunk. Ridiculous. He’s driven him away now.

No. He said wait. Rolan does. He listens for the creak of the stairs, inexplicably desperate. He's felt this way before, hasn't he. He almost forgot being six. Listening for footsteps on the stairs.

“You won’t come back, will you.”

Out loud, he’s said that. Gods. How pathetic is he going to show himself?

Rolan opens his eyes, staring listlessly at the empty doorway. If he focuses hard enough, he can still feel the ghost of careful hands on his shoulders. If he concentrates, he can remember the warmth and weight of their sides pressed together, that hand gripping his hip ever tighter. Rolan wanted more. Still does. But it wouldn’t be…proper.

Gods. Who cares?

He doesn’t want to care. About appearance. About pretense, impression, fronts. How things are supposed to be done. Dammon doesn’t seem to. He loves that about him, admires it. The most genuine person he’s ever known. Never pretentious, never a liar. Like himself. How can he claim to care for him and yet lie to him—posture in front of him with lavish gifts and braggart peacocking in his big fuckoff tower?

It’s all he’s ever known: display. No one cares for you as you are. No one looks twice at you. No one ever gave one fuck. They struggled for so long. So long. The people most important to him in the world went hungry and abused, all the time, because he wasn't anyone. Couldn't do a damn thing for anyone. He’s better now. He pulled them out of the gutter. He’s worth something now. Isn’t he?

So why isn’t he coming back?

Rolan stares at the photos on his bedside table. He feels his eyes stinging.

“Dammon,” he calls, because he’s drunk, because it’s not fucking fair that he’s alone again. There’s a sob in his voice, anger. No dignity whatsoever. He doesn’t care. “Dammon!”

There are hurried steps in the hall, and Rolan regrets it instantly. Dammon appears in the doorway, alert, a steaming mug in his hand and a small towel draped over his forearm.

“Just here,” he assures, all soft worry and attention. “What’s wrong?” When Rolan doesn’t answer, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, smiling gently. “Did you think I’d left?”

“No,” he lies. Because that’s all he fucking knows how to do. He groans at himself, shaking his head so that it starts to spin again. “Maybe…”

“I won’t.” He drapes the damp cloth over the back of Rolan’s neck. It’s cool but not cold and feels wonderful. “Not until you want me to.”

Rolan pouts up at him, disgruntled. “Where did you go?”

“To borrow Cal’s kitchen. Apologies to him.” Dammon reaches for the cup, little white steam rising from inside it. “Here.”

He helps Rolan rise, not really sitting up but at least leaning on an elbow so that he can take the cup. Inside is a light amber liquid which he only questions after he’s had a sip. “…Bitter. What issit?”

“Hangover killer. Smiths don’t get the next morning off. Dad set me up with the recipe; never failed him once.”

Rolan takes sleepy sips of the draught, grimacing throughout but refusing to put it aside. In the softness of the scene, Dammon sits by his side with his elbows on his knees and gazes at him.

“What are you smiling at,” grumbles Rolan, his face going darker again.

Dammon laughs softly, his eyes going shy as he turns them downward. “Only thinking.”

“…I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to share what about.”

“I’d answer anything you asked me.”

Rolan’s heartbeat is doing all sorts of wacky little tricks today. Before he can get hold of himself, Dammon continues, “Thinking how I’ve never had someone to make tea for. It’s nice.”

Rolan wants to tell him he’s the same, that there’s never been anyone in his life he’d wanted to care for so tenderly. To take off their shoes for them, carry them up the stairs, sit by their bedside until they feel safe enough to sleep again. He wants to. Instead, he says, “You’ve got a…unique idea of what tea is.”

Dammon smiles. The picture of patience.

“Thank you,” Rolan adds, so low it’s barely audible.

Dammon takes the empty cup from him, leaning across toward the nightstand to do so. It brings him quite close to Rolan. And when he begins to move away, something in him ignites—cold fire, frightened and desperate. He strikes out and snatches a handful of Dammon’s shirt collar.

Dammon’s startled, but his voice is slow, steady. Hardly a whisper. "...I meant it. I won't leave."

He's...not just talking about right now. Is he. Rolan feels himself start to tremble. So does Dammon.

“Are you alright?”

Rolan shakes his head, dismissive. “I’m fine, just. Feel a bit…dizzy, suddenly.”

“Mm…I might know the feeling.”

Their faces are so close together now, he can smell the sweetness of Dammon’s breath washing down over him. Peach and white wine. Moonlight from the window wages quiet war with the candles inside and their graceful clash drapes the room in flowing shadow. Rolan’s head spins trying to make sense of it all. He feels like they’re in another realm. A dream. Where maybe it’s not as frightening to reach out and touch whatever is hidden from light.

He does. His fingers are clumsy as they tilt Dammon’s chin and turn upward his eyes. Bluegold, like the sun breaking through a long winter’s frost.

"Did you mean what you said to me," he murmurs, his eyes flaring brightly with ache. "Would you take it back?"

Dammon holds his stare. "There's still time, you're saying?"

Rolan feels himself about to cry. He’s so afraid. So exposed. It’s here where they cut away the lifeline, or follow it back to safe ground. His voice shakes, only a whisper. "Still time. Should you have doubts."

Slow, gentle, Dammon slides his fingers beneath the palm of Rolan's hand. You'd think it was carved of precious stone, the way he cradles it so carefully. He raises it to his own face, presses it against his cheek and holds it there. Firm enough to impress his feelings, loose enough that Rolan could pull away.

"No there isn't," Dammon says, and turns his face into Rolan's palm. His lips press the softest kiss into it, a fragile thing, a clockwork butterfly that flutters so small and vulnerable inside the cage of his fingers. And then Dammon folds his hand into a fist.

"And no I wouldn't." His gaze is that of a prisoner looking out from between bars. He repeats what he’s said, nails shut his last window of escape. “Rolan. I care for you in a way I’ve never felt before. I don't know what it is exactly, yet. But I'd like to find out. And what I do know...is I want to feel like something special to you. Something you can use. I want to be for you what I’ve never been for anyone. No one has ever known me that way. I want it to be you.”

Rolan’s breath has abandoned him. He’s whimpering to get it back. His every nerve alight and shimmering like the weave. When he strikes out to grab the back of Dammon’s neck, electric tendrils spark out from his fingertips, unbidden. His eyes are glowing with white light. How swiftly, how easily he surrenders the run of himself.

Before reason can stop him, before sanity can intervene, Rolan wrenches Dammon close and crashes their lips together like tide on shore. What’s left of the wavebreak spills from his eyes, shut tight, brows arched and desperate. He feels Dammon tense, hesitate…then curl toward him. His mouth opens to his tongue and his head rocks in rhythm with the sudden seastorm.

Rolan feels as though he may faint. And like he'll never rest again. He feels awful, and ecstatic, and pathetic and happy and free. He could drink the ocean Dry.

Dammon’s hand snakes around his side and rests in the small of his back. Rolan arcs up toward him, his hands curling around the curve of his skull where it meets his work-tensed neck. Rolan lets himself explore the finely chiseled curves borne of every hammerswing he’d ever struck. The muscles so hard, sinew like braided iron cords—and yet the skin above so delicate soft.

Dammon breaks for breath.

“Rolan,” he mutters, keening, urgent. “S…stop.”

It takes a painful few moments, but Rolan does. He rips himself away with a delirious moan and buries his face instead into Dammon’s neck. His breath rasping hot and ragged. "I'm. Ngh. Sorry."

“It’s just…” Dammon sounds just as overcome. “Not that I don’t…but. You’re drunk, is why. I can’t.”

“Yes,” he whispers, teeth grinding together so tightly that they squeak. “I. Forgive me…I-I don’t know what…I.”

“It’s alright.” His hand grips the back of Rolan’s shirt, the other cupped behind his head. “Shh. Nothing’s wrong.” Dammon laughs, incredulous, giddy and tearful. He plants a kiss into Rolan’s hair, just between his horns. “Far, far from it.”

He clings to Rolan while a thousand fireflies buzz inside the hollow of his chest. He’s never been so happy, he thinks, not in all his life. Rolan is shaking, shrinking into him to try and hide. Though he’s more than a little worried, Dammon is nevertheless glad for the chance to be his haven. Honored. And he doesn’t aim to fall short of the role.

He lays the two of them down in the soft quilts, holds him against his chest. Rolan is beyond speech. For long minutes that stretch into hours, Dammon hushes him softly, repeats assurance and affirmation of safety and peace. Whether because of this, or simply from being so overwhelmed, Rolan eventually sinks below the still pond of sleep.

For a long time, Dammon stares at thin air in a wide-eyed daze. He can hardly believe…it plays over and over in his mind. He keeps still, daring not to move a muscle. He fears to wake him. Fears to shatter the wild dream they’ve fallen into. Gods above. All the fucking hardship. All the loneliness. Done. All of it behind them now. Rolan…

Rolan.

He loves him.

…Oh, gods. He needs to process this. Calm down. But his mind is spinning and he’s so emotionally exhausted, but there’s no chance in six hells he’ll get any sleep tonight. Maybe that’ just as well. He'd been invited for dinner. It would be a wild disrespect to sleep off Rolan’s wine, in Rolan’s house, in Rolan’s bed. On his first proper visit to Rolan’s home. A measure of guilt creeps into the bliss. He's always so concerned with appearances. What would his siblings think? …What would he think, more importantly, if he woke and found Dammon beside him?

As much as he'd like to get lost in the pretty dream of waking up at his side every single day to smiles and sleepsoft kisses...perhaps this time, it’ll be kindest to spare him the morning after. The last thing he wants is to imperil this…this miracle he’s just been given. He’ll wait a while longer, make sure Rolan won’t wake in the night and feel abandoned, and be gone by tomorrow. Tomorrow he will rise and run straight to the tabernacle to thank Tymora. Hells, tomorrow he will sing praise to every god he’s ever heard the name of. But tonight belongs only to himself and Rolan. To him…and the one with whom he is fully, irredeemably, fervently in love.

Audaciously.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

For doomsday trio prompts- dream passing out in weird places. He hasn’t slept in two days, and could go for more, really, but it’s really warm and feels safer than anything has for a long time.

combining this with @3nderm1te's prompt shared via discord where dream gets this treatment from philza. related somewhat to this drabble.

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

Techno didn't snitch when Dream fell asleep for a few minutes by the fireplace. Philza had some errands to run before they could head off to the nether, and although Dream's face was covered (as always), his head lulled softly against the cushion of his chair while they sat waiting. It was early in the morning, and Dream just traveled from who-knows-where to get to the cabin, and young men get tired sometimes. Techno raised an eyebrow, but he just turned his attention back to his book, and he didn't snitch.

Techno also didn't snitch when Dream fell asleep by the enchantment table. Dream's knee-guards were missing Thorns, which bothered Techno very much, and while he was working to fix the problem he saw the same gentle, fast fall into sleep as before. When the job was completed, he said, "There we go," at his normal volume, and Dream sprung awake and continued as though nothing happened. Techno turned his head to hide his smirk, and he didn't snitch.

This time, Dream fell asleep while sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back leaning against Steve.

There was very little left to do. It was the night before the battle, and they just completed one final inventory of all the items they needed. Phil and Techno broke into a brief conversation of which dogs were fit for fighting and which should be left behind, and sometime during that conversation, Dream drifted off. Techno barely blamed him-- only the fireplace lit the space, the conversation was quite warm, and Steve is quite comfortable. With his face obscured, he looked like he was simply lounging against the polar bear.

"Unless-- Dream, do you want any dogs up on the grid with you?" Phil said, "Might be nice to have some extra eyes up there."

There was no answer, of course. Techno kept his mouth shut, determined not to snitch.

"Dream," Philza tried. As soon as it didn't work, he continued, "Oh my god, he's asleep, isn't he?"

"Yup," Techno snitched. "Has been for a few minutes."

"Christ, I swear-- Alright, alright." Phil knelt in front of their slumbering guest. "Dream."

That one worked. Dream woke with a jump, quickly composing himself. Techno imagined an expression of shocked embarrassment behind the mask.

"That's it," Phil said, "You're going to bed."

"You're right, you're-- " Dream stammered, "You're right. I should probably head out--" He turned towards the direction of the kitchen, where he normally kept his stuff.

"No, look at me, look at me. Look at me." When the white porcelain of Dream's mask turned fully at Philza, Phil said, "You're sleeping in the guest room. Don't argue with me this time. It's the night before the battle, you need all the rest you can get, and we can start earlier if we aren't waiting for you in the morning. You'll be safer here, anyway."

Dream stared silently at him for a moment. Behind the mask, his eyes darted to Techno, who was watching with non-judgmental indifference.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

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

Dream closed the guest room door behind him. It was a quaint little space; the mattress was quite large and comfortable, and sported a quilt. A few aged painting decorated the wall, though they were hard to see by candlelight. The window faced in the direction of Techno's cabin, and he pulled the blinds over it.

He dropped his hood from his head. He unclipped his mask and set it on the nightstand. He has never felt so vulnerable and exposed within four walls. He has never felt so safe.

[padfootdaredmetoo]

Hey I got a request for Tommy Shelby so you are tommy daughter age 15 so your mum died when you was little and polly and Esme are out of town and Linda and you don’t ger on

So you just start your first period and you don’t know what to do and you was to scared to tell Tommy so you didn’t when he got home you started to cry in his arms but still didn’t tell him In the middle of the night you run to his room crying because you was in some much pain and you leak on the bed as well so you was scared he was going to yell at you but he didn’t and help you

Hope that make sense

Hey Anon,

Thanks for waiting!!! I changed a bit of it but hopefully you enjoy it!

Warnings: cramps, periods, missing your mum,

You woke up and felt a strange type of feeling in the pit of your abdomen. It wasn't enough to cause pain at first but it did distract you as you went about your morning routine. 

Coming downstairs, you looked at your breakfast but couldn't manage more than a piece of toast. You munched on it wondering where everyone was. You stood up to make some herbal tea in the kitchen and felt a strange sort of rush. It was followed by an awful cramping sensation. You sat back down as the pain stole your breath and took a few moments. 

Your immediate reaction was to go to the bathroom, where you saw an absolute mess in your panties. Panic shot through you. What the hell were you supposed to do? 

You got yourself cleaned up and tried to keep it contained. You called your dad and felt sick when he answered the phone. 

“Shelby?” He said in a cold voice. You hated his telephone voice and you felt small. You couldn't bother him with this type of stuff.

“Do you know where Polly is?” You blurted out realizing you must sound panicked. 

“She’s gone to London with Esme. What’s wrong?” His voice was softer now and you considered telling him but something in your chest just wouldn't budge. It felt like a deep dark secret, it was too vulnerable to outside of your body. 

“Ah, nothing. Just feeling a bit off. Probably just going to rest for the day.” 

“Do you need me home?” He asked and a part of you wanted to say yes. 

“No, no. that’s alright. I’ll be fine.” You lied. “Just going to read in bed. Nothing to worry about.” Your voice almost caught. Tears started to fill your eyes. 

“Alright, love. Call if you need me.” 

“I love you.” You whispered. You felt no control over your thoughts or feelings.

“Love you too.” He said it with an air of suspicion and you regretted saying it. With your head spinning you went back into your room. You lit a fire and crawled under your heavy quilts. 

You grabbed a book from your side table and tried to hide away. 

He just wasn't quick enough. The arrow pierced his flesh and his muscular body fell hard into the forest floor. 

The book slipped from your fingers and you cried. Harder than you could ever remember. Your body shook as you cried out. Your emotions ran all over you as you felt your heartbreak. 

Just then there was a knock at the door. You wiped your face with your sleeves. 

“Can I come in?” Linda called from the hallway. There wasn't any way to hide. 

“Erm- Yeah?” You said and the door opened. 

“Are you alright?” She asked concern causing her face to twist up. You figured you could tell her, but that knot in your chest got tighter. The only person you wanted to tell was your mum. But she was long gone. You felt an empty sensation consume you and you fought the urge to cry. 

“Yeah, just a sad book.” You managed. Her eyes flicked to the book on the floor beside the bed, her eyes darkened when she looked at the cover. Her eyes moved back to you and you resisted the urge to sit up straighter. You didnt particularly like Linda. 

“There is only one book you should be concerned with and that sure isn't it.” Her voice was sharp. “I’ll have a word with your father, though I doubt he has any interest in the redemption of your soul.” 

Your fists balled in your blankets and you fought the urge to scream at her. You imagined hitting her, her blood splattering the carpet. But you were Tommy’s daughter, no consequences would fall on your shoulders. Arthur would have to answer for it and that made you want to hit her even more. 

“If that’s all I’ll be on my way.” She looked at you for a moment longer and you hated how much you wanted to make her hurt for what she had said to you. She turned and shut your door. Once you heard the front door shut you padded down to your dad’s study. 

You pulled the top desk drawer open and snatched a pack of cigarettes. You stomped back upstairs and slammed your bedroom door. You sat on the ledge of your window and opened it enjoying the cold wet air. You lit a cigarette and started in on the pack. Why you felt this would help you didn’t know. It just seemed right.  

The smoke was awful but also satisfying. You sat there until your stomach hurt so bad you had to move back to your bed. 

The cramping sensation came in waves and you drifted in and out of sleep. The pain was only getting worse. The day passed into night and you only made it as far as your bathroom and back. The blood was more and more, coupled with the pain started to make you worry. 

What if something was really wrong? Maybe your organs weren't right and were bleeding to much? What if it didnt stop like other women and you bled out?

Worries consumed and you drifted back to sleep. It seemed to be the only thing that helped the pain. 

The pain became unbearable and it caused you to wake up. It hurt to breathe and you couldn't move. Just then a knock sounded on your door and your dad opened it slowly. He took one look at you and ran to your side. 

You were curled up into a ball and felt so awful and embarrassed you wished you would pass out. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice was scared and it caused you to just give up. 

“I got my time of the month- fuck” The cramps kicked up again and you couldn't speak. 

“Alright.” He said rubbing your back. There was a silence and you felt the tears coming again. 

“I want my mum” You whispered before crying out. At that, he held you tightly. 

“Me too.” He said softly. He kissed the top of your head before stiffening slightly. “Go take a bath and I’ll give Polly a call.” 

You moved the blankets and started to cry even harder in embarrassment. The quilt your mum had made also had some blood on it and that caused something hard to break inside you. 

“Hey, now. It’s alright.” He tried to help you up. He got you to the bathroom and started the bath before leaving you alone. It felt awful being alone but the hot water helped the pain immediately. 

_________________________________________________

“Shelby” Polly’s voice was a little slurred and he assumed that everything was going well in London, perhaps too well. 

“Pol, Shes’s - erm started her time of the month-” He sighed not sure what he was really asking for. “So how do you think I should go about that.” 

“Oh, I’ll drive back -” She said in a more sober voice. 

“No, I can handle it. I’m just not sure how you lot handle this type of thing.” 

“There are sanitary things in my bathroom. The bottom shelf of the vanity.” He could hear a bunch of rustling on her end. 

“Alright thank you.” He said grateful for her help. “Enjoy the rest of the trip.” It was out of character for him to say this but he was grateful that she helped. Things between them hadn't been the easiest with the expansion to London, he hated how much it bothered you but he just didnt know how to fix it. 

“Alright. See you soon.” She said in a distracted tone. He hung up the phone and went into the bedroom she normally slept in when she would visit. There was a thin film of dust on the dresser and he could feel how much he missed her for the first time. 

He found what he was looking for and headed back to the bathroom. Hopefully this didnt require instruction. 

______________________

You got out of the bath and dried off and changed, your dad opened the door a crack and stuck his arm through. You took the box from him. 

“Pol said to use those.” He explained through the door. 

“Right. Thanks.” You said weakly. Thankfully things were self-explanatory and you got yourself sorted. You assumed he would be down in his study for the night so your plan was to look through Polly’s room for another romance novel to distract yourself. 

You came out of the bathroom and took note of your clean sheets and new quilt on the bed. A sense of panic and irritation shot through you. Where the fuck was your quilt?

You didnt care that there was blood on it. You would keep it stained, you would even keep it’s ashes if it burnt up. Your mother had made that for you while pregnant. You were supposed to be buried with it. You ran down the stairs ready to fight someone. You went straight to the kitchen to check the garbage can. 

Swinging open the heavy door, you were caught by your dad at the sink. He had his vest off and his sleeves rolled up. 

“Where-” but you realized it was soaking in the sink. “Oh.” 

“Not the first time I’ve had to get blood out of somthing, probably won’t be the last.” He was smoking with one hand and adding some liqiud into the sink with the other. He looked so unbothered that you started to cry again. 

“No - you dont have to -” But you had already started to hug him. 

“You can fix it?” You sobbed. 

“Of course. I’m your dad.” He said this a lot but his voice was different this time. It had a weight to it that made you cry even more. “Everything is going to be fine.” 

And surprisingly it was. He found a hot water bottle in the cupboard and tucked you into your bed. He grabbed the book off the floor and you snatched it away tossing it towards your laundry hamper. 

“What was-” 

“Don’t worry about it.” You said not wanting to remember what Linda had said. 

“Alright, let's stick to the classics.”He grabbed a book off of your shelf and sat next to you reading. You relaxed against him and felt like a little kid again. A bittersweet feeling ran over you and you knew your dad felt it too. If he was sitting next to you reading a bedtime story, something he hadn't done in around 10 years, he must feel it. 

Time was moving quickly, pulling the both of you away from your mother, and eventually, it would pull the both of you apart as well. You took a deep breath and tried to focus on the story that was unfolding knowing it was the only way to slow time down. 

___________________________________

She fell asleep on his shoulder but he just couldn't bring himself to get up and leave yet. The flashes of pain in your eyes as you cried for your mother made him remember your face as a child doing just the same. He wished she would have been here, just like every other milestone. 

He lit a cigarette and noticed that there was an ashtray on your window. Next to it was a box he was pretty sure came from his desk downstairs. He could get angry at you, but who was he to lecture you on smoking? He sighed. 

There was a faint knock at the door and Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly. Polly poked her head in and gave him a look he hadn't seen in a very long time. 

“She alright?” 

“Yeah.” He gave a nod. Polly came in and sat on the end of the bed, she looked tired and older somehow. 

“I’m not happy with the way this family is being run.” Her voice was cold but there was a tinge of sadness that softened him slightly. 

“I agree” Her eyes snapped towards him. “I think we can work something out.”  

She took a long moment to look into the fire. Some of the tension in her shoulders relaxed and he hoped they could find a way to stop fighting. 

“I got her some stuff for the morning.” She patted his leg before getting up. “I’ll be in my usual spot if you need anything.” She gave a soft smile that didnt quite reach her eyes before moving out of the room. 

“I think you should have tried a bit harder.” You whispered causing him to jump slightly. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah, all things considered, we could die anytime we leave the house. She’s been more of a help to you than anyone else that’s been in your life. Also, I miss her.” Your voice wobbled and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, go to sleep and I’ll fix it.” He tucked you in under your covers and went to go have a proper talk with Polly. 

____________________-

You settled into your bed and thought about how far you could milk this emotional instability. Maybe you could even get him and Esme to get along. 

Esme showed up in the morning and she and Pol cooked a proper breakfast. Esme made you some tea to help with the cramping, and Polly told you some stories about your mother. 

Then they both gave a very giggly talk about the birds and the bees  and a more serious one about womanhood.

They kept you fed with lots of herbal tea and meat. 

They took you out shopping and spoiled you rotten.

Tommy was always aware of the PMS and tried to keep the house as mellow as possible during that time. He hated seeing you sad and everyone was slightly afraid of your temper. He had to keep an extra eye on the guns and cigarettes.