#its like being possessed with this sudden urge to do something

[roaches-are-roaching]

drew something

[activesplooger]

| 𐂂 | 𝐑𝐮𝐭 𝐒𝐳𝐧 | 𝐃𝐨𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 | 𝐇𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 | 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 | 𐂂 |

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: FINALLY LMFAO. sorry for the wait i got a wee bit busy and took a break so yeah! here you go. btw i suck at smut! enjoy :]

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Your boyfriend enters his season! He's constantly in heat and stubbornly won't give in to his desires. As his season ends, you enter estrus, causing a hot sticky mess for the both of you!

𝐂𝐖: breeding kink behavior, possessive behavior, p in v sex, no protection, rough sex, idfk horny-ness 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3,617 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈!

It was no secret that your boyfriend is in his heat season. This became apparent when you were woken by the screeching sound of antlers rutting against the bark of a tree. You look around, the bluriness of the room fading as you wake up a bit more. Lifting your hands to your face, you rub your eyes and groggily turn towards the noise. Your eyes flicker to the bayou section of Alastor's room. Immediately, your previously groggy state disappears, eyes widening at the sight before you. "KRRRRRRRRK KRRRRRRRK KRRRRK KRRR-" "Alastor!" The scraping comes to a sudden halt as you speak. Alastor still had his back facing you hunched over beside the tree, antlers just barely inches away from the torn bark. Nearly every tree in the bayou was scraped bare of its bark, how long had he been doing this for..? Realization hits you like a truck, "Ooohhhh you're in-" "Not a word. I can control it", The Deer demon curtly states, "Go back to bed." You knew he didn't mean to be dismissive, but that didn't prevent the pang of sadness that tugged your lips downward. "Aren't you gonna come back to bed?" Alastor sighs and turns to face you, his hungry eyes boaring into yours. "Go back to bed, I'll join you later.".

Without a word, you lay back down and sigh, trying to go back to sleep without the embrace of your partner. Alastor’s expression softens, he needed some time to work through his season, he never meant to distance himself in the process.

“Goodnight, darling. I love you.”.

A smile spreads across your face, those three little words were all you needed, “I love you too, sweet dreams.”

—

Despite what the demon said, he was anything but in control of it. Alastor desperately tried to remain celibate the next few weeks of his heat season. Which, confused you because it’s not like you hadn’t had sex before or anything. And while it happens sporadically, this seemed like a good occasion to do it. All he’d have to do to get rid of his pestering urges is to fuck you, yet he remained stubborn. What’s holding him back?

When you asked him, he rambled about something along the lines of wanting his desires to be on “his terms”. In other words, he just wanted control. You rolled your eyes at this. All this trouble because of reluctance to give in to an easy-to-fix solution? ‘Whatever, it’s just a few more weeks of this…’ you thought to yourself. He hated how much he needed release, how much he craved and yearned for it. Alastor needed to be the one to decide when and where he’d want to have sex. However, with his current irresistible urges, he needed sex everywhere, all the time. As a result of this, Alastor decided it would be best if he slept in a different room for the time being. Which, again, didn't make any sense. Why couldn't he just fuck you and get it done with? But, nooo he had to be in control 24/7, leaving you lonely in the large desolate bed. You never complained, of course, despite how much you wanted to. It was frustrating sure, but, you know what it's like to be in your season so you kept your mouth shut. It had put some strain on your relationship, however, you knew it would only make things worse if you argued with him. He's tense enough already. Besides, it's only a few months out of the year! You can argue for the rest of eternity after said period. --

As time passed, the deer’s strained behavior only worsened. His animalistic instincts were kicking in and intensified. Let’s be honest, Alastor’s hygiene wasn’t the greatest (especially when it comes to dental hygiene). But, it got exponentially worse when he started smearing mud on himself to 'enhance his scent'. You knew it was all typical heat season behavior, but still, gross.

Possessiveness was another unfortunate symptom of the season. If Alastor saw another male just simply looking at you, he’d take it as a challenge. Large black tentacles would stretch out and slam whoever you were with into the nearest wall. And while, yes, it was nice to have a protective boyfriend, it certainly wasn't nice to have a daily hospital visit and apology card to whoever Alastor felt threatened by. Luckily, the season was almost over! No more hiding from Alastor when talking to another guy and having a smelly boyfriend! Yay! Everything seemed to be clearing up on its own... that was until you entered estrus.

—

“No no… Nonono…”. You mutter as you pace around the room. Just as the season was about over, you just had to enter estrus. Great. Now, not only did Alastor have to suppress his urges, you did too. Not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t want to tempt Alastor anymore than he already was.

Facing a large full body mirror, you try to to cover up any possible signs that your in your season. Your tail lays flat against your backside, and while that wasn’t the most obvious trait, you knew Alastor would figure you out easily. Pheromones were being released in heavy doses, a scent that could attract a buck from miles away. Luckily for you, Alastor’s taking a visit to the doomsday district to “Blow off some steam.” Phew.

Frantically rummaging through the closet, you look for something, anything that could hide this for him. You didn’t really have anything large enough to hide your tail, and if you did, the imprint of your tail would stick out of the fabric from the back and make it obvious. Crap.

A spare of Alastor’s coat hangs teasingly against on the other side of your shared closet. Temptation sweeps over you, making you realize just how horny you were. Hesitant hands reach out to grab the soft fabric and lift it up to your nose. ‘Fuck… Am I a pervert? Oh well.’ you think to yourself as you inhale Alastor’s scent through the fabric. Bourbon and vanilla scent hits your nose, sending shivers down your spine.

Suddenly, an idea pops into your head. You slip your arms into the coat and walk towards the mirror. The coat perfectly hid your tail and Alastor’s lingering musk on the fabric masked the scent of your pheromones. For once in your life, being kind of a pervert paid off! __

Currently, you’re sitting at the bar nursing a drink, trying to ignore how badly you want to be fucked so hard your organs rearrange. As far as hiding your physical symptoms went, it was pretty easy. But the internal turmoil was eating you alive, and not in a sexy way. Every position, sound, scenario, and feeling was being conjured in your mind as you sit there “calmly” on the barstool. Your mind was so preoccupied that you didn’t notice Alastor approaching you.

“You know darling, if you liked my clothes so much you could’ve just said so.” The deer jests.

The sudden noise startles you, snapping you out of your thoughts. “AH!” you practically jump out of your seat before realizing it’s just Alastor, “Oh! Hello love. How was the doomsday district?” His shoulders bob up and down, a soft grin on his lips, "It was fine. Very effective. Perhaps I'll be able to join you in bed tonight.". Fuck. If he slept in your room tonight, the coat will have to come off and all will be revealed. "O-Oh! Are you sure? I don't wanna pressure y-" "Nonsense, dear!" The deer interrupted with a smile, "I've had quite enough time away. I'm sure I'll be fine for a night!" "Yes, but, honey... What if your instincts take over?". You hesitantly try to put the thought of not sleeping together in his head. Alastor waves a dismissive hand, "Nonsense, dear! I'll be alright." "Honey, I don't think this is a good idea-" You stated firmly. His smile strains as his eyebrows furrow, "Why? Is there something you're hiding from me?". "No I-" "Have you grown accustomed to sleeping without me?" he accused. "No, no... Al," you reluctantly begin, "I'd love to sleep beside you again... I just wanted to be sure you were okay with it.". Lies. Well, partly. You did want to cuddle with your partner just... not with the current 'circumstances'. But now you had no choice but to find some way to hide your growing urges and instincts. -- The door shuts behind you as you walk into your room. You feel your heartbeat pick up as your palms start to moisten. 'Deep breaths, Y/N," you think to yourself, 'he won't find out... Just stay calm and act normal.'

The two of you get ready for bed: brushing your teeth (well, you are at least), washing your face, and are currently putting on PJs. You changed in the closet, away from Alastor, which he thankfully paid no mind to. After putting on a lacy nightgown, you hastily throw the coat back over your shoulders. In hindsight, this was definitely a dead giveaway that you were hiding something. But, what choice did you have? Putting on a tranquil facade, you enter the bedroom. Alastor's sitting at the edge of the bed when you walk in, finishing buttoning up his nightshirt. 'Damn, even in pajamas he's still hot as fuck' you think. You ogle at your boyfriend for a moment, heat rising in your chest. "Ah ah, dear, don't look at me like that" He playfully reminds you. His words snap you back into reality, you smile softly at him. "Sorry, sorry!" you stammer. Walking to your side of the bed, you stare directly at the floor as to not get distracted by your growing arousal. 'Keep it together Y/N!'. Alastor's eyebrows furrow, "Darling?". "Yes?" you respond. A sharp red claw gestures to the coat, "Why are you still wearing that?". "Oh!" beads of sweat form on your forehead as you clammer to find some sort of excuse "I justtttt.... get a little chilly at night! Yep, just a case of uh cold-ness... yeah...". 'God damn it... Am I fucking stupid? "Cold-ness" isn't even a word!' you mentally berate yourself. Your boyfriend turns to fully face you on the bed, "And why does it have to be my coat, hm? Can't you use one of yours?". Fidgeting with your hands nervously, you reply, "Well I just like yours! It's nice, it reminds me of you.". "Pray tell, my dear," he begins, "Why must you be reminded of me when I'm right beside you in bed?". You take a deep breath, "Well, in your... 'condition'-". "Watch it, Darling," he warns. "Right right," you sit up straighter as you become more confident in your convoluted excuse, "I just figured you wouldn't be able to handle cuddling me. In fact, you’ll probably just stay on your side of the bed all night. Hence why I wanted the coat". You feel a little prideful at your on-the-spot reasoning… until you see your boyfriend’s expression. Yeahhh, he looked pissed. Alastor's wide grin twitches, "Excuse you, Darling! I am perfectly capable of controlling myself for one night!”. “Well, then why didn’t you sleep in here for a month?!” you retort, immediately regretting it. You weren’t actually mad, just defensive. Oh well, no going back now. "That's it!" He reaches for the sleeve of your coat, pulling on it roughly. "Hey!" you exclaim. Trying (and failing) to yank the sleeve back, the coat flings off your shoulders and into Alastor's tight grip. He discards it on the floor beside the bed. Luckily, he wasn't in a position to notice your tail, however, that didn't affect your boyfriend's sense of smell... Holding his nose high in the air, he takes small quick sniffs near you, his ears twitching at the smell of your pheromones. His pupils dilate to the size of quarters, any restraint he had before was now completely gone, "My dear," He crawls toward you on all fours, making his way across the bed, "I've spent the past few months aching for release, but I've restrained myself...". You inch backward away from him, "Alastor... Be rational... You've tried so hard, I don't want you to regret this.". As soon as you finish speaking, you inch too far off the bed and suddenly fall back, eliciting a yelp. A slender arm reaches out to grab yours, lifting you up and saving you from the fall. Alastor pulls on your arm, lifting you up so that your faces were inches apart. He takes a deep breath in, the scent of pheromones filling his nose. His eyes bore into you with a hungry, desperate, gaze, lips slightly parted as his breath grows heavier. “My dear… I would never regret making love to you… If I did have any regrets, it would be that I didn’t do this sooner…”.

Half lidded eyes meet his lustful gaze, “Your sure about this?”. Alastor’s eyes linger on your lips as he speaks, his voice low and raspy, “I’ve restrained myself for far too long… I would hate to you holding back as well. This has been a long time coming, darling, and now…”. Reaching over, his lips teasingly brush against your ear as he whispers,”I’m taking whats mine.”.

You cradle his face in your hands, thumb brushing over his flushed cheeks. Suddenly, he captures your lips in a firm kiss. The tender kisses turn sloppier, his tongue swiping past your lips asking for entry. As soon as your lips part, his long slender tongue slides against yours. You moan against his lips at the feeling which only fuels his desire more. Intertwining your tongue with his, his hand cards through your hair at the back of your head, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, drawing out a stifled moan from Alastor. You position yourself so you’re straddling his lap, his boner poking against your thigh.

As the two of you make out, you slowly roll your clothed core against the tent in his pants. Alastor pulls back from the kiss, his head jerking down into the crook of your neck. “Darling,” his large hands grip your hips, keeping them from moving, "I have a better idea...". He lifts his head back up and instantly closes the distance between the two of you. Your tongues intertwine and sloppily kiss one another, your lips lubricated with his saliva.

He moves his hands to the straps of your nightgown. The thin silky straps gently pull off your shoulders. Alastor places his palm under your elbow and pushes up gently, a silent way of asking you to put your arms up. You oblige and lift your arms followed by Alastor briefly breaking the kiss and slipping the nightgown over your head. His eyes rake over your almost naked body. One of his large hands reaches out to cup your breast. The sudden contact sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushes over your nipple, the bud hardening at his cold touch. Meanwhile, his other hand travels down your body and hooks his finger under the lacy thong. Stretching the lace strap, a soft hum escapes his lips. Your breath quickens as you eagerly await his next move, needing his touch and release.

Unhooking his finger, he moves his hand to the damp spot on the underside of your thong. A breathy moan escapes your lips, "Fuck, Alastor... Don't tease.". Removing his hands, he holds them up in a gesture of surrender, "Can't handle a bit of foreplay, darling?". "Hush" you reply, your hands working to unbutton his nightshirt. Once unbuttoned, you toss the shirt off to the side and gaze at his toned torso. "See something you like?" he jests. You playfully roll your eyes and get to work on sliding off his pajama pants. Once his pants are off, his aching member frees the confines of the fabric, his tail twitching in anticipation. Alastor shudders at the cold air hitting his throbbing, erect cock. Your gaze tears away from his dick and meets his face. His eyes are half-lidded with a deep shade of pink dusting his cheeks, mouth slightly agape as he pants heavily. "What? Can't handle a bit of foreplay?" you tease.

Alastor's eyebrows furrow, a tight-lipped grin forming on his face, "You know what? No, I can't.". In a swift motion, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you on the bed. As your stomach hits the cold dark red comforter, you make a small "oof!" sound. Alastor's hands slither to both sides of your waist and lift you gently, propping you up on your hands and knees. A slender finger slides against the drenched folds of your pussy, a single digit dipping into your tight center. You let out a soft pleasured gasp at the feeling. As much as you enjoyed this, it only made you crave more. He tantalizingly pulls out his finger and brings it to his lips, sucking your juices off it. Pulling the finger out with a satisfying 'pop', he leans over your body. His chest presses against your back as he whispers in a husky low tone, "My my, little doe... You taste divine.". A needy whimper escapes your throat as your dripping cunt aches to be filled.

He kisses his way down your back, leaving a final kiss at the base of your perked-up tail before lifting his head back up. Alastor gently spreads the beads of pre-cum around his dick for extra lubrication, not that you needed, it of course. Large hands clutch the sides of your hips, claws dimpling your supple skin. Pre-cum and saliva from his hands spreads onto your skin, the moist texture making your stomach flutter. -- Alastor aligns his shaft with your opening, gradually penetrating you. A choked gasp leaves your mouth as he stretches you out, filling your needy cunt. After a bit of getting used to his length, he slowly thrusts into you. "That's it, little doe," he coos, "taking me so well... You'll look great as a mother".

Alastor pants heavily as he continues to rut into you, his pace picking up as he reaches closer and closer to a climax. Sparks of pleasure hit your core and he enters you at a rough tempo. "Mmph~ Al... That's it- D-Don't stop." you whimper. "Stop?" he begins, sliding into you at a more rigorous pace, "Wouldn't dream of it... After all, I couldn't leave my precious doe without filling her properly couldn't I?". Pleasure clouds your mind, all you can respond with is a cry of satisfaction. "Ah ah ah, use your words dear. Tell me how much you crave my seed.". "Need you to fill me... Need it so bad... Please..." you mumble, focused more on your approaching climax. Your words encourage Alastor further, thrusting into you deeper and hitting spots you didn't even know could be reached. His pelvis slams against your clit, sending sparks through your already trembling pussy. He speaks through strangled grunts and pants, "That's right, my doe, I'm gonna fill you over and over until you're filled with my fawns...". His large hands travel from your hips up to your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands. Mewling at the added pleasure, his thumb and index finger rolled the sensitive buds in his hands. "These would look so nice and pretty when they're swelled with milk, don't you think?". His dick slams into you at a ruthless pace. The sounds of skin slapping against skin along with moans and grunts of pleasure filled the air. Alastor takes a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of pheromones. His pupils widened further, his primal instincts kicking in. Releasing your tender breasts, he lifts your thigh up over his shoulder to get a new angle. His cock drills into you at a ruthless tempo, "Gotta - Nnnph~ make sure my seed's deep inside you... Gonna- load my fawns into you...". You feel your stomach tighten as you reach your release, "Al- M'gonna-". As your orgasm washes over you, hot loads of cum fill your greedy pussy. Your cunt clenches around his drenched cock as he rides out your orgasm. His pace gradually declines as the pleasure begins to fade. Alastors upper body goes limp from his climax, torso resting against your back. The two of you take a moment to catch your breath, panting heavily as he remains buried inside of you. After taking a beat, he pulls out of you. Cum spills of your cunt, loads of semen dripping down your folds and onto the bedding below. "You've made quite the mess my dear." he jests breathlessly, plunging a finger into your pussy to keep the seed from spilling, "Though, we can't let this go to waste, hm? I wasn't joking when I said you'd make a lovely mother.". You chuckle wearily and plop onto the mattress.

Rolling over onto your back, Alastor grabs the discarded clothes and helps you put your pajamas back on. He slips the silk gown back on you and presses a kiss to your forehead, "You did so well, my beautiful doe...". A smile stretches across your face at the praise. Returning the favor, you help him dress as well - buttoning up his night shirt and sliding his pants back on.

His arms wrap around your stomach as he pulls you into a loving embrace. Alastor bundles the two of you in the dark red comforter, spooning you and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. "I love you, Alastor" you whisper. "I love you too, darling. Sweet dreams.". With a final kiss pressed onto your cheek, you both drift off to a pleasant slumber.

—

YAYAYAYYA i tried rlly hard so if u dont like it then FUCK U (jk). but yeah i hope u like ittt. pls leave feedback guys :,) good or bad idfc but i rlly wanna improve and feedback is important for that!!! i hope u liked it :) i meant for the smut to be longer tbh, sorry if it wasnt as long as u were hoping. im still new at this so I tried to keep it short and sweet. I felt as if i kept it too long the quality would decline and that sucks so :/ hope u liked ittt!!!!! also i didnt edit this bc im tired lol but if u see a mistake point it out

𝐁𝐔𝐓: 𝐅𝐔𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐓, 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐎…. 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍??? 𝐋𝐌𝐊

__

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @l3rittany, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @ratsematary, @reath-solia, (if i missed anyone I'm so sorry)

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Bonus Part — Fin x Reader.

Summary: A reimagining of how things would have gone if Reader had decided she wanted Fin — despite him being her friend’s father.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Heavy on the smut. 18+, minors dni. Some jealous and possessiveness. Mentions of forbidden relationships/affairs. If the choices Reader makes in this are something you’re against, I urge you not to read! 🫶🏻

Rita’s is like no other place you’ve been — or seen — before.

Is this what you’ve missed out on, trapped within the frozen maw of Windhaven? There is no place like this there, of such vibrancy and euphoria. The music, the coloured faelights, the energy — it all makes you feel…on top of the world.

Like there’s life outside the misery you’ve known.

Mor knocks a shot back, grimacing as she slams the empty glass onto the bar. A sudden burst of giggles leaves her as she says, “My father would have my head if he could see me right now. Literally.”

You don’t doubt that for a second, because Mor looks resplendent, not just in her natural beauty, but her joy. She has danced and drank and kissed and danced some more. And seeing her like this…it makes you glad that she convinced you to come out with her tonight.

“My father would have my head, too,” you tell her over the music. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

At that, she rolls her eyes, and she reaches for two more shots. “Here’s to saying fuck the males,” she knocks her glass against yours. “May they all perish.”

You’ll happily drink to that. With the alcohol that has you in its grip, you’re buzzed on thoughts of storming back to Windhaven and confronting all your demons. Confronting anyone and everyone who has ever hurt you and made you feel less than you are. Your father. Lord Devlon. Azriel—

You banish that thought as the liquid slides down your throat with a satisfying burn. You are in Velaris, not Windhaven. A new place with new people, where anything feels possible. The thought is heady and dizzying.

Someone calls Mor’s name, and she glances over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes lighting up again. You truly don’t know how often she’s able to escape the Hewn City and get away to Velaris, but judging by the amount of friends she’s introduced you to tonight, she’s certainly made her mark here.

“Let’s go dance with them!” Mor yells over the music, grabbing your hand.

You think that dancing might be the answer to everything you’ve never known, and so you gladly follow; gladly throw yourself into the thrall of the busy floor.

But that’s when you see him.

Something…some deep power…compels you to look up. Coaxes your eyes to that area a level above, where the city’s VIP guests spend copious amounts of money on copious amounts of alcohol and drink it from their cushy velvet booths. They’re reserved for associates of the High Lord, a not-so-formal place to meet to discuss not-so-casual things.

But none of that matters. There could be an entire circus up there right now, and still all you would notice is — him.

He notices you, too.

The High Lord’s eyes zero in on you from up above. You watch, rooted to the spot, as he takes in the sight of you, from your braided back hair, to your painted face, your dress and the legs exposed by them. He looks like…like he’s finally setting his sights upon an image that was merely fantasy up until now.

He braces his arms on the balustrade. And he just stares.

You want to know what he’s doing here. Whether he’s at Rita’s for business or…or for pleasure. You’ve heard that there are rooms upstairs for people willing to pay the price. Perhaps there’s a lover up there with him somewhere, waiting to explore every last inch of that glorious, sculpted body—

The bleating jealousy that makes your heart twist is…unexpected. And not ideal; not one bit.

He is Rhysand’s father. Things may have been fucked up royally with Azriel, and you may have been burned by the experience — but Fin is Rhysand’s father.

Your friend’s father.

Your friend’s father who has just so happened to help keep you feeling alive these past weeks. With his layers-deep allure, the sweet, sweet words that roll off his tongue. His hospitality, his generosity. His kindness. All of it, you’d attributed to him being a natural charmer, a High Lord who knows precisely what to say, what to do.

It strikes you in that moment — just how much it’s all sunk its way into your bones and made you feel…dangerous.

He watches you like a cat with a mouse. Watches as somebody grabs your hand and yanks you into the tightly knit dancing bodies. The music pulses through you from head to toe, a frenzied tune of strings and keys that somehow come together to create the feeling of being borne aloft. Being on top of the world.

As you become lost to the sensation of dance, you’re glad to forget all your thoughts about Fin. You don’t want to wonder what he’s doing here. You don’t want to imagine what those strong, rough hands might get up to, where they might venture.

You become sandwiched between two males who dance with you in a way that makes you forget your wings were ever stolen. They touch you and touch each other, and you welcome it all, happy to be someone, somewhere, else. At least for a while.

But there’s suddenly a foreign touch to your shoulder. That of a cold, meaty hand that stills your movements and draws your attention. The two males happily slink away and begin grinding on each other, and you spin on the spot to find a tall, stocky male who looks like he punches people in the face for the hell of it.

“Y/N?” He checks, and you nod. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you. Upstairs.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes searching for Mor and finding her just as she’s following a male and female to a cloaked-off area at the back. That’ll be her occupied for the remainder of the night. You’re officially going solo.

But not for long. Not as the bouncer juts his chin in the direction of the staircase and begins to lead you there. Perhaps it makes you a fool, but you follow without a word.

He pulls back a rope and gestures for you to go on up, and then he’s refastening it behind you and turning back to train a keen eye on the dance floor. It’s purely the alcohol that hits you with enough of an ego to climb those stairs like you belong amongst the chandeliers and velvet booths.

But you look good — amazing, even. You know you do. And looking like this, things like scars and other insecurities seem so trivial. You’ve taken back the right to feel as beautiful as you are. You wear your Illyrian features proudly, and you’re pretty and lithe and graceful—

And your heel catches on the top step of the staircase, almost sending you sprawling to the floor — if not for the warm hand that catches your elbow.

“Easy.” Fin rasps into your ear, setting you steady on your feet.

Your numbed, inebriated senses are not immune to the effect of his voice, it would seem. The deep baritone, rough as jagged rock, pushes its way into your skin, your veins, and spreads far faster than any alcohol could.

“Pardon me, my Lord,” you answer, and you’re unable to shove down the hysterical giggle that claws up your throat. “Fuck, you’re the High Lord.”

He cocks a dark eyebrow. “And you are drunk.”

“The whiskey they serve here is immense.”

“I’ll be sure to extend your compliments to Rita herself.”

Is that, you wonder, who he’s up here meeting? Perhaps the elusive Rita is a close associate of his. Perhaps they do deals in both business and pleasure.

And taking in your fill of the High Lord right now, in a dark button-up shirt and fitted breeches of a slate grey, you would not blame Rita one little bit.

Gods, he’s exquisite. Rhysand may resemble Roza more than he does Fin, but…with two parents of such stunning beauty, it’s no wonder your friend is as handsome as he is.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you make no secret of the way your eyes linger on him. Tonight is dangerous, and you’re enjoying it.

“Nor I, you,” he narrows his gaze down at you. “Imagine my surprise, considering that when I left the palace earlier this evening, you were curled up in the library with a book. And yet, here you are. Wearing…” mahogany eyes take in the short cut of your dress, “…that.”

“Mor surprised me with a visit.”

“My niece ought to be more careful not to press her father’s buttons too much,” a muscle in his chiselled jaw ticks. “And I think you ought to be more careful not to push mine.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Bold. So foolishly bold of you. You’ll regret it once sober, you’re sure. “Was there a particular reason you summoned me up here, my Lord? I was rather enjoying dancing.”

“I noticed. And I’m taking you home.”

“What—”

Before you can even finish the word, Fin’s gripping your elbow again, and darkness sweeps you away.

Being winnowed while drunk is not a fun experience.

You feel the cosmic, air-light step from one place to another. Your stomach lurches, your head spinning. You can barely get a hold of yourself as you cling to Fin and prepare your feet to touch solid ground.

And then the darkness is gone, and you’re back in the toasty, warm glow of the palace’s library. Your knees buckle, trying to drag you to the floor, but Fin keeps you upright.

“What the…” you gawp up at him. “Why did you bring me home?”

He ensures you’re able to stand on your feet before pushing away from you. Doesn’t even look at you as he commands, “Get to bed.”

“I was enjoying myself.”

“Just as those males were enjoying you, too. You’re drunk and you need to sleep it off. Get to bed.”

He strides towards the door, his knuckles white from how hard he grips the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. But sword or no, you refuse to give up so easily.

“No,” you say simply. “I will not.”

Fin stops. Goes still. And then he turns back to you.

His temper is clear on his face, but he doesn’t storm back over like you’re half expecting him to. Instead, his eyes shutter, and he seems to take a deep, soothing breath. When he’s looking at you once more, he flicks his wrist in your direction.

And immediately, gone is the haze of the alcohol.

Immediately, you’re completely lucid, completely steady on your feet. Not a lick of inebriation remains, as if you had, indeed, slept it off.

“Did you just sober me up?” you’re outraged by the mere idea.

“Yes.” Fin admits shamelessly. “Now you won’t fall victim to a hangover in the morning — a favour from me, to you, and I ask you in return to get to bed. And don’t even think about trying to venture back out. I’ll know.”

Your blood boils. And the anger isn’t simply because of your ruined fun, but because…because it stings, the way Fin is treating you with such contempt. Scolding you like you’re little more than a petulant child. He’s been nothing but wonderful since you came to Velaris, and yet now, he speaks to you like…like most of the males back in Windhaven do.

It makes you see red.

“What right have you to dictate how I spend my evening?” you snap. “I was under the impression that my free time is my own, and if I wish to go and get drunk and dance like a fool, that is up to me.”

Cold, beautiful anger hardens Fin’s face. He stalks closer, squeezing the hilt of that sword so, so tightly. “What right have I? This is my home. My city. My court. I am your High Lord, and you choose to behave in such a way when I’ve opened my home to you and offered you refuge? When I’ve given you a place to run to and left my resources at your disposal?”

You rock back on the heels of your feet, staring at him. Every word lands a hit — as good as if he’d nocked them in a bow and fired them right at your heart. It stings. Gods, it stings. You want the careless oblivion of the alcohol back.

Because you grapple daily with the pain, the anxiety, of feeling unwanted. And you…you had begun to think that Fin actually cared for you. Actually enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his.

You’d begun to care about his thoughts and feelings where you were concerned. And begun to believe that it wasn’t just the hospitality and courtesy that he would dole out to any runt on the street.

His eyes seem to track the way your expression changes, your shoulders slump. You swallow. The anger is replaced, simply, by hurt.

“If I am a burden, my Lord, I apologise,” you rasp. “I don’t intend to be one. I appreciate your generosity, and I…I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”

You hope you can keep your tears at bay long enough to escape to your room. You’re pelted with shame, embarrassment, hurt. You step forward and hurry past the High Lord, desperate to book it out of there, to get to bed.

But his hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to a stop. And he says, quietly, “wait.”

That hand on your wrist holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

You pin your gaze to the ground, unable to look at Fin. You hear him swallow.

“That isn’t—” his voice is gravelly. “I didn’t mean that.”

You don’t think you can speak. You remain a statue beneath his touch.

But so gently — such a contrast to the whirlwind of his actions before — he’s walking you backwards. Slow and careful. You feel your back hit the wall, and he lets go of your wrist and seems to curl his fists at his sides. There’s a desperation to the action that only then coaxes you to look up at him.

His expression is…pleading. For what, you’re not sure.

“You are the furthest thing from a burden,” he says, quietly, on an exhale. “Your presence here is very much welcomed, I assure you.”

You don’t dare breathe a word. Every last bit of your very sober courage is being thrown into maintaining eye contact. There’s none to spare for speaking.

But your lack of response seems to trouble Fin. His eyes rake over your face, searching for something. He swallows again.

And then his eyes shutter, and he whispers, “Mother above, what are you doing to me?”

You don’t know how to answer him — whether he’s even talking to you at all. He takes in a very slow, very deep breath, as though it’s the only thing that’s stopping him from…doing something. What, you’re not sure.

But you can feel it, sense it — the ferocity with which he’s swallowing down words and holding himself back. Like he wants so badly to say something, but can’t.

His eyes open, clearer than they were seconds before, and he says in a far gentler tone, “Get to bed, Y/N,” he inclines his head. “Sleep well.”

With tense, squared shoulders, he turns — and it’s you, this time, that stops him. You halt him with a hand on his arm, and you could swear you feel the muscles flex under his touch.

“Wait,” you say, not ready to let him go, not prepared to leave things between you like this. “Stay and talk with me for a while.”

His jaw clenches like he’s gritting his teeth. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“Why? We talk all the time, you and I. And there are clearly things you’re holding back from saying—”

Your words are cut short as he suddenly meets your gaze with the intensity of a blazing fire. You think it might burn you. You hope it will.

“It’s a bad idea,” he grounds out, gutturally, “not because of what I want to say. But because of what I want to do.”

“What—”

“You are my son’s close friend. You are Roza’s guest,” he tugs his arm out from under your hand. “You are far younger than I am. I am trying my hardest — I have been trying my hardest — to be a good male. And right now, a good male would take his leave and go to bed, so I bid you goodnight, Y/N.”

“Fin—”

“I hope you sleep well.”

“Fin,” you grab for him again. “What if I don’t want you to be a good male?”

Beneath your touch, he stops. Goes preternaturally still.

Words punch out of you with terrifying gall — and truth. “What if I want you to do those things—”

Quick as a flash, he’s pivoting, and he has the upper hand. Has you pressed so tightly up against the wall, his body boxing you in.

And gods, the feel of it might set you on fire. A brush of your hands, a kiss on the backs of your fingers — they’re nothing compared to the weight and press of his muscles against your body. You want your clothes to melt away, and his, too. You want your hands on his bare, hot skin.

“I don’t think you realise what you’re saying,” he growls.

“I do,” you breathe. “I am completely sober. Completely clear of mind. And I am telling you, Fin, I want you—”

A strangled noise is the only warning you get before the High Lord’s mouth is on yours.

The kiss is pure power. It passes from him, into you, roils through your veins and makes you feel like somebody remarkable. It’s the cloak of darkness and the kiss of sin. Of somebody capable of very, very bad things.

And it’s immediately addicting. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get enough.

You claw at his shirt, tugging him closer, closer, and his broad hands cup your face as his mouth devours yours.

This kiss…it’s been building. The need for it has been working its way beneath your skin for a while. All the heated glances, the late-night conversations. All the thoughts, in the dead of night, of what Fin might be doing in his own bed. Wondering whether he was thinking of you.

It’s so, so forbidden. So wrong. But it feels so godsdamn right.

And the way Fin’s tongue slides between your lips and strokes into your mouth — it tells you that he feels it, too.

Your hands glide from his waist, round to his back, and you yank him harder against you. So desperate are you to feel him. Feel what you think you do to him.

He makes another low noise. And then he’s tearing his mouth from yours. But he lingers close, your foreheads touching.

“Better than I’ve been imagining,” he pants, his hands still clutching your face. “Much better.”

“You’ve imagined kissing me?” You know he has.

“I have imagined,” his thumbs sweep your cheeks, “doing all sorts of things with you, Y/N. Things that would make even the most salacious of a person blush.”

Such a relief — to know that it’s not all just some wild fantasy you’ve cooked up in your mind. That you’re not just some wayward, longing young female who craves the affections of an older male to patch her deep wounds.

No, it’s not that. It’s desire. It’s need. And it burns inside your veins until you think you might erupt into flames.

“I’ve imagined them, too,” you say, without a lick of shame.

Once again, his eyes are shuttering. Once again, he takes that slow, steadying breath. And as you watch him do so, you can’t bear the thought of him still grappling with right and wrong. You can’t bear the thought of him squaring his shoulders and walking out of here, leaving your lips bruised, your body aching, your heart hurting. You can’t bear it—

“I want you to do those things,” you lift your chin, gaze unflinching. “I want you to touch me.”

Fin’s eyes reopen.

He stares at you.

His throat bobs.

You have never seen somebody look so wild, so ravenous. There is heat everywhere, in his stare and in his taut body. His eyes flick down to your lips.

That mere glance at them is the deciding factor, it would seem.

He growls, the sound not at all one you’ve ever heard from a person, and he yanks you up into his arms and kisses you again.

So naturally, your arms twine around his neck, your legs locking around his waist. You can feel the strength of him against you, in the way he holds you. You can taste his crackling power.

He doesn’t falter in the kiss nor his steps as he carries you away from the wall, and you’re suddenly being placed down on the library’s desk, sending books and parchment and pens and ink pots flying. They all clatter loudly to the floor, and neither of you care.

But Fin does pull away to look at you, and there’s wicked, boyish charm in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitch up. He merely says, “Oops.”

You surge up and kiss him again.

He sighs into it, like your mouth is the answer to all his questions. And when heated hands land on your thighs, you part them, allow him to slot his body in between. The mere feel of it has you pushing up against him, finding him hard—

But again, he pulls away. He scans your face and rasps, “Tell me you’re sure.”

You do not balk from his intensity. From the fact that this is the fucking High Lord of your court, who was changing this world and building a reputation long before you were a mere thought in your parents’ minds. You do not balk from the fact that there are a million different reasons that this is wrong.

You think only about the fact that it feels right.

And that translates into your voice as you say, firmly, “I’m sure.”

You think you see the words course through his body. They change something — forever.

“This isn’t about Roza,” he breathes — breathes heavily, like it’s taking everything to tamp down on the desire to devour you then and there. To say what needs to be said.

You shake your head, “No.”

“Nor is it about Rhysand.”

“No.”

“It’s about me and you.” He destroys what little gap exists between your bodies, his hardness pushing through his breeches, right up against your centre. His hands brace on the desk, either side of you. “And gods, I want you, Y/N. I want you so much, I can scarcely bear it.”

“Have me,” is all you manage — before he strikes.

You think, hope, that his mouth might find yours again — but he’s barely brushing it before his lips settle on your jaw. His hands travel up your legs, fingers biting into the flesh. They find your hips, thumbs delivering explorative sweeps. They tug your dress up as they climb, exposing more of you to the warmth of the room. Exposing more skin that you know he wants to lay claim to.

And when the hem of your dress is ruched around your waist, you smile — at your little wildcard exposed. That he finds no underwear hiding what sits between your legs.

Your choice to forgo a pair seems almost foretelling, now — like some part of you knew the night would end like this, and you wanted to be ready.

Fin’s eyes dip to your slick, exposed cunt. The hunger in them is almost intimidating. You open your legs just a little wider—

But his rough hand is gripping your chin, almost hard enough to hurt. And he snarls deeply, “It drove me to madness — seeing those two males dancing with you. Touching you.”

Pleasure bolts down your spine, and from the way his nostrils flare, you know the scent of your arousal is consuming him.

“Did it?” you stare back at him, welcoming the discomfort of his brutal grip.

“I wanted them dead. I wanted to draw my sword and gut them for even looking your way. For touching what I want to be mine.”

That pleasure again — skittering over your skin. His words do something to you. You bite down on a moan.

“It is yours,” you tilt your chin up to him, smiling when he immediately glances to your lips. “Take it.”

“I warn you,” he lowers his face to yours, “I don’t like to share.”

“And I warn you, High Lord,” you watch as your words land, drawing a deep, raw scent from him. “Neither do I.”

With a growl, he snaps. The kiss he gives you is not slow or sweet. His hand continues to grip your face, and his mouth attacks yours, his tongue sliding between your lips. You can’t help your moan, this time, as his taste overpowers you — a taste that you can only describe as pure thunder.

But it ends too soon, as he begins to leave a trail of heated kisses and bites and sucks along your jaw, down your neck, your collarbones. Your head falls back, and the touches are like little zips of lightning — lightning cleaving through the night sky.

“Pretty dress,” he hums against your skin — and that’s all the warning you get before that dress is ripped apart. Torn to ribbons.

No part of you is left to Fin’s imagination.

He tears his mouth from you and steps back to drink you in.

Instinct roars at you to curl in on yourself and hide. To remember that you are scarred, and flawed, and not to the liking of many — including yourself, a lot of the time.

But something about Fin’s weighty, scorching stare stops you from moving a muscle.

You lift your chin and hide nothing as he takes his fill. His eyes travel a journey from the top of your head and down — down your face, your neck, your breasts. Down your stomach, your waist, your hips. Down to that fine dusting of hair on your pelvis that tracks a thin path to—

Fin drops to his knees with a low noise. His hands wrap around your legs and prise them further apart.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he levels his face with the very centre of you, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight.

The sight of the High Lord on his knees before you — on his knees for you.

As though he senses the direction of your thoughts, his eyes flick up, and he smiles.

And then he dives in.

His tongue wastes no time in sinking between your folds, licking a broad stripe right up the centre of you. At the first stroke, your head falls back, your arms wobbling where they’re braced on the desk.

“Look at me,” Fin growls. “Only me.”

His voice of pure High Lord power drags your eyes back to him. And thank the fucking Mother it does.

You see everything in the way he feasts on you. His tongue laps at your wetness, and it coats his lips, his chin, coats him in you. The damp heat of his tongue is liquid fire. It promises to scorch you, end you, and rise you anew like a phoenix from the ashes.

Your fingers sink into the strands of Fin’s hair and tug. Judging by the noise he makes, the way his pace picks up, you think he likes it.

He utterly fucking devours you, like he’s fought a centuries-long wait to do so. And whatever magic commands his mouth — you know you cannot possibly last against it.

“Oh, gods,” your moan breaks from you, hips bucking up. You think your voice might be loud, but you don’t care. “Fuck—Fin.”

It all happens at once — his name falling from your lips, the growl rumbling in his throat, the flicking of his tongue against your clit and the finger he plunges into you, curls inside you. Every part of it is lightning strikes to your veins, and you come apart, utterly break.

Your climax slams into you and steals your breath. You’re nothing but a gasping, panting, trembling shell. Your mind is somewhere else entirely.

With your head falling back, eyes pinned to the ceiling, chest heaving, you don’t catch the swiftness with which Fin stands, licking your wetness from his lips. With which his clothes are gone in a blink of an eye.

But then he commands, “Look at me.”

It’s the second time he’s said it. Your head lolls forward once more.

You swallow the breaths you’re still trying to get down. Try to stop your body fucking shaking.

But it’s no wonder it does, as you look at him.

Your High Lord is nothing short of exquisite. He is art. Your fantasies have done him no justice.

That golden skin of his seems to attract the glowing light of the room. It bathes him, but it does not steal the attention. It outlines every fine plane of his body, the sculpted muscles on show, the nicks of injuries that have scarred and silvered over time.

There is not a single part of him that isn’t pure, refined power. And when your gaze drops to below his waist…a shudder wracks through you.

His cock stands hard and leaking at the head. You watch, your mouth watering, as he wraps a hand around its length and gives a long stroke.

“Fin—”

“When you look at me like that,” he prowls closer, “there is no way I can consider this forbidden.”

He’s within reach. Your fingers inch towards him. You want to touch him, taste him—

But he curls a hand around yours and stops you in your tracks.

“Not tonight,” he says. Pure promise is laced within the words. “No playing tonight.”

As if he hadn’t just played with you. You want to protest, to get your fucking mouth around that considerable length, but his hand tightens around yours.

And then he’s flipping you over, so fast that you don’t have time to even register it. You land on your front, your belly and breasts pressed against the desk. Fin lays his palm against your back and drags it slowly down. And in the wake of his touch, he leaves kisses. Kisses to your shoulder, your back. They’re…soft. Tender.

“Have I disappointed you?” he murmurs against your shoulder, folding his body over yours. You don’t think it’s an accident that the head of his cock nudges that sweet area between your legs.

It’s all you can do to breathe, “I wanted to taste you.”

“And you will,” he drops the brush of a kiss to your skin. “But now is not time for that.”

You don’t need him to tell you what now is the time for. Not as his hands find the flesh of your hips, and he yanks you to the very edge of the desk, moving with you. The feel of him so close to where you want him is downright cruel.

“Have you thought about me fucking you?” he asks, those hands travelling to rove your ass.

Your nails bite into the desk as you answer, “Yes.”

“Did I make you scream?”

You bite down on your lip at the feeling of him spreading you apart, opening you up to him. “Yes.”

You feel it — his cock sliding between your folds. Not pushing in, but dragging torturously against your sex. From your entrance, up to your clit. The head of his cock pushes against it.

And the moan that rips from you is downright filth, as he rolls his hips and allows your wetness to slicken his length. It feels so fucking good. To you, and to him.

A breath shudders out of him, and he purrs, “Are you going to scream for me now?”

“Fuck yes,” the words tumble from your lips. “I want you, Fin.”

Just like that, his restraint snaps. The High Lord strikes.

He drags his length through your folds and enters you with a single, powerful thrust.

A shout leaves you, and you’re clawing at the desk, trying to keep your grip against the pleasure that courses through you. Fin fills you and stretches you. He pulls out and slams back in to the hilt.

“Fuck me, you’re tight,” he growls, his hands sinking back into your hips. He begins a steady thrusting, sliding in and out of you with a drag that makes you feel every glorious inch of him. “Gods.”

“So good,” you pant. “Want you harder.”

The plea seems to make him groan, and he wastes no time in picking up the pace. His hands bite into your skin as he fucks you faster, harder, your moans and pleas and curses falling from your lips without any nudging from you. The pleasure is all-consuming. In seconds, it’s buried within your veins.

“You like that?” The grit in his voice has you clenching around him. He’s so fucking filthy, so fucking sultry, as he snarls, “you going to be a good girl and come for me?”

Gods, yes, you are. Already, release is coiling tightly within you, and it’s a force entirely of its own right, inching closer and cresting the hill, ready to sink its claws into you. Fin’s cock hits deep, and out of nowhere, his palm is flying through the air and making contact with your ass cheek. That is all it takes.

The pleasure of it all is too much — the sting of the slap, the depth and thrall of his thrusts, the way he growls and grunts as he lays claim to your body, your pleasure.

You cry out, your orgasm blasting through you with unstoppable force. The long strokes of Fin’s cock fuck you through it, through earth-shattering pleasure, through what feels like a mind-altering experience.

“My filthy girl,” he pulls out of you suddenly, and though your cunt still clenches and twitches, desperate for more, more, more, he flips your trembling body onto its back once more and tugs you up, slipping back between your legs. “Fuck, I can’t tell you how relentlessly I’ve thought about making you scream for me like that.”

Past words, you can only reach up and pull his head down to yours to capture him in a kiss. Your taste still coats the tongue that he slides between your lips. It spurs you on to deepen it, luxuriate in the feel of it. And you become so lost in it that you tug hard at the strands of his hair when he enters you again in one great, sweeping thrust.

His arm folds around your back, hand grasping at your shoulder, and it seems to afford him perfect purchase to pound into you. Sounds fill the air of his skin slapping against yours, of the breaths and moans you huff into each other’s mouths. You think the two of you, together, might be loud enough, forceful enough, to bring the City of Starlight to rubble around you.

Fin’s lips tear away from yours, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are growing quicker, sloppier, reaching a feverous pinnacle that will surely break.

“Fuck, you’re going to make me come, Y/N,” his sweat-slick brow presses against your neck. “Taking me so well like this. Squeezing me like this. You’re going to make me fucking blow.”

You want that — more than anything. To feel the power of him spilling into you.

You squeeze your thighs against his, dragging your free hand — the one not sunken in his hair — down the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his waist — to his ass, where you dig your nails into the tight, toned flesh and encourage him to pump into you harder, faster. The feel of it makes Fin shout.

“Come for me,” you choke around your pleasure. “Please, Fin…want you to come.”

An animalistic growl rips from him, and he slams into you one, two, three more times, and then stills, throwing his head back with a roar that shakes the library. Hot, thick ropes of his seed seem endless as they’re unleashed inside you.

The force of it shatters you both, you think. With his trembling as thorough as yours, your nails are still raking over his skin as his brow presses to the crook of your neck. Strands of hair stick to the back of his. Your fingertips smooth over them tenderly.

It feels like eons that you stay there like that, holding each other up from collapsing under the weight of your mutual release. You want to hold him like this, always. You don’t care what others may have to say about it, what they may deem to be wrong about it. You want him.

He pulls back, as though sensing the thought. Meets your eyes. For a beat or two, he simply studies your face, something like clarity on his own.

And then he dips down and drops a kiss to your brow. Such a tender act, in the wake of such passion.

 No words are needed. Not as he scoops you up into his arms, leaving behind the mess the two of you have created. There’s a flash, and he’s winnowed you to your bedroom. A fire roars to life immediately. Fin places you down on the bed.

You watch through hooded eyes as he makes his way into the bathroom. Moments later, he’s returning with a warm, damp washcloth, and he perches beside you.

“Open your legs for me,” he whispers, and you do.

The High Lord of the Night Court is gentle as air as he takes care of you, wiping between your thighs and delivering soft, soothing strokes to your skin. A pleasant soreness sits in your lower belly. He leans down and presses a kiss there like he knows just that.

And then he’s sitting up, and it frightens you — the thought of him walking away, of this ending here and now.

So you lay a hand on his arm, breathing, “Stay with me.”

He pauses, eyes roaming your face like he’s assuring himself you mean it. And then he dips his chin.

“I would be honoured,” he rasps.

And thus, the affair begins.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The need you and Fin have for each other is…insatiable.

Every moment he’s away, you’re thinking of him, longing for the moment he’ll appear in your room and rip your clothes off. If anyone else in the palace — staff, servants, associates — are aware of what’s going on, they don’t give it away. And that suits you just fine.

You can’t get enough. You’re giddy with it. Giddy from the multiple, interesting circumstances you’ve landed yourself in.

Like when you lured him out of a meeting and dropped to your knees in a fucking broom closet, taking his cock into your mouth until he was canting his hips forward and spilling down your throat. Or when he fucked you on the balcony of his personal quarters, your body pressed up against the balustrade, the two of you open to the elements and your moans loud enough to reach the stars above you and the city below you. Or when he took you to watch the ballet, and up in the cushy surrounds of your private viewing box, you watched the performance with him deep inside you, his fingers indolently playing with your clit, his low voice in your ear reminding you to keep quiet.

It’s…exciting. Enthralling. It changes everything.

And as he pulls out of you now, sweaty and panting, and collapses beside you in his bed, you’re not sure you could ever tire of this feeling.

He wants you. He wants you so ferociously, like nobody has ever wanted you before.

As you catch your breaths, he props his head up with his hand and stares at you through hooded eyes, glazed with lust. He leans down and grazes a kiss to your mouth.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he ponders as he pulls back, moving a hand to brush his fingers over your breast. “All this need — wanting you constantly.”

You lean up on your elbows, tilting your head, “Do you want it to stop?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Never.”

Never. Never is a very long time. It makes your stomach flip — the enormity of it.

Fin circles the tip of his forefinger around your pebbled nipple, watching with predatory fascination as he adds, “But this will, inevitably, blow up in our faces at some point. We haven’t exactly been secretive — not that I want to be. But people will talk.”

You lean up to brush your mouth over his. “Let them talk,” you say, and kiss him.

Immediately, he melts into the kiss. Your mouth seems to have an effect on him that you never thought yourself capable of. Always draws a long, pleasured sigh from him as he sinks into it, welcomes it.

He kisses you and kisses you, so greedily, so desperately. His hand snakes up to cup your cheek. He’s already hardening against your leg.

But he pulls away, dropping his forehead against yours. And he breathes, “Make a bargain with me.”

You trace a thumb over his bottom lip. You’ve never made a Night Court bargain before; never had reason to. “What bargain?”

“When this blows up in our faces,” he grips your hand, folding his own over it, “we face it together. You and I.”

“You and I?”

“You and I” he kisses your hand. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I don’t try to be. I can be brutal and callous, and I can lie and play games,” another kiss. “But not with you. Never with you. I will look after you. Take care of you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

Words that you’ve always longed for someone to say to you. Words that should not be taken lightly, should not be said without meaning.

But you know he means them. You can tell he does.

You watch closely as your fingers interlace with his. And you whisper, “Together?”

Fin’s thumb sweeps over yours. “Together. We’ll face it together.”

“Then it’s a bargain.”

A flash of splintering pain zips around your midriff. You glance down to find the tattoo now inked there. The black line that draws a perfect circle around your waist, like a trail of night-kissed lightning.

You look up at Fin to find a roguish smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, I like that,” he hums.

And then he’s leaning down and pressing kisses to that circlet signifying your promise to one another. Kisses the entirety of it, flipping you on your front in the process.

And kisses lower, until you’re screaming for him again.

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-a-girlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

[cinnamonest]

I've been thinking more about promiscuous darlings which led me to the idea of prostitute!darling, and I was thinking about that like in that event a while back where Paimon says Kaveh seems like “the kind of guy that would be easy to take advantage of” and it got me thinking how quickly and readily he would fall in love with a prostitute… literally lured and baited as easily as a fish to a hook.

He doesn't like the thought of what he's doing, initially. He's never been the sort of person who associates with morally questionable things — he’s heard that a lot of those girls don't really want to be doing it, they just need money, so participating would be taking advantage of them, wouldn't it? He couldn't do something so awful.

But he's got a lot of pent up frustration. His work is hard, he's not in a good place financially, he's stressed, pent up, and has no outlet for release. And even if he strives to be a good person, he's still a guy, still has urges that, when gone unmet, only contribute to that frustration.

In hindsight, he feels like something possessed him. Couldn't say exactly what caused him to take a course of action so far removed from what he would have thought was his personal character.

It's just a particularly bad day, after particularly disagreeable clients spent a particularly long time endlessly getting in his face and complaining and snapping at him, he worked particularly late and is particularly frustrated and seething and wallowing as he sulks home so late at night, and he's particularly irritated because some construction going on forces him to take a different route home, and—

You just so happen to call out to him. And when he turns his head, he immediately stiffens up.

So pretty. You have that specific body type he’s always found most alluring, always pictured in his head when he would lay in bed and jerk off all day after classes. And he can certainly tell, because those outfits you girls on this part of the street wear certainly leave very little to the imagination. So much skin, he can see your entire leg, from the hip down to the ankles and all the curving along the way, he can see most of your tits too, cleavage spilling out from the top. It's immediately captivating. If he was thinking straight, he would suppose that's kind of the point, but he's too lost in the sudden burst of stimulation to his eyes to think about much at all.

You have such a nice smile, such a sweet voice. And now that you have his attention, you put on that whimsical feminine charm, shift your weight from one foot to the other, hips swaying all playfully, and he has to ask you to repeat what you said because he didn't hear you the first time, he was too distracted, and it feels so embarrassing to say that, but you just giggle — it's so cute — and repeat your question — if he wants to come inside.

He swallows, stumbles over his words at the prospect, you're being very forward — oh, wait, you probably mean come inside the building. Oh… that makes more sense, at this stage in the process. Whoops…

But that isn't much better. He's still red in the face and hesitates, all uh, ah, I, um, I just…

Yes, he isn't sure exactly what possesses him. It’s not something he would ever do on his own, surely. It feels more like the word comes out of his mouth on its own.

Sure.

The following events seem almost surreal, in hindsight. He can't remember what you even talked about, some empty meaningless conversation about what he does for a living or if he's been around this area before, some placeholder of a conversation that he knows full well is merely a courtesy to make it all feel a little more natural, empty words that are mutually understood to be just a buffer to prevent awkwardness as you walk up the stairs, to fill the short span of time before you get to the point.

He remembers said point a lot better. Long after it's over, he can remember the feeling of your mouth on his, and the way you pulled on the back of his neck to pull him on top of you, the rush of euphoric chemicals to the brain the moment you pulled just one little button undone and the whole thing you're wearing comes falling off, the visual of your body (he’s never actually seen a girl naked in real life before, it’s so captivating, the anatomy textbooks don’t do it justice), and the way your tits bounce with the movements and the way they feel in his mouth and the image of his cock driving into you over and over (no one ever told him it feels so warm and wet, so good, has he really been missing out on this all this time?) and the sounds you made are practically permanently burned into his brain.

So much so, he keeps thinking about it for days on end. He felt kind of sad when he left, but he knows that he only paid for a limited time slot, so it would be unfair to ask to stay any longer, but the way you smiled and waved and told him you hoped to see him again — still naked, body pressed up against the doorframe, the way your chest shifted when you waved — made him feel so warm, made his heart beat fast all over again.

It's all so distracting. He works at a much slower pace than usual, the following days, keeps getting distracted by the lingering visuals in his head and the way he keeps getting hard whenever he thinks about it, and not to mention the guilt.

Yes, as euphoric as it was, he feels terrible. Like he's done something wrong. Swears to himself that he'll forget about it and never do it again, that it was a one-time thing.

But he begins to rationalize it to himself.

Sure, you do it because you need money, but that means that if no one participated in the exchange, then you wouldn't make any money at all, and that would be worse, right? Besides, everyone knows some of those guys that engage in this sort of thing are terrible, mean people — but he's not, he's a really nice guy! So by seeing you, by being the one to buy your time, he's protecting you from potentially having to do it with really bad men. So, when you think about it, he's actually doing something really good.

And it improves his life, too. The next day, he finds that the nagging clients don't really get under his skin at all. Sure, they're complaining and being mean to him, but he's not really paying attention, it all feels far away, like it's not even real. He just feels full of this warm, fuzzy feeling, total bliss, like floating, without a care in the world. He isn't stressed, isn't worried. He even thinks to himself that, you know what, that task or that work can wait until tomorrow, no rush, and if someone gets mad about it, too bad.

He ends up just laying in bed, grinning like an idiot, basking in the euphoric high that lasts him several days on end.

…Except then, it fades away.

Soon he's back to the stress, constant state of being overwhelmed, the little things start to upset him again, and he actually feels more miserable than he did before, now that he has such a good feeling to compare to.

You said you hope he comes back, didn’t you? And he’s pretty sure he stuttered out an o-oh, okay, so now he’s obligated.

Thus, soon enough, he's back.

It's not like he's intentionally seeking you out. He just felt like walking home a different way today, is all, which just so happens to be the route that took him by you last time, and he has no intention of seeing you, it just so happens to be the case that you are standing around outside and you do happen to see him and you choose to call out to him (by his name!! You remember him!!), you're smiling and have such a sweet voice, you clearly want him to come in (do you like him? You wouldn't be smiling if you didn't, right?) and it would be mean of him to reject you, wouldn't it?

Yes, you're clearly happy. You smile all over again. He's not doing anything wrong, it's only wrong if the girl doesn't like doing it. He would never taken advantage of one of those vulnerable girls that's forcing herself to do it for money. But you're not like that, so it's okay.

Which is how he ends up back there a third time. Because it's okay, and it makes you happy, and it makes him very happy, so it's all okay.

And besides, what you two have is different. It's not like the normal cases, where the girl is just in it for money and doesn't want the guy at all. You clearly enjoyed your time with him. Probably a welcome relief from all the gross old guys you have to see.

And it's different because it's not just sex. Normally, with this sort of thing, it's cold and impersonal, isn't it?

But you smile so sweet and run your fingers through his hair, and cradle his head in your arms and pull him close and coo and fuss and run your fingers down his back. And since he intends to pay for the entire night this time, you get to just lay there together, and you're so warm and soft and you smile and giggle as he talks, so pretty, so nice to him, your skin is so good to touch, you smell so nice.

And the sex itself is different too — you like it, genuinely, he can tell, you make such nice sounds and lewd faces and look directly into his eyes and pull his head forward to kiss him (he one heard someone say that prostitutes never kiss clients, so if you do that it must mean he's different), and you hold him so close and tighten up around him and it feels so so so so good, and the way you quiver and the sounds get louder and you squeal and spasm and it's so so SO good, too good, it feels so passionate that it has to be real.

Yes, it is real. It's not just acting. He can feel the slick wetness all over his hips from you, that means it's real. And you don't even mind when he gets a bit lost in the feeling, starts to really let all the pent-up irritation out, gets rougher and harder and holds you by your throat. He feels so terrible after he cums and realizes what he was doing, keeps sputtering out apologies over and over, but you smile and wave your hand and say it's more than fine, giggle and kiss his forehead, say you wouldn't expect it from such a sweet boy like him, but you like it. If you're fine with it, if you like it, then you're not scared he might actually hurt you. You must really trust him, then.

The downside is that now, work feels so miserable. He keeps thinking about how much he wants to go back to you. Each project feels like torture — why is he here, negotiating with these disagreeable people, slaving away all night, when he could be balls deep in you again, hear your voice, feel your touch?

And he starts to get so irritated and frustrated again, and he finds that this time around, he doesn't have to sit there and let the frustration hit a peak before deciding to do something, he doesn't have to rationalize it for hours on end just to allow himself to give into the urge — the moment the frustration rises, his mind immediately settled on the decision. He has to go see you. You'll make everything better.

Except now, he realizes as he reaches into his drawers, there's a different problem.

…He has no money left.

That means he can't see you. He spent all his savings on you last time.

It makes him feel sick. This can't be happening. What is he supposed to do? He can't just go back to dealing with the frustration all the time! Now that he knows what it's like to be so happy, he can't go without it. He needs it.

It's not just the sex itself, he's not some kind of degenerate, he wants to see you! That's wholesome and good, isn't it? So it’s not like he’s some sort of pervert addicted to sex itself, he’s addicted to you.

And besides, if he isn't there for you, you'll have to deal with other men, and most guys who see prostitutes are bad guys, right? What if one of them hurts you? What if you're expecting him to come, and then you'll feel hurt and sad if he doesn't? You'll be disappointed. He can't let that happen.

So where is he supposed to get money from…?

Well. He has a few means, as he starts to brainstorm a bit. Right, there is a small stash of emergency money he had put away at the bottom of another drawer, that he was saving for a situation where he needed it, but put it away so he wouldn't be tempted to spend it on something unnecessary.

But this isn't like that. It is necessary, for him to continue functioning properly. And for you to have the money to get by! Not only is he guaranteeing your safety for the night, but what if you didn't get anyone if he didn't come? Well, it's unlikely no one would come, but still, you might not make enough money, and what happens then? Don't those guys that own the brothels get really mean to the girls that don't make enough? He can't have that happen. So, this situation absolutely justifies the use of the emergency stash. It's enough to give him another three nights or so. He can just use enough money for one visit, and then by the time he needs another one, he'll have brought in some new money.

No, no, you know what? You need it more than he does. He just gives it all to you at once, and to be honest, it does make his heart skip a beat when your eyes widen in shock. This way, he can reserve the next three nights in a row, right? He originally intended to space them out a bit, but, no, he’s already here, and he’s really needy right now, he’ll just do three nights in a row and figure out how to get more later. He'll just pay upfront. You're so happy. It makes him feel good.

And then, as the night goes on, when you're laying there all curled up together talking about all sorts of things, he off-handedly mentions that you wear that dress of yours all the time, he's never seen you without it, is it your favorite?

And then you get this sheepish look on your face, give an awkward laugh, say that well, you don't really have any other clothes, you sold them all to get by before you ended up here, and you give so much back to the owners that you just don't have enough to get any more…

That's so sad. Poor thing. You can't just not have enough clothes… well, he only has a few things he changes back and forth himself, but girls are really into clothes and stuff, aren't they? You deserve to have nice things, it's sad that you don't get to. He keeps it in mind, says he promises he'll get you something. You say he doesn’t have to. You’re so sweet and considerate. That just makes him want to help you even more.

So when his next project is complete and he gets the payout for it, sure, he only needs about half of it to pay you for one or two nights each week for the next month, and he could get you something cheap and still have a little left over for rent, but… you deserve nice stuff. And the nice stuff would make you so much happier, too, it would earn him favor from you… besides, he has another project he'll finish soon, he can just pay late rent using that.

So he can get the nice stuff. Besides, even shopping exclusively for higher-end stuff, it's still a bit cheaper to buy the super revealing clothes, since they use less fabric. Not that he's a pervert or anything, it's just that you need clothes like that for your job, don't you? It's part of how you lure guys in. The fact that you'll look really nice in it to him is just a side bonus, it's really for your sake.

…Which, actually, does make him feel a bit sick to his stomach. He's getting you clothes that you'll use to hook other guys who aren't him. But, no, he's a mature person, he can't… let himself get upset about something like that… it’s not your fault… he'll just choose to not think about it.

He can distract himself with how happy you are. Your eyes light up and you smile so big and you stand on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his face all over. You're happy. You're really, really happy, because of him, he made you happy, his heart is beating so fast, and when you put them on it shows off even more than he thought it would, you can almost see everything, it just barely covers the bare minimum and you seem to really like that, you pull him close and reach a leg up behind him and pull his hips forward and the rest of the night is a hazy blur of lust and euphoria, you're so happy, and he's happy too.

It feels so good. He's been missing out on this all these years. It's the best feeling of anything in the world. He's so, so happy.

He's so happy that people in his life start to comment on it. They ask if something good happened, they say they're glad he seems less stressed. He just shrugs it off, says he's just been feeling better recently, or makes something up about a different change in habits.

And sure, he has to tell Alhaitham that he won't have rent just this one time, it's just that something came up, although he won't specify what it is, but he makes it sound important — not dishonestly, because it is important, it's just that he knows that the first assumption one would make would he something a bit… more important, but if that assumption is made, that's not his fault.

Nonetheless, he's soon out of money again. Gets hit with the same wave of panic. He's got a routine now, a habit, he's dependent on you for his stress. He needs it. If he doesn't get what he needs, how is he supposed to go on? How is he supposed to function? He can't just use his hand anymore, it's not enough, it doesn't have the same effect. And he can't just beg you to sleep with him anyway, he knows you need money, he would never put you in that situation, it would be unfair to you, he's a better man than that. He has to pay you somehow.

He has some things he doesn't need. Tools he hasn't used in ages. Some stuff he hasn't worn or needed in a long time. He can sell a few things.

And, you know what, this client has been really mean to him anyway, so if he cuts a few corners to get paid a bit earlier, it's no big deal, the guy doesn't deserve his best work anyway. It’s a mentality he normally would never take, but… this is different. This is a unique situation that calls for such measures.

And he's taken out loans before from the bank, usually for projects, and he usually pays it back, so they undoubtedly assume it's just another case of that, so he'll take out a decently sized loan… of course, he may need more money for more upcoming projects, and then they won't give him a new loan until he pays back the old one, but… well, he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

And normally, he would never, ever, ever do something bad, he's a person who prides himself on his moral values, but it's not like he's doing something bad in this case, its just pure coincidence that he happens to find some guy’s wallet dropped on the ground. It just so happens to have a lot of money in it. And he returns the wallet itself into the nearest law enforcement, he gives the object itself and all the IDs and such back. He's sure the rightful owner would pay him for the good deed anyway. And when you think about it, the fact that this would happen to him just when he needed it, it's probably some kind of divine grace that this happened, and who is he to deny what the higher powers gift him with?

He can keep making it work. And he can keep buying out larger and larger blocks of your time, to ensure no one else gets to you — after that one time he arrived to find out you were already occupied for the time being, it practically made his blood boil, made him feel so sick he walked home and couldn't get the images out of his mind of you with someone else, he can't let that happen again, it would kill him inside.

Likewise, he has to get a bit more earnings, take on some more jobs, sacrifice some more sleep because you keep hinting at certain things you want, and if he doesn't buy them for you, who will? It's all stuff you need anyway — well, stuff you need for your job, all the fancy jewelry and perfumes and clothes and stuff. And he gets benefits, too — your love and favor, you take initiative more, you ride him and kiss him more and let him do all sorts of filthy things you don't let anyone else do (he knows because you told him so), you even let him stop wearing protection when he sleeps with you, and it's so much better, it's completely different, he can't go back to the old way, having to be deprived of that warm, wet heat would be utterly miserable. You even give him a night or two for free, because you like him so much, tell him it should be a secret just between you two, okay? Of course, you can't do it all for free, so he has to come back again soon, but you know, this way, he'll stay incentivized, which is good — because you want him to come back because you like him, not for money, no, never that.

You tell him he's your favorite. You say that he makes you happy. You say you would be heartbroken if he ever stopped coming. You say that you need him.

You say that you love him.

He feels like he's going to die of happiness right there on the spot.

You mention that if someone just paid off your price to the owner (said buying price is whatever the owner decides), plus the debt you accumulate from staying here (it's well known that those fees are how they trap these poor girls into endless servitude), then you would be free — that if someone just pays for you, you could be free to do what you want, that you could sleep with him every day, you could even get married.

So he has to do it. He feels bad about the concept of buying a human being, but, his situation is different, because he's a good guy and loves you. Besides, the sooner he does, then the sooner you'll never have sex with anyone but him ever again. He's saving you, really.

And if he doesn't, what if someone else does? What if someone else took you away from him? He can't even imagine it. The very notion makes him feel nauseous, panicked, distraught. He can't let that happen.

It's not unfeasible. If he really budgets well, saves just a little at a time, he can get you out in no time. Just a year or so. He'll start saving.

And sure, he hasn't paid rent in a while now, and he gets these questions of where his money is going, why he's leaving late at night when he never did that before, all these pesky questions he shouldn't have to answer, because it's none of your business, as he mutters in response. He's just got too much going on right now, and strapped for cash, he'll pay it back eventually, that's what matters.

…Which also makes him realize that, even if he does buy you, you'll have to just come live here with him, and how is he supposed to explain that to Alhaitham… he can just say he got a girlfriend, right? Still, people might recognize you, he'd find out eventually, and then he'd probably realize all the missed rent payments were actually going to him getting laid, and that's… not good… he just wouldn't understand, he's totally lacking in any understanding of romanticism or love… such unfeeling pragmatists are so annoying to deal with… he'll just have to deal with that when it happens…

Except it does end up happening sooner than later. Someone or another (some jerk who can't keep their mouth shut, he'll find out eventually), must have seen him around at night, going to you, and that same person must have reported on him (like a grade school tattletale crying to a teacher, hmph!) and that's how he eventually gets confronted, point blank (absolutely no sense of tact or appropriateness!), one night as he’s trying to leave to go see you, but finds the other blocking the door.

Are you blowing your money on a whore?

Of course, before addressing the matter directly, it's important to point out that it is rude to call women terms like that, they are prostitutes and they deserve to be respected as much as anyone else—

So you are.

Which starts off a much bigger, longer, more heated argument, in which he tries to explain that no he’s not dodging the question and that it is not prostitution, you two are in a relationship, you just so happen to also be a prostitute, but he's trying to help you change that— hey, what's with the sighing like that and rubbing the bridge of his nose like he's exasperated? It's true! You even said you love him!

Okay, yes, maybe it's true that they all say that, but in this case, you mean it, you're different, he wouldn't get it.

And sure, the whole thing is probably surprising from him of all people— what do you mean it's not that surprising? What's that supposed to mean? What— who are you calling an “ideal target”?! That's so mean! You—

And despite his best efforts, there is no point in trying to use reason with someone so cold and devoid of capacity to understand love. It's futile. How pessimistic, so annoying. Besides, he's implying you're a bad person, and he can't stand for that. No, you're not using him, how could he say that?

Eventually it becomes very clear that the conversation is going nowhere, it's very much like talking to a brick wall, someone who just refuses to even try and understand what you two have. No matter. Fine, fine, he'll focus on paying back rent first, but then he's going to buy you, and then he'll see firsthand how loving you are (and surely will not charge him extra for another person living in the house, as he was just threatened with)… he'll see. Eventually.

[m00nsbaby]

Clumsy II.

Marc Spector + Steven Grant x F! Reader. Next part to "Clumsy." (Or Already Over IV)

Tags & warnings. You already know the deal lol + Marc is still a jerk. (Sorry btw) This is the last part of the mini saga. :)

Word count. 2.9k

Summary.

I let you down, I've been clumsy with your heart again, I guess you figured me out, Now here's a taste of my own medicine. Caught at the end of the lifeline, The catch of a lifetime. Oh, we were destined for danger, Familiar strangers.

Everything you had done for the past 2 years had been for Steven, reaching the point of having him as motivation to get out of bed.

Unfortunately, this day was no different. If you had managed to muster the courage to stand up and accept Jake's unusual invitation, it was purely for him.

The part about choosing a nice dress was a personal choice, though.

"So, then…?"

"4 o'clock sounds perfect." His voice was soft on the other end of the line. Not quite like Steven's, but Jake's voice had something… special.

Something that could make your cheeks blush just by hearing it.

"4 o'clock at your apartment then."

"Steven is excited." The mention churned your stomach.

Truth be told, you had been on autopilot for quite a while, even before Jake made his proposal. There were small details that brought you back to reality, even if it was just for a few seconds—seconds in which you physically felt the consequences.

"I'll see you in a bit, Jake." You hung up. You couldn't set his expectations too high. This wasn't going to be a romantic reunion or your way of saying, 'Everything's okay, it was just a misunderstanding.' Instead, it was your way of bringing closure to things with Marc. If it weren't for Jake, he would still cling to the idea that he doesn't need you in his life.

Knowing that at least more than one person was on your side had given you the strength to face it, and to question whether maybe you weren't the one who was wrong in this situation.

"It won't be long, buddy." You told your cat as he nudged his nose towards you. He meowed back. "Take care of the house, okay?"

Marc had been inconsolable for about two weeks now, and the news of Jake's arrival weighed heavier on him than any of the three would have liked.

It was just another way of reminding himself how messed up he was. If getting used to Steven had been an ordeal, this would probably be World War II.

He would scream at himself in the mirror or break anything that could show his reflection, depending on his mood. Meanwhile, Steven felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He stopped being the one who took care of Marc, at least for a few days, and he had time to experience his grief as it should be.

Jake was compassionate towards both of them. He somehow understood what they were going through.

"I don't want her here!" He drank from his whiskey, savoring the burn in his throat.

It was 11 in the morning. His hand moved on its own, throwing the bottle to the ground, shattering it into a million pieces.

"Idiot," he growled.

Steven said nothing, only chuckled to himself at the mere idea that Marc probably looked insane.

He'd let him argue with Jake as much as he wanted.

"It's for your own good." It was the only thing he heard back in his head, and Marc had to put both hands over his face as a way to console himself. He was drunk, with a terrible headache, and a strong urge to give up on life, although lately, that was nothing out of the ordinary. "Give me the body."

He accepted it without protest, and even the strongest of the three groaned at the sudden dizziness and the awful state in which Marc always left the body whenever he had it in his possession.

He showered, cleaned up. Did everything the other two hadn't been doing during these sick days, even answered your call.

And when he was done, his leg trembled up and down as he stared at the clock on his wall, which showed the exact 23 minutes left until your arrival.

And despite being the most prepared of the three, he nearly jumped in fright when you knocked on his door. Exactly three times to let him know it was you, something he learned from your secret techniques with Steven.

When he opened the door, both of you exchanged smiles, which was unusual. Yours was nervous, shouting 'I'm glad to see you but I fear what might happen,' and his, on the other hand, seemed quite excited.

Even more so when you hugged each other as a way of greeting, even if the contact only lasted a few seconds.

"I'm glad you came," he whispered as he closed the door behind you.

"I told you I would."

"Yes, I… yes." He cleared his throat; he could feel the burn as if he was still drinking whiskey. "Come in, let's go to the bedroom."

You filled your lungs with oxygen, enjoying the scent of Steven before nodding slowly.

"Is Marc going to…?"

"Yes." He interrupted instantly, biting his lower lip as if he was hiding something. He directed you to his bedroom, although you already knew the paths within his house perfectly well. "I need you to listen to me and trust me."

You frowned.

"Huh?" You entered his room slowly. And he closed the door behind you.

Your expression became even more confused when you saw him lock the door.

"Sorry, there's no way he won't escape if I don't do this."

"Jake?"

"Sorry," he repeated, stepping back.

Forcing the switch between them was always uncomfortable, especially when he had to put in double the effort to get Marc out, as he clung to hiding. Unfortunately for him, Jake was stronger.

You noticed the change in his expression almost immediately. You would recognize that furrowed brow anywhere, and while it looked slightly puzzled, he didn't take long to place himself.

When his gaze settled on you, Marc could swear his heart stopped.

He had spent so much time dreaming of you that he completely forgot certain details about you that were undoubtedly better in person.

"Marc?" You whispered shyly, almost fearfully. You hadn't seen him since he cruelly broke up with you.

Your heart raced, even after all the damage he had done to you.

"I have to… Uh." The air got stuck in his lungs. After several seconds of staring at you, he averted his gaze, stumbling clumsily over his feet to the door.

He tried to open it but it didn't give way. Jake had done his job well. He gave it another tug and grew even more nervous.

"Marc!" You called for his attention, your brow furrowing. Barely 3 seconds together and you were already losing patience.

This wasn't going well.

"What?!"

"Stop it!" Finally, he looked at you, and in a matter of seconds, it seemed like his eyes had welled up with fear. Did he fear you? You, who had to tilt your chin up to look him in the face because he was noticeably taller than you. "Stop it." You repeated, this time in a low tone.

"I don't want to talk to you, I won't."

Ouch.

"Either that or you'll have to break down the door, and Steven won't…"

"Steven doesn't even talk to me!" The sudden way he raised his voice made you jump slightly, and you pressed your lips together at the news.

Would it be wrong to admit that this was something you were expecting? You remained silent for a few seconds, and you swore you could hear his ragged breathing, as if he had the right to be angry with you.

"Jake won't let you out unless we do this now." You cleared your throat as you crossed your arms over your chest.

He cursed internally at how adorable you looked in that gesture.

"You and I have nothing left to talk about."

His words sent a wave of heat through your whole body.

"What did you say, Marc?"

"That you and I do…"

"You're an idiot," you whispered with a sarcastic laugh, and he finally fell silent. It had been so long since his ego had been hurt that he almost felt good about the slight pain in his chest. "You hurt me. Like no one ever did before."

He fell silent, waiting for you to continue, but he didn't let his guard down. You could see it in his irritated expression.

“You blamed me for… You blamed me for loving Steven. You let me live with the burden of thinking that I had destroyed your life.”

"You did." He whispered. It was visible how tense his body was, and you laughed sarcastically again at his words.

"Don't give me that, Marc Spector." You spat his name out with resentment. It was the first time you allowed yourself to be angry with him after forcing empathy for him for so long. "You got what you wanted. Layla? Your life made out of lies? Pushing Steven away from you?"

His expression finally wavered, even if it was only for a few seconds.

"Layla left me."

The news hit you like a bucket of cold water.

That made everything make more sense. The sudden appearance of Jake, his insistence on you talking to them, coming back. They were using you as a second option now that they had nothing left, trying to get you back as if nothing happened.

After all, you had always been the foolish one at Marc's service, willing to give up everything for him whenever he asked.

This wouldn't be one of those times.

You gathered all the strength you had in your small body to push him with both hands. He barely stepped back, stumbling in surprise at your sudden attempt to attack.

"I hate you!" Your voice broke.

His heart raced as if he had run a marathon, yet he didn't say anything.

"I hate you, Marc!" You sobbed, giving him another push. This time he didn't even move.

He stood still, and his hands trembled.

"Why are you doing this to me?" You were still the only one speaking. You sounded devastated, even more so than the day when you almost begged him for a chance. "Why?"

And, as usual, you got no answer. In fact, you got nothing; Marc wasn't even looking at you.

The truth was, despite having to deal with Steven and Layla telling him these kinds of things, coming from you was… worse. It was like a doubly more horrible shock therapy. The pain in your voice was something he had never heard before, and the truth was, he never wanted to hear it again.

You were choking him without even laying your hands on him. The words wouldn't come out, and his feet were rooted to the ground; he couldn't even look at you.

"You're killing me, Marc." You whispered as if the strength had left you. After receiving nothing from him, you knew it wasn't worth fighting, not with him. "You don't want to be with me." Admitting it aloud left a bitter taste in your mouth. "But you won't let me go. Don't you realize what you're doing?"

It was you, as usual, who crouched down. You sought his gaze, regardless of the mess you were in.

He looked back at you, and you waited.

You waited, and you waited.

When time passed, you knew what his answer was. Marc would never take a risk, or at least he wouldn't do it for you. He was too stubborn, and you doubted that he would ever lower his eternal guard.

The day Steven begged on his knees not to leave hurt, but somehow it was worse to receive silence from Marc. Knowing how little you mattered to him based on his actions.

"I understand," you whispered, wiping your tears with the back of your thumb. "Jake? Can you let me out?"

You reached out to grab the door handle, and he grabbed your wrist.

"Let go of me."

It sounded like a threat.

He, once again, didn't respond; he tugged on your wrist and almost made you let out a shriek as you collided with his chest.

Marc was so quick that you didn't even have a chance to react when his free hand positioned itself on your chin, pressing it between his fingers and holding it firmly.

Yet, you didn't protest; you let him guide you until his lips met yours. There was your answer.

When they finally kissed, tears welled up in your eyes again. In fact, you suddenly felt like you were drowning against his mouth, as if you wanted to groan but refused to break the contact between you two.

"I hate you," you said with difficulty against his mouth, trying to convince yourself of what you had said. He just made a small 'hmm' sound against your lips.

Apparently, neither of you trusted your words.

He let go of your wrist when he made sure you no longer wanted to touch the doorknob, but he continued to hold your chin. Eventually, he also took you by the waist and brought you even closer if that was possible.

His kisses were rough, so forceful that for a moment you doubted this body was the same as that of your ex-partner. Steven had never been like this. You also wondered if this was just a result of pain and desperation, or if his kisses were always like this.

With just two steps, your body was squeezed between his and the wall.

"I love you."

Your stomach turned.

"I love you." His kisses didn't allow you to respond. You wouldn't know this, but his fear wouldn't allow him to hear what you might say about it. "I love you." His fingers tightened their grip on your chin. "I love you." He sounded desperate. In pain.

You responded to each of his kisses, and you noticed that he needed a few more seconds to find calm.

"She left me because she knows I love you." He said quickly when he finally gave you a chance to breathe. His forehead rested against yours, and those big brown eyes were fixed on you. "S-She knows… She realized that…" He stammered. There was nothing more horrible for Marc Spector than expressing his feelings, giving explanations. "S-She…”

You were worth it.

You were worth throwing his pride to the wind.

"You took my heart when you left. You took everything." He admitted in a whisper and didn't receive an answer by his own choice.

He kissed you again as if his life was slipping through his fingers.

You didn't talk for the rest of the afternoon. You received all the kisses he had to give, and he allowed himself to feel your delicate hands on him. Massaging his shoulders at times or stroking his curls as you used to do for Steven.

His heart skipped a beat when he realized that you were doing it for him this time. You were taking care of him.

"Did you miss me?" His voice was so sweet that even with your face flushed from crying, you managed to smile.

Everything was so easy with Steven.

"I already told you I did." You laughed like a little girl who was recovering from a scolding or perhaps a tantrum. You even felt lightheaded, just like in many childhood instances when you had cried until your throat begged for a break.

"How much?" His fingers traced your waist, and you sighed at the familiarity of the sensation.

"With all my heart."

His eyes lit up at your words. Poor Steven had been through so much that he could swear this was a mirage or an illusion from his brain. There was no way you were really there in front of him.

As beautiful as ever.

"I bet I missed you more." You laughed again, specifically because you knew he meant it. You missed that smile so much that you decided to agree with him. You placed a hand on his cheek and nodded.

"I bet you did, love."

Steven could have burst with happiness right then and there.

"I have to go home, Steven." You spoke again, your thumb gently pressed against his cheek, right where his smile ended.

The news hit him hard. So much that you almost wanted to laugh.

He was terrified that you wouldn't come back, that you would consider this just a momentary mistake and nothing more.

"B-But I…"

"Sekhmet is alone." You corrected him with a slight smile, trying to give him the confidence he seemed to urgently need.

He nodded silently, looking like a sad puppy.

"Do you want to come with me?" Ah, there it was. His eyes were on you again as if he couldn't believe your offer.

No wonder you had never doubted Steven's love. The guy looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever seen, even after everything that had happened, not to mention the 300 times he had apologized to you for something he hadn't done.

"Can I, love?"

"You can spend the night there."

Silence. Seconds of silence before he nodded so quickly that his curls fell onto his face, making you laugh.

A genuine laughter that lit up your entire face, much like the one he had caused on your last date when he lifted you up in his arms and Sekhmet entered their lives.

Steven felt his heart skip a beat and his cheeks turn rosy.

"Let's go!" He gave you a little nudge, and you laughed again. "Jake can drive."

[tonkatsubowl]

reminiscent.

blade x trailblazer!fem!reader ⿸ xianzhou spoilers. nsfw themes (violence, etc). read at your own risk. angst. kinda possessive? ish? feels. :3c english isn't my first language, so please don't mind the grammatical errors. (っ◞‸◟ c)

⪩ when our beloved trailblazer confronts kafka at xianzhou during the awakening of the ambrosian tree, they are stopped by blade. but something is...different about the situation.

TERM DIRECTORY ◖y/n: your name ◖e/c: eye color ◖h/c: hair color

the blossoming of the ambrosian tree was a beautiful, welcoming scene of chaos. the flutters of golden petals that flew and chased each other about, along with the anxious murmurs of the civilians that witnessed the very growth of mother nature.

despite the beauty of it all, it was a gateway to a distant battle ahead. a distant battle with a followed path that only welcomed a series of mystery, loss and war. and all of it was planned.

planned for you, our starring guest, at the very least.

but... how long had it been since he saw you?

amnesia was a bitch. he was fully aware of your inability to remember anything about yourself or your past but kafka's and silver wolf's appearance, and your awakening. how you were recruited by the express team, how you were practically destined to figure this out on your own...how you are on the path to save multiple worlds but at a cost of many. you were doing this without being able to remember anything, only to depend on those that you could call 'friends'. but...could you remember him? the time you spent together with him before you lost everything? the love you two shared? old promises that could possibly be broken today?

...it doesn't matter. focus on the mission. focus on getting kafka the fuck out, and―

no, he couldn't.

not when he finally saw you.

when you ran after kafka when she made her escape, his signature weapon was unsheathed, pointed directly at you, forcing you to stop in your tracks.

"wait―!" you called out to kafka, but you felt something tug at your heartstrings. both fear, sorrow and happiness stirred inside of you...but you didn't know why.

although you were quite fixated on kafka's escape, it was like you were greeted with something more... more important than the mission itself. more than everything else in this world. that's what you felt, at least. maybe your friends didn't seem to think so, but... you certainly did.

"...huh?" you froze, and so did the world around you. your heartstrings continued to pull, and your heart began to race. you felt tears coming up, burning through your eyes as you fixated on the mere appearance of blade. you were confused...why were you feeling like this? why did you have a sudden urge to embrace this stranger that you never once met before? you felt your body move on its own, but you were stubborn.

you did not budge. not one bit.

but you were struggling. and he could see that.

...but he was struggling too. the man did not want to move, but he was in desperate need to grab you, to take you into his arms, to love on you like the old days,.

he lowered his sword, his eyes softening from the mere sight of you. you haven't changed one bit. you were always so beautiful, always so clever and always yourself. but now, things were different. you were still you, in a way, but you weren't there. you were no longer by his side. you were now living and fighting alongside with the express team.

something about this man, something about him... you tried to remember. but you can't. why can't you remember? you were able to remember some vivid images of his face in your mind but...it wasn't enough. just what is he? why can't you remember him? just―

"...who are you?" a soft whisper protrudes from your lips as you quietly took a step closer, knowing you were stepping into enemy territory. at this rate, he could stab you. he could lop that head of yours and call it a day. that's how dangerously close you both were from each other.

the man did not say anything in response, but the dull emotion visible through is golden oculars told a thousand stories.

...but he couldn't just let this go. he can't let you go. nobody else can have you. if your memories are erased? so be it. he can make new ones with you.

not when this was probably the only time he could see you like this. in person.

at least you were safe and sound. at least the express crew did something right he could agree with. they were keeping you safe, fed, clothed and they were taking care of you. something that he couldn't do.

taking a step closer, blade took you by your arm gently, tossing away the sword as a metallic clang echoed as it collided against the floor.

"ah―" his hands traveled to your waist and your shoulders, reeling you into a fiery, passionate kiss. he was hungry. to your confusion, you reciprocated this affection, as though you were accustomed to it. familiar to it. even so, you fought back due to your amnesia. your unfamiliarity to it all. "w-wait―"

you were unable to stop him or yourself, allowing your body to speak for you. that was when a hitched breath escaped you, your countenance flaring with warm, a flash of redness washing over your features as his lips came crashing onto the side of your neck. there were important matters to attend to, but you are his world. everything else didn't matter.

just you, and him.

"ah... w-wait...! wh―" you mewled, shuddering at this lips and teeth nibbling into the soft skin of your neck. he didn't listen, and neither did your body. you wanted this. you wanted him. you felt incited from all of this. heated, even. but even all good things come to an end.

he gently pushed you away, golden opticals eyeing at the mark he left you on your bare skin. a sweet little bruise accompanied by the markings of his teeth. a few drops of blood here and there, but it didn't quite matter. that mark on your neck was to show who you belonged to. he knew that a certain vidyadhara had a crush on you, so giving you a mark on your neck would ruin everything for him. you belonged to blade, after all. and nobody could touch another man's treasure.

you breathed, your chest rising and falling from heated breaths. your cheeks were red, your eyes were a bit wide. what had happened? you were trying to process your thoughts.

licking his lips with a faint smirk, blade bent down to retrieve his sword, taking a step back.

"y/n." he finally decided to speak, taking another step back. "you don't remember anything. your amnesia your backbone. yet, your body remembers it all."

a grin. a malicious grin.

"even if you cannot remember me, my name, or the promises we made back then, i will say this," another step back, "no matter where you go, y/n, you rightfully belong to me, my love. you do not have a place by anyone's side but mine. we will see each other again," he turned his back towards you, "and once we do...it will be different."

"wait―!"

you reached your hand out to stop blade, but it was too late, he had already made his escape as well. leaping off the platform, he gracefully exited the premises with his comrade, leaving you starstruck and confused by the situation.

...despite your confusion, you were excited for the next encounter. you lifted a hand, placing it atop of the bruise that he left behind on that sweet neck of yours.

...right.

you were his.

[nana-mania]

“EVERYTHING FOR YOU” he is willing to give his everything to prove his love to you

╰┈➤: ̗̀➛ oneshot

࿐*ೃ feat : michael kaiser

࿐*ೃ fandom : blue lock

࿐*ೃ extra : gn! reader, fluff, soft! kaiser, i wrote this based on a theory of kaiser's past that had been going around on tiktok.

╰┈➤: ̗̀➛ REWARDED with a short vacation to take a break from soccer is a blessing for Michael and you. After all, he had been busy with his career as successful football player. Whenever he is given some days off, he will use the free time wisely by spending quality time with you.

Today, you and Michael venture into the city for a date. The first place you choose to visit is your favorite shopping complex. Michael just plays along with your plan, entering the shopping complex with you. Crowded with humans, countless noises resonated through the spacious, gigantic building.

Although Michael is displeased with the deafening environment, he is willing to put up with the inconveniences for you. You grab his hand and begin dragging him to a clothing store that successfully catches your attention.

“Look at all these clothes they got! Stylish, don't you think?” You excitedly show the said clothes to Michael. He is disinterested but smiles sweetly anyway, nodding his head in agreement. “You want it?” he asks, his voice as gentle as his love for you.

You shake your head before putting back the clothes to its rightful place. You continue to walk around giddily, wondering what to purchase. You're not attracted to the clothes anymore as your gaze now fix on a pair of shoes that happen to fit your fashion taste and liking. Picking them up, you earnestly check the price and your heart drops in an instant.

Michael sees your facial expression abruptly changes at the moment you witness the large amount of money you've to pay to fulfill your desire to own the shoes. Though he is yet to know the truth. Seeing you putting the shoes back urges him to ask in confusion, “Don't you want the shoes?” You stay quiet for a minute, faking a smile on your lips before turning to your boyfriend. “Too fancy for my taste.”

“Ahhh, nothing piques my interest. Let's leave, Michael.” You quickly change the topic to avoid more questions from Michael. Truthfully, you strongly wanted to own the shoes but your savings will be in crisis if you surrender to your selfishness. Hence, you hastily walk away from the shoes aisle with heavy heart.

Michael stares long at the shoes before secretly taking them along with him. He tails behind you in complete silence, not wanting to draw attention from you. Once you and him are about to walk past the cashier counter, you become aware of his sudden stop. Your attention shuffles to him at last, bewilderment clouds your face.

You're astonished to find the very shoes in his possession as he hands over a few bills to the cashier to pay for the shoes. You open your mouth to object his idea but he is quicker to react to the situation. Michael grasps your wrist then guides you out of the premise, bringing you to a secluded spot at the very end of a hallway leading to the restroom.

Michael casually gives a bag containing the shoes you wanted. You hesitantly take the bag from his hands, guilts evident in your gaze as your eyes lock on the bag. “Why did you buy the shoes? They are expensive.”

“You could have just asked me to buy the shoes for you.”

“I could never do that... That's your money-”

“I am your boyfriend. My very duty is to make you happy. Besides, did you forget my monthly salary? I can buy anything for you.”

You stare at his face, full with seriousness which is a rare occurrence. Michael is always seen smiling and smirking most of the time. For him to not display his significant stupid smirk feels unfamiliar to you. Michael sighs, his hand moving up to pat your head gently. “I know how you felt. Not being able to own something you badly wanted... Seriously frustrating and totally depressing.”

“But now I don't have to worry about that anymore. I changed my fate and build a life with more than stable income. It's time for me to treat myself...and my loved one.” Michael smiles warmly at you. “I will give you my everything to prove my love. Heck, if you ask me to buy a mansion right now..”

Michael chuckles heartily while smirking. “I will do so right away. We can finally live together as we should be doing from the beginning.” His teasing causes your face to heat up. You hug the bag and look away from him in embarrassment. “Thank you...for everything then,” you appreciatively thank him. Michael's smile widens at your words of gratitude.

“You're welcome, my love.”

࿐*ೃ thanks for reading this short scenario! likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

[box-architecture]

Hey by the way Punz is holding Dreams legs open and teasing Sam about the idea of them just letting anyone come by to use Dream like a toy and Sam is furiously snapping his hips into Dream, ignoring Dreams cries of too much in favor of forcing Dream to cum again and again and again until he learns who he belongs to and is ruined for anyone else but them.

Dream isn't meant for other people.

Sam likes being jealous and furious and possessive because Dream bends to him, let's him remind everyone else that Dream loves Sam and not them.

(And no matter how Punz teases and makes up these silly scenarios, Punz gets jealous too. Punz doesn't want other people to know Dream like he does. )

Dream enabling Sam. Dream isn't used to being so wanted. How can Dream not allow people to touch him just to let Sam hiss and claim him, like he was something worth claiming. How can Dream not want Sam's every touch, every assurance of love, after Sam's careless fucking in prison and allowance of torture. Dream melts and sighs and let's Sam do whatever he wants with him. Sam won't hurt him anymore. Sam loves him as much as Dream loves Sam. Dream used to let him touch him with the resignation that Sam would never be soft. Now he cries because Sam is trying to get him to cum untouched and is kissing his throat to worship the pulse underneath. Sam had owned him. But now Sam loves him, the way he needs to be loved.

And sometimes Sam can't help himself. Sometimes he needs ropes and chains and a collar around Dreams neck, needs assurance that Dream really truly is his. The fear of Dream leaving him will never be truly abated, not after what he did. Sam needs to tether Dreams soul to his, to have a compass that always leads to him. He needs kisses every morning and "I love you" every night before bed.

He needs to kneel at Dreams bedside and beg forgiveness (but he can't. He doesn't deserve it he can't-) When Dream strips himself and lies in bed, spreading his legs for Sam's perusal, he's lucky he even has the strength to stand at the sight of it. His husband. His.

(Punz is watching all of this pretending like it's silly, like they didn't get a heady feeling every time Dream trusted them to revive him. His soul in Punz's hands, gently put back in its body. Trusted, beloved)

Sam filling and covering Dream with toys and vibes until he completely controls his pleasure. Puts him on a saddle to fuck himself on its dildo only to be jealous because Dream is getting off on something that isn't him. Sam demanding Dream always come to him for his needs, being greedy watching Dream jerk himself off. Getting sudden urges to make Dream cry and scream, all he has to do is tell Dream and Dream will pretend that Sam is taking him by force, tongue lolling against his bottom lip as he loses all thought that isn't pure lust.

Sam blushing, embarrassed even years later at the sight of Dream with his cock in his mouth beneath his desk, eyes glazed like he's in heaven. They don't fuck all the time, but there's a certain heat beneath their skin that demands they be close, as close as they can be.

[swiftsaltsweet]

Two Knives Chapter 4: Kyoshi- Interruptions

Characters: Rangi and Kyoshi (RoK characters tbh)

Pairing: Rangshi

Summary:

Things have been stressful for Kyoshi. First, she sang a poem and now the whole kitchen staff thinks it’s about Rangi, and is sure that there will be gossip. Then, Yun asks her to join him for the Fifth Nation treaty signing. Now Rangi’s acting strange. It’s becoming a bit much for Kyoshi’s small corner of the world.

(Canon Divergent AU- Kelsang wasn’t the one who heard the poem?….aka What if it took longer for them to realize Kyoshi was the Avatar?)

Other Sites: AO3 

A/N: I’m not the best with ratings, and as I was writing more chapters….it got more suggestive than I originally intended at the beginning of writing this fic. u_u So I’m changing this from T to M. Just to be safe. Sorry if that upsets anyone. ;w; (it won’t be anything that goes too into it but…still…ajfkdlsjf TT0TT)

 Ok ok! I know I said that we’d be getting a few Rangi POV chapters next…..but I realized these next chapters work better (imo) if we don’t know what’s going on in Rangi’s little noggin. u_u That being said, I hope I’ve laid a few breadcrumbs for y’all to pick up on what might’ve been going on, but if not….hey, it’s all good, that’s what her POVs are for (which you’ll get…..eventually!)! :’D

Also, getting this chapter a liiiiittle early because…..I finished some other chapters pretty fast considering the restructuring I had to do ajsfdklj TT0TT  Anyway….

*sprays Rangi with water* Down girl. *sprays Kyoshi too* You too! 

_________

Early morning rays seeped into Kyoshi’s room. The beam slowly maneuvered its way across her bed and over her eyes. It was as if the sun had a vendetta against the tall girl.

Kyoshi’s eyebrows furrowed over the sudden intrusion, and she went to move one of her arms to lay across her face, but found them both to be preoccupied. With great effort, and great resentment to the floating orb in the sky, she opened her eyes.

Kyoshi was on her back in bed, a normal and everyday occurrence. However, there was something different about this morning. One that sent Kyoshi instantly to cloud nine.

Nuzzled up against her side, with a possessive arm and leg flung over Kyoshi, was Rangi. The firebender was fast asleep, her face nuzzled into the base of Kyoshi’s neck, murmuring every so often. The sound of it reverberated through Kyoshi’s body like a drum, bouncing back and forth in tandem with the heat Rangi also radiated.

 Kyoshi held her by the waist with one arm, and held the thigh of the leg that was slung over her stomach with the other; there to keep Rangi firmly in place. Rangi did her part too, as she grounded and clung to Kysohi’s body fiercely even in her sleep.

Memories of last night’s bliss began to flood Kyoshi’s mind, and she hummed contently. She could get use to this. 

Kyoshi’s cheek rested on top of Rangi’s head, she moved her head down to get a better look at the room, and to kiss Rangi’s soft hair. They made sure to take it out of its intricate style before falling asleep. The hairpins and ties were still on Kyoshi’s night stand. 

Kyoshi looked towards the door, Rangi’s dress and the towel laid near it. The dress was ruined beyond all repair, but the towel could probably still be salvaged. Kyoshi resisted the urge to go over and clean up the mess. 

Rangi made another noise and nuzzled closer- as if it was possible to get closer, the girl was practically welded to Kyoshi’s body already- into Kyoshi’s neck. Kyoshi took the hand that was on Rangi’s waist, and rubbed up and down from her waist to her hip in a soothing fashion. Rangi sighed contently and seemed to return to a restful sleep.

Kyoshi smiled and stopped the motion, instead choosing to play with the fabric of the tunic and trousers she’d given Rangi to wear. Kyoshi was certain they were two sizes too big for the firebender, the girl was practically swimming in Kyoshi’s clothes. 

Kyoshi could only imagine how funny and adorable Rangi would look walking around the estate looking like that.

Then Kyoshi stopped breathing for a moment.

Wait, THE ESTATE!

Panic shot through her. It was daylight, which meant the estate’s staff were going to wake up soon, if they weren’t already up. How was she going to sneak Rangi back to her room? She couldn’t go back looking like this, it’d dishonor her! They needed to get up! She needed to get Rangi back to her room! She-

Rangi shifted in her sleep again, and the head hole of the too large tunic fell around one of her shoulders.

Kyoshi stared at the unguarded flesh, completely forgetting whatever she was thinking about. Kyoshi lifted her hand from Rangi’s waist, and proceeded to trace patterns onto her shoulder. Mesmerized.

“That tickles you jerk,” Rangi mumbled, bemused.

Kyoshi flinched, startled. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Rangi hummed. “Not really, I think I’ve been awake for a while.”

Kyoshi raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Yeah I just didn’t want to get up. If I’m being honest, I was hoping I’d fall back asleep.”

Kyoshi let out a gasp of mock shock. “Sleeping in? No way! Who are you and what have you done with Rangi?”

Rangi laughed and shifted to prop herself up on one of her elbows. She looked at Kyoshi with warm eyes. Like melting chocolate. “Can you blame me? Not wanting to leave your side?”

Kyoshi stared at the beautiful girl next to her in reverence. “No, because I feel the same way.”

Kyoshi watched as Rangi’s expression changed, it shimmered from tender and chaste to something of wanting. She watched as Rangi’s lips slowly parted, and her eyes gazed down towards Kyoshi’s lips. Kyoshi started to lean in when Rangi put her hand on Kyoshi’s chest, stopping her. 

Rangi smiled mischievously, and then moved her body so she was sitting up, straddling Kyoshi’s hips. She closed her eyes and started pushing her hair back, combing her fingers through it. Seemingly unaware of how hot and bothered Kyoshi was getting.

“Now look at me. You’ve made me derelict to my duties.” Once she was finished with her hair, she placed a hand on Kyoshi’s chest and leaned forward, towering over her. “Now how are you going to take responsibility?”

Kyoshi gazed up at Rangi and gulped. Unsure of what to do, she grabbed Rangi by the hips. 

Rangi hummed and leaned closer. “Bold move.”

Their lips were just ghosting over each other's when a gong rang out, indicating that the day was starting for a lot of the staff.

Saved by the bell? No, more like ruined by the damn bell.

The two scrambled to get out of bed as Kyoshi groaned and Rangi laughed. Rangi’s hand shot for the nightstand and tried to get her topknot back in order, and Kyoshi tried to gather the damaged clothes. 

Kyoshi watched as Rangi finished with her topknot and started walking towards her. She watched as Rangi’s leg brushed up against the bed a bit, and saw the wince and hiss of air that came from Rangi.

Kyoshi dropped what she was doing and quickly made her way to Rangi’s side. “What’s the matter?”

Rangi waved her away as she made a motion to grab her leg, and then stopped. But it was too late, Kyoshi already noticed something was up. “It’s nothing, don't worry about it.”

Kyoshi made her sit on the bed, they’d deal with the walk of shame later, she needed to treat Rangi if she was hurt.

“Don’t move,” Kyoshi ordered, she received a sigh from Rangi, but the firebender complied. Kyoshi slowly rolled up the black pant leg until she was met with resistance and a flinch from Rangi.

“Sorry, I thought it stopped bleeding before I put them on…..”

Bleeding?! Kyoshi tried not to rush, and gently pried the fabric away from this surprise wound. 

When she finally managed to roll the fabric over Rangi’s knee, Kyoshi was met with an unpleasant looking cut.

Rangi made a sucking noise with her teeth. “Oh…. right…. I forgot about that.”

“Forgot?!” Kyoshi cursed herself for not realizing Rangi was injured earlier. How could she have not seen it?! Then she remembered she made a point to look away when Rangi was changing, to give her privacy, thus missing her opportunity to have noticed it sooner. “Who did this to you?”

“Myself, I dropped a glass at the party and….just forgot,” Rangi shrugged.

“For-ugh, what?! How can you just forget?”

“I had something more important on my mind,” Rangi shrugged again.

“What was so important?!” Kyoshi was starting to get a little angry. How could Rangi just disregard her own wellbeing like that. 

Rangi leaned back on her hands, the neckline of the shirt falling so far down her shoulder that it teased showing her bindings. “You.” She picked up her good foot and rubbed it along Kyoshi’s forearm, teasing her. “I needed to get to you.”

Kyoshi’s face got hot and then she gulped, remembering Rangi’s confession from the night before. 

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to cover her blush, and stood up. “Stay there. If you don’t then….then I’ll-I won’t talk to you for a week!”

Rangi pouted at that. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to run and get a basin of water and some soap, we need to clean that wound.”

Rangi sighed, “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re already late, what’s a little longer?” Kyoshi shrugged. Then a smile broke across her face. “Plus, it’s me who’s late. I don’t think anyone else knows you’re here. You can probably just stay in here and just wait until I come back.” 

Kyoshi looked at Rangi’s wide eyes, and Kyoshi matched it. Along with her blush growing stronger as she thought of Rangi being in her room the entire day. Or whatever the proposition might’ve sounded like. Almost like a husband coming home to see their wife after a long day’s work. “Or not! I dunno-I’m going to go get some water!”

Kyoshi hurried through the door, and swore she heard Rangi snort with laughter as she left.

______

“So why do you have a medical kit in your room?” Rangi asked, fiddling with a bottle of salve while Kyoshi dabbed the soapy water onto her leg.

“Because I’m clumsy?” 

Rangi raised an eyebrow. “Is ‘clumsy’ another name that Aoma brat goes by?” 

Kyoshi rolled her eyes as she took the bottle from Rangi and dabbed the salve onto the wound. “No…… But… yes, sometimes the village kids give me issues. But you’d be surprised how clumsy I can be.”

“Enlighten me,” Rangi looked unamused.

“Well, a few weeks ago I walked into the shed and stepped on a rake and it flew up and hit me in the face!” Kyoshi grinned as she started wrapping Rangi’s leg. 

Rangi bit her lip trying not to smile. 

“Oh and then just the other day I was daydreaming and accidentally poured a third of the koi feed into the pond without realizing,” Kyoshi laughed as she finished tying up the bandage.

Rangi giggled, “Really? What were you daydreaming about?”

Kyoshi placed a hand on Rangi’s knee and rested her cheek on it. She looked up at Rangi. “Thinking of your body against mine back at the iceberg.”

Rangi’s body tensed and her breath hitched. Kyoshi moved her free hand and caressed Rangi’s other knee. Then she slowly moved her hand up her thigh. “Your lips on my hand.”

She moved her hand up Rangi’s hip, then to the hem of the shirt. Fingers sliding underneath the fabric, and licking at the abs underneath. Rangi shuddered and drew a haggard breath. “What’d it’d feel like to actually kiss you.”

She slowly sat up and started to close the distance from where she knelt, Rangi bent forward in response, placing a hand under Kyoshi’s chin and-

“Kyoshi?! Kyoshi? Are you in there? Are you awake yet?” a voice accompanied by knocking rang from Kyoshi’s door.

Kyoshi jolted from surprise and fell backwards, crashing onto the floor and knocking into the basin. Water splashed all over Kyoshi and the floor.

“Kyoshi?! Are you ok in there? What was that?” There was a sound of the door about to be open.

“I’M FINE! I’LL BE RIGHT THERE!” Kyoshi all but screeched as she scrambled up to stop the door from being open. Rangi quickly ran to the blindspot behind the door, and Kyoshi kicked Rangi’s dress over to her as she opened the door.

“Kyoshi? You still haven’t gotten up?” Rin, another maid that Kyoshi worked with, asked. Her eyes widened at the state Kyoshi and her room, at least what she could see of it, was. “What happened to you?!”

“Roughnight,” Kyoshi said a little too fast.

“Oh…. I see.. Um, why is your face all red?”

“Sunburnt!”

“Oh, get some ointment on that then. Ugh, spirits, open a window too! Why is it so hot in your room?”

“P-poor ventilation?” Come to think of it, Rangi did emit a lot of heat. Kyoshi was enjoying it too much to realize the difference until now. 

Rin grimaced. “That’s the worst. Anyway, Auntie Mui wants you in the kitchen, I think she has a list of errands for you.”

“Ok, thanks Rin! I’ll get on that in a moment!” 

“Alright, just be quick, you know how she gets-”

Kyoshi slammed the door a little too forcefully. She waited until she heard the footsteps were far enough away before she turned around. When she turned to her left and saw Rangi crouched over into a ball, shaking and trying to stifle her laughter. 

Kyoshi pointed an accusing finger at her. “D-don’t laugh! Y-your the one who forced your way in last ni-night! Y-you take responsibility!” 

Rangi kept laughing as she stood up, and then placed a hand on Kyoshi’s chest and pushed her into a wall. “Oh, I’ll gladly take responsibility. All night long if you want.” She gave a semi-chaste kiss to Kyoshi’s neck, and then blew an air of steam onto the taller girl.

Kyoshi’s eyes swirled and was about to lose herself when Rangi took a step back. “Now get dressed, I don’t want you getting into trouble with Auntie Mui.”

“I can do that after I escort you back-”

Rangi put a finger to Kyoshi’s lips. “I can sneak back on my own.”

“What if you get caught?” Kyoshi mumbled through her finger.

“I know how to not get caught,” Rangi had said with a wink as she left Kyoshi's room with a sway to her hips. “See you later.”

Kyoshi stood there, wet, frazzled, and a big mess to clean up. 

Sigh….I wish I was a waterbender…..

________

“I can’t believe you’re coming with me to the village,” Kyoshi looked down at Rangi. The firebender was in her training gear, which was just a sleeveless red tunic and some red trousers. Apparently her heirloom armor was back with Pengpeng at the moment. Kyoshi didn’t mind, it allowed her to enjoy Rangi’s biceps in the daylight. 

“What’s so hard to believe?” 

“I mean, I don’t think you or Yun have ever left the mansion and gone into the village,” Kyoshi ran through her two years of memories but came up blank. 

“Well, if Yun can’t leave, I can’t leave,” she shrugged.

Kyoshi’s brow furrowed. “But Yun’s not here right now? How did you get away?”

She watched as Rangi’s face tensed just a bit, and then it relaxed. “I asked my mother for help, she’s guarding him while I was allowed to be dismissed.”

“Oh, that’s good! I was afraid you might’ve gotten into trouble,” Kyoshi sighed in relief. 

“Enough talking about that, where do we have to go?” 

Kyoshi looked at her list. “I have a list of ingredients to pick up. I think Auntie Mui wants to go all out with dinner tonight.”

Rangi leaned over, allowing her arm and head to rest lightly against Kyoshi’s body, as she looked over the list herself. “That’s a lot, it’s a good thing I’m here. I can help you carry it.”

“Hmmmm,” Kyoshi reached over and grabbed Rangi’s biceps, and gave it a light squeeze. “Yes, yes, I think you're strong enough to handle a part of my workload!”

Rangi raised an eyebrow, and flexed her muscles. The arm instantly turned into steel in Kyoshi’s hand, and Kyoshi felt her heart lurch. 

“Ok, you could….probably handle….all of my workload,” Kyoshi gulped. 

_________________________________

“They-guh-seriously make you do this all the time?” Rangi huffed as placed down the final crate near the back kitchen entrance.

“Not all the time, but this is usually what it entails when I have to make a trip to the village,” Kyoshi admired the way sweat glistened off of Rangi’s face and shoulders. “On the brightside, since you’re here it’s only taking me three trips instead of six!”

“Fantastic,” Rangi said with no humor in her voice as she stretched her arms. “Thank the spirits that was the last trip.” 

“Tell me about it! My arms were getting tired!” Kyoshi placed the last jar down next to Rangi’s crate. The kitchen staff would come up and take the rest of it down when they were ready.

“Gah, no wonder you’re late sometimes,” Rangi looked at Kyoshi unbelievably.

“Does that mean you’ll ease up on me?” Kyoshi asked brightly.

Rangi pursed her lips and tapped her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Nope.”

Kyoshi’s eyes widened and took a step back in shock. “Nope?!”

“Nope,” Rangi confirmed as she walked over to straighten the lapels of Kyoshi’s robes. “I like it when people push themselves and work hard.” She finished straightening the robes with a final, hard tug. Then she looked up at Kyoshi with batting eyelashes. “I think it’s admirable.”

Kyoshi gulped. She found that she suddenly had the energy to make eight more trips, or even climb the nearby mountain. 

“Hey, Kyoshi!” a voice called.

Rangi's hands quickly moved her hands behind her back, standing at attention like she usually did.

It’s just interruptions after interruptions today…. Kyoshi thought bitterly. She knew it was probably better if they weren’t too flirty out in the open like that, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to show or receive affection.

“Hi, Lee,” Kyoshi said, turning to him. 

“You finished pretty fast today, I’m impressed! Now you have time to clean the-” he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Rangi behind Kyoshi.

Kyoshi wondered if it was because they may not have been introduced to each other yet. She never really saw Rangi chatting with the staff so perhaps that was the case? “Um, Rangi, Lee. Lee, Rangi.”

“Kyoshi, we know each other,” Rangi said dryly.

That…would make sense. While she never saw Rangi talk with other staff, it didn’t mean Rangi didn’t ever. Maybe it was when Kyoshi wasn’t around? “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

“I usually see him when I need to talk to Auntie Mui,” she clarified.

“Oh? I didn’t know you were that close with her.” Kyoshi was really surprised now! Rangi approaching someone else like that? She wondered what they talked about.

“I…..I sometimes have questions for her, that’s all,” Kyoshi could’ve sworn she heard Rangi stutter for a moment. She was really curious now, but decided to press her about it at a different time. Instead, Kyoshi turned her attention back to Lee. 

Lee was wearing the biggest shit eating grin Kyoshi had ever seen. 

Well that can’t be good.

“So, Kyoshi,” he started, his voice sounding like it was barely containing a giggle. “Have you told Rangi about your little song?”

Kyoshi’s heart stopped for a moment, and the blood started to drain from her face. She’d forgotten about the damn poem-song-whatever! She knew Rangi felt the same way about her, and she’d already spent two nights in the same bed together, only one being with them officially being together but still!….But all that didn’t mean the song wasn’t embarrassing! If he started singing it, she may die on the spot!

There’s also the fact that Rangi and her hadn’t exactly talked about how they wanted to express their relationship. Kyoshi didn’t know if blaring her unfiltered feelings about the girl for the whole estate to hear would be crossing the line or not. 

Rangi looked at her, head tilted in curiosity. She rested one elbow in one hand, and rested her hand on her face with the other. “No, no I don’t think I have. You wrote a song?”

Kyoshi started to sweat. Rangi was only asking because she didn’t know the song was about her! 

“It’s-I-it was on the spot?” Kyoshi didn’t know what to say, or how to get out of this situation. Besides throwing Rangi over her shoulder and hightailing it out of there. But that would’ve caused some rumors. Well….more rumors than she already had going on. 

“Oh, but it was a lovely song!” Lee batted his eyelashes. “I can sing it if you want.”

“S-she doesn’t want to hear that-”

“I think I do, actually,” Rangi cut in. “Please, Lee, enlighten me!” 

Kyoshi felt herself turn to stone as Lee sang, off-key. She was becoming one with earth, returning to the ground from whence she came.

Rangi smirked as she gave Lee a lazy clap, as Lee gave a flourishing bow in return.

“So what did you think of the song, Rangi?” Lee looked at her expectantly. 

Rangi tapped her chin, thinking. “Very catchy. Tell me, Kyoshi, what inspired you to write this?”

Insanity apparently.

“I-....it was in the moment,” Kyoshi barely forced out without stuttering. She was starting to sweat nervously. 

Rangi’s eyes widened, genuine surprise on her face. “Really? It was all improvised?” 

“Bah! Don’t worry about that!” Lee waved his hands. “Did the song remind you of anything?” 

Lee stole a glance at Kyoshi and waggled his eyebrows at her, and the remaining blood drained from Kyoshi’s face, she definitely looked like a bloodless ghost now. She was going to deck him onto his ass the first chance she got

Rangi tilted her head, confused. “Hm? No, why?”

Lee’s smile faltered. “Because I’m pretty sure it was based on someone!”

Rangi closed her eyes and thought. “The spirit of one of the Eastern Earth Kingdom islands?”

Kyoshi sighed in relief. The spirits weren’t forsaking her today.

“What?! No! Why-”

“Because that spirit is known for wielding bronze daggards?”

Lee spluttered. “No! It’s someone who’s lives here-”

“The Avatar is back!” someone shouted.

Kyoshi, Rangi, and Lee looked upward and saw a bison approaching. Kyoshi grinned. Both from being saved from further embarrassment, and because her other friend was back.

“C’mon, let’s go greet them!” Kyoshi exclaimed as she grabbed Rangi’s hand. As they ran, she could’ve sworn she heard Rangi click her tongue. 

_______

“Avatar. Masters,” Kyoshi and Rangi said in unison as they approached the bison and bowed. They’re faces back to their usual business expression.

Yun looked at them and gave them a subdued smile, which stretched out into his usual grin. 

“It’s great seeing my two favorite girls again!” He held his arms outstretched and ran to them, wrapping one arm below Kyoshi’s shoulders, the highest he could reach, and the other around the top of Rangi’s. Kyoshi could’ve sworn she heard Rangi make a noise, but it was so small it could’ve been the wind.

Yun turned to Kyoshi first. “Everything running smoothly still? Master Kelsang is recovering well?”

“Yes, I think he’ll be able to leave the infirmary soon!” Kyoshi grinned. Kelsang’s wounds had been looking so much better since the iceberg. He looked like he would make a full recovery soon.

Yun smiled at her. “That’s great to hear, I can’t wait to see him up and around the mansion again.” 

Yun turned to Rangi and put a hand on her shoulder, his smile disappearing and a worried look replaced it. “How about you, Rangi? Are you feeling ok?”

Rangi gave him a rare, extra friendly smile. “Of course, never better.”

Yun returned the smile and squeezed her shoulder gently. “That’s good, I was worried when Hei-Ran said you felt so ill that you had to leave.”

Kyoshi looked at Rangi, shocked. Had she felt ill? Did Kyoshi miss that too? But didn’t Rangi say she came here to see Kyoshi? Was that a lie, or did she lie to the Avatar so she could see Kyoshi? What was going on?

Kyoshi glanced over at the Masters, but they didn't seem to care about what was going on with the teenagers in front of them. So Kyoshi decided it was just her imagination running wild.

Rangi kept her smile up. “Yes, I was feeling under the weather, must’ve been the rain. I’m feeling much better now.”

“Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind helping everyone unpack, right? Since you’re feeling better?”

“Of course not, it’d be my pleasure.”

Kyoshi watched as her two friends exchanged pleasant smiles, and then watched as Rangi walked over to Pengpeng. 

Yun turned back to Kyoshi. “Kyoshi, if I could-”

“Kyoshi! There you are, Auntie Mui needs-” Rin stopped in her tracks as she rounded the corner. She didn’t realize the Avatar and his companions happened to be there. She bowed. “Avatar, Masters.”

Kyoshi turned to Yun. “Sorry Yun, is it-”

Yun put his hand up, “Don’t worry about it, go perform your duties. What I’d like to discuss can wait.”

As Kyoshi bowed in thanks and turned to leave, as she did, she could’ve sworn she heard a choking noise come from Rangi as the firebender lifted one of the luggages. She briefly wondered if it was her leg, but when she looked at Rangi’s expression, it looked like the firebender was biting back a smile.

_________________________

A/N: So like…..looking at the text, I don’t think Rangi nor Yun have EVER gone into the village during the whole two years they’ve lived there. I mean, they’ve left the mansion, but like to go to other places. Not to go into town. It’s the only thing that makes sense, such as Aoma’s gang never confronting Rangi before and Rangi only just now catching Aoma’s name (that we know about, I WOULD NOT be surprised if Rangi did some little midnight info digging jksajdf). 

I mean it makes sense. Yun can’t leave, so Rangi can’t leave. I think Generations had a few scenarios where they do go into town, but I THINK that’s after the jar incident. Pre-jar incident they never do (so works in Generations canon and can fit into RoK). But yeah, I’m going off the text and that’s what I get from it. 

[undermounts]

bite the hand - chapter 8: an intimate and loving thing

pairing: Astarion/The Dark Urge

summary: Astarion helps her hide the body. Romance ensues.

chapter preview:

This—This! It is so much better than anything the priest could have offered her: Astarion at her back, her blood in his mouth. She meant what she said: he can have this if he wants it, whenever he wants it. Her blood, her pain, she will give it to him freely, and perhaps that is what Abdirak meant about his offerings—‘an intimate and loving thing.’

Read it on Ao3

He will free her.

Irileth goes where the bloodied priest of Loviatar guides her. She barely registers the words of encouragement Abdirak spouts nor does she absorb any of his talk about the Pain Maiden’s blessings as she removes her armor and underclothes. Completely bare above the waist, she moves slowly and carefully, the sinner repentant idealized, submitting to the will of a higher authority and an even higher power.

But secretly, Irileth’s heart races, nearly leaping with giddy joy at the very thought of the brutality she will not only bear witness to, but play a pivotal part in. Her warped soul salivates at the pain she delivers unto others, it is true, but being the recipient of torment is a delicacy on its own. She intends to savor every second of it.

Despicable, Irileth rebukes herself. She isn’t supposed to enjoy this, she is supposed to suffer.

At last, she stands in the scarlet pool beside the shrine, facing the wall, her knees loose and feet planted shoulder width apart. The cracked stone is speckled with blood. Soon, hers will join this most morbid collaboration; her and how many others, united in sweet misery.

Irileth inhales deeply, rolling her shoulders. “I am ready.” 

“Very good.” There is no masking Abdirak’s eagerness to see her bleed. “Let us begin.”

There is a moment of silence in which Irileth’s mind is left to wander—what instrument has the priest chosen? A leather flail like the one she saw him use on himself? A club? Or something sharper, perhaps spiked? (Oh, how she longs for something sharp. She wants it to sting) Then—

Irileth gasps, her vision flashing white as agony tears through her, making her scalp seize and her fingers spasm against the stone wall. Instantly, blood oozes down her skin from the spot where Abdirak struck her between the shoulders. Even the air stings her ravaged flesh and the muscles of her back flex uncontrollably.

He has chosen a mace, Irilieth can tell without looking. Solid in heft, she knows the sound metal makes against skin and muscle.

“The pain you suffer will cleanse you—do not fight it.”

Irileth grits her teeth, and a sudden ferocity takes hold of her. That he would dare to give her advice is laughable.  “Pathetic,” she snarls, a woman possessed. “I have borne much worse.”

The only warning Irileth gets before the next blow is the sound of air whistling around the mace. Then it is upon her again, this time beneath her right shoulder blade, striking her with such force that she is jarred forward and must brace herself hard against the wall.

Irileth grunts beneath the impact and the noise is more animal than person. Her head is positively sparking with the torment, bright flashes of color bursting in front of her eyes. And still she wants more.

Irileth gnashes her teeth, spitting onto the ground, savage. “If I was in your place, I would flay you alive! ”

Abdirak is ecstatic. “Hah! Oh, I wish you would, dear one! You want more? I’ll give it to you.”

He hits her a third time, his sacred instrument of pain landing in the same spot as the last, and Irileth cries out. Her knees quake and she digs her fingernails into the cracks between the stone, desperate to stay upright.

“Harder,” she challenges, and her voice is foreign to her, something cold and ancient that should never have been unearthed. “Or I will send you to the Lord of Murder myself, Loviatar be damned.”

“Pain is proof that we live! Revel in it.”

The mace collides with her back for a fourth and final time. Irileth shudders forward, and this time, she cannot even muster a cry. She leans against the wall, panting. Relief courses through her, but the feeling is laced through with loathing, for there is something dark and terrible within her—of that, there can no longer be any doubt. She felt it rise to the top, like black oil on water, and Irileth can only hope she has punished it just as thoroughly as she has punished herself.

Abdirak pants behind her and the mace clatters to the ground with a terrible clang. “Be holy.”

Irileth breathes deeply to collect herself, then straightens, although every muscle in her back screams in protest. Her vision swims, tinged at the edges with black, and she must keep her hand on the wall to stay upright.

“Sweet child, you bore your pain like a true believer,” Abdirak praises her when their eyes meet and he dips his head graciously. “I am proud to have served you this penance. Loviatar herself found your performance… inspiring. She has deemed you worthy of her blessing.”

A strange sensation envelops Irileth. For but an instant, the agony in her back intensifies and her ears ring as her jaw tenses uncontrollably. Then as quickly as it came, the sensation dulls, and Irileth’s pain melts into something softer and almost pleasurable. The bleeding on her back slows to a halt, though the wounds don’t completely close.

“Thank you. I enjoyed myself.” Irileth feels as though she’s been split open and scraped bare with a paring knife, but instead of feeling clean, she only feels hollow. Empty and yet so full—with disappointment, disgust, and disdain.

She swallows thickly, her throat tight and mouth full of saliva, and pushes her feelings aside. Irileth closes her eyes, taking a brief reprieve to draw upon her resolve for strength. Then she manages, “Do you… do you have a rag, so that I might clean myself up?”

“Yes, of course,” Abdirak acquiesces, and goes to a wash bin set in the corner behind a bookshelf.

Irileth watches him, waiting until his back is turned, attention elsewhere, then grabs one of the knives off of his table and follows his path. Every step is excruciating, and her stealth leaves something to be desired, but she was made for violence. Even battered and bleeding, she is enough.

Irileth uses her weight to thrust Abdirak into the basin, water sloshing over the side, and holds his knife against his throat. His yelp of surprise is quickly muffled as Irileth clamps her hand over his mouth and murmurs, “Shhh. Be quiet. I don’t want to kill you, priest, but I will.”

Abdirak goes still against her, the barbs of his cruel pauldrons biting into both his skin and hers. After a moment, he nods and Irileth releases his mouth to grab his shoulder for leverage.

“Blessed one, what is this?”

“I am grateful for your deliverance, truly,” Irileth says coolly, even as her breath lands erratically on the back of the priest’s neck. “But I came here for a reason.”

“A reason beyond your divine penance?” Abdirak asks. He turns his head slightly to meet her gaze, but Irieth holds the blade harder against his neck, forcing him to stay still. His voice leaps, cracks. “Speak it so that I might help you, child.”

He is afraid of her. Again, Irileth feels it: the heady rush of euphoria that had nearly overtaken her when she realized what sort of power she held over Astarion the night he tried to bite her. She held his life in her hands and, in the moment, he feared her for that; he would have done anything she told him. 

Irileth shied away from the desire to expand upon her terror then, to intimidate another into submission, but she indulges in it now.

(How much of this power-lust results from her strange compulsion, she wonders, and how much is just her?)

“I’m here for information on the druid Halsin,” Irileth tells him, keeping her voice soft and low. “Is he alive?”

Abdirak is silent for a long beat, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Silent for too long.

Irileth shoves him harder into the basin and his throat jumps against the knife, feeling its cold edge. “Is he alive?”

“Yes!” the priest yelps, then quickly lowers his voice when he remembers her order to be quiet. “He’s still alive. I saw him earlier, in a wildshaped form. He doesn’t let anyone get close.”

“Where can I find him?”

Abdirak's fear is pungent in the air, but does he… like her handling of him? “He is in the worg pen in the northeastern corner of the temple. Near where the Nightwarden—the General—holds her audiences.”

Good. Good.

Irileth drops her voice to a bare whisper and digs her nails into Abdirak’s shoulder, causing him to suck in a sharp breath between his teeth. “This camp is going to be decimated come morning. If I release you now, you are going to tell no one I was here and you will leave tonight. If you don’t, I cannot guarantee you will be spared tomorrow. Understand?”

“I will leave right away,” he agrees quickly, and yes, there is definitely excitement permeating his voice. “I swear it to the Pain Maiden herself.”

“Good.” Irileth drops her hands away from him and Abdirak hastily moves out from between her and the basin. Small puncture wounds weep blood from where his barbed chestpiece gouged his skin. Distantly, Irileth is aware that similar wounds dot her forearms, like gory constellations. “Go. And be subtle. Don’t alert anyone else.”

“You are fascinating, child,” Abdirak muses, voice full of intrigue, and he gazes at her half-naked and bleeding body with admiration. “I long to see what you have planned, but I understand your terms.” 

“Betray me,” Irileth threatens, “and I will flay the muscles from your bones, just as I said before.”

She’s not sure her threat had quite the impact she’d hoped—it seems to have the opposite effect, actually—but Abdirak apparently grasps her meaning. Hastily, he picks up the mace he left on the ground and starts to flee, though he pauses in the crumbling mouth of the room.

Irileth lets the knife dangle from her fingertips; if he opens his mouth to shout, will she throw her blade fast enough to sever his windpipe before he can make a sound? She’s willing to bet on the odds.

“Take out the war drums first,” Abdirak tells her quietly. “Do that, and no one will know you’re coming.”

And then he exits the room, leaving Irileth alone. She waits, listening intently for any shouting or warning bells, but none come. After enough time passes and she’s certain that Abdirak has disappeared, their deal unbroken, she slumps against the washbasin, on the verge of passing out.

Well. That was unexpected, but worth it. Further exploration of the temple is out of the question, given Irileth’s current state, but what she has gleaned from Abdirak and her own observations should be more than enough to give her companions an edge tomorrow.

Irileth closes her eyes, taking a moment to collect her thoughts and calm the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Loviatar’s blessing healed the worst of her injuries, though much of her back is still marred by shallow punctures. She leaves her breast band off—just thinking about refastening it over her wounds make them ache—and painstakingly slips her shirt on, acutely aware of the blood that soaks the waistband of her trousers and now seeps into her shirt, suctioning the fabric to her back. She leaves her armor off for now.

Irileth wants nothing more than to fall into blissful and sorely-needed sleep, but there are other matters to attend to first. The back of her scalp prickles in agreement and Irileth finally lifts her head, directing her gaze to a section in the wall, close to the ceiling, where part of the masonry has tumbled away. She’s not sure how long he’s been following her, but she sensed his presence (the tadpole’s effects, or just him?) the moment she entered the priest’s quarters.

“You can come down now,” Irileth says into the empty room. “Unless you’d rather make me come up?”

There’s a pause, and then the dark shadow hiding behind the collapsed wall moves, hauling itself through the gap that leads from the rafters above the great hall to the shrined room. Astarion swings down from a stone lip at the base of the hole, then drops several meters to the ground where he lands silently with his thief’s reflexes.

“I thought he was going to keep going until he killed you,” Astarion says by way of greeting, and his voice sounds odd. Strained. “I had half a mind to come down here to deal with him myself.”

Did he? Irileth feels her face warm. How novel: the simple suggestion that Astarion thought she might need protecting, and that he would do it. 

She looks past him toward the ingress of the room. She and Astarion are still out of view from the main hall, obscured by the dilapidated walls and piles of rubble, but should anyone walk in, there is nowhere to hide. Although they have not yet made enemies of the goblins and the Absolute cultists, Irileth doubts anyone would appreciate their midnight break-in.

“You were supposed to wait outside,” she says, centering her attention on Astarion as she refastens her belt around her waist. The weight of her daggers against her hips is comforting. Natural. 

“And miss out on all of the fun?” he replies, his gaze intense on her face. His entire body is held taut, so unlike his usual languid posture. “I do almost everything you ask of me, darling, but you’ll have to forgive me for disobeying your orders, just this once.”

“Just this once?” Irileth repeats, doubtful.

Astarion only answers her question with a wry smile that makes her stomach flip. His gaze drops to Irileth’s leather armor, sitting on the table, and the shimmering red cloak beneath it. Irileth shifts uncomfortably, reaching behind to unstick her shirt from the wounds on her back, and Astarion’s gaze snaps back to her.

“I knew you were bound to get up to some trouble.” He waves his arm at the shrine and steps closer to her. “Although, I had no idea it would be something as delicious as this.” Astarion pauses and his countenance loses its characteristic rakishness. “How badly does it hurt? Your back, I mean.” 

Irileth exhales a sharp laugh and smiles wryly, though the expression requires more effort than usual, forced as it is. “More than you can probably imagine.”

Astarion doesn’t return her smile. “I assure you, I can. May I see it?”

Irileth’s thoughts stutter to a halt. “You want to see my back?”

“I want to see if any of the damage is permanent , my dear,” Astarion replies flatly, and his expression is impassive—no, irritated? He unslings his longbow and quiver, then sets both on the table beside her armor. “Most people would be on the floor if they were beaten like you were. I’d like to know if I need to spirit you away to Shadowheart before you lose any important bits.”

Irileth grimaces. She doesn’t want to go to Shadowheart—how to explain this?

Actually, maybe the cleric would like it; this seems like exactly the sort of thing an acolyte of the Nightsinger would approve of.

(‘You reminded me of myself. When I pray.’)

Astarion steps closer, his fingertips pinching the hem of her shirt between his fingers. “May I?”

Irileth frowns, suddenly overcome with a strange bashfulness over Astarion seeing her unclothed, which is ridiculous, really. He’s already seen all there is to see, when she was naked in the river.

But this, somehow, is different.

“Alright,” Irileth concedes, turning around to face the wall. It is strange (and a bit thrilling, though she won’t admit it) to be in this position for the second time tonight, now with Astarion at her back.

His fingers are cool as they unstick her shirt, damp with blood, from her back. Astarion scrunches the fabric up beneath her arms, allowing just enough slack to keep her chest mostly covered, providing her some semblance of modesty. She can hear air whistle through his teeth as he sucks in a breath. “How are you even standing?”

Astarion skims the flat of his palm up her side and over her ribs, his thumb gently prodding at the edge of one of the wounds beneath her shoulder. His simple touch lights a spark of pain as he presses her sensitive skin; it makes Irileth hiss, grinding her jaw, even as warmth pools low in her stomach.

She certainly did not feel that with the priest.

“Call it divine intervention,” she says dryly, letting her head fall forward to press against the cold stone. “I apparently inspired Loviatar tonight.”

“I’m sure she’s not the only one you inspired,” Astarion murmurs distractedly, and now his fingers flutter over the notches at the base of her neck, just above where the first blow had landed. “That priest was practically slobbering over you. Especially after you held a knife to his throat.”

Does he sound… envious?

Irileth turns her face to peer at Astarion over her shoulder and finds that he is already staring at her, anticipating her gaze. At this proximity, she can see just how wide his pupils are. His nostrils flare, a single fang winking in the firelight as his tongue wets his lips.

Ah, she thinks a bit dizzily. He’s hungry. That revelation should not come as such a surprise; this place reeks of blood, hers included. (Does he want…?)

Astarion looks away suddenly and Irileth feels the absence of his gaze like the coldness of shadow. His armor rasps dryly as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, betraying his sudden discomfort. 

“Now, darling, you know how much I detest talking about feelings…” 

Astarion’s eyes are still downcast, avoiding her stare under the guise of continuing to assess her injuries. “But I feel that it would be terribly remiss of me if I didn’t ask what inspired all of this.” He lowers his voice by a fraction, and his tone is not without pity. “Is it because of that bard?”

Irileth’s anger is a clarifying lance. She must grip the wall in front of her to stop herself from slapping his hands away. How dare—

“That bard has a name,” she bites out, glaring at the stone beneath her feet. “Alfira.”

Astarion sighs heavily, entirely unbothered by her regret-fueled ire, as if he’d been expecting it all along and finds it—what? Tiresome? Disappointing?

(No. Familiar.)  

“Look. I know I have a bit of a, ah, casual relationship with murder.” His fingertips skate along the slope of her waist, and Irileth can’t tell if he’s trying to soothe her temper or his own restlessness. “But listen when I tell you that you can’t throw yourself on the pyre every time someone innocent catches the blade. Otherwise…” 

Irileth risks another glance at Astarion when he trails off. It is so unusual to see him at a loss for words and unsure of himself. His hands freeze in their path, knuckles bending as if he seeks to grab something that isn’t there. 

Then the moment passes and Astarion clears his throat, resuming with a shake of his head. “Otherwise you’ll never move on.”

On some instinctive level, Irileth knows he’s right. And yet there’s a stubborn part of her, a real glutton for punishment, that refuses: I don’t want to move on.

But the look in Astarion’s eyes when he finally meets her gaze again—it is startlingly genuine and Irileth feels her soul settle, seen. For someone who so dislikes sincerity, he certainly enjoys frequently looking into the shadowed center of her and picking up the fragmented shards that reflect them both. She wonders if Astarion is even aware that he does this, or if this is his unspoken way of asking her to do the same.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Irileth confesses, hanging her head as that strange and oily feeling of disappointment returns to her. “There should be some sort of punishment for what I’ve done. I thought this might be it.”

She’d hoped it would be, at least.

“Maybe there will be. Or maybe there won’t.” Astarion shrugs helplessly as he fidgets with the hem of Irileth’s shirt, her injuries now well and truly forgotten. “But we’ve enough to worry about without you seeking your sentence at every turn. The last two centuries have taught me that people far worse than you never face their consequences, no matter how well-deserved.”

“And that’s just alright with you?” Irileth blurts, astounded by his matter-of-factness. “I thought you were a magistrate.”

“What’s alright with me hardly matters,” Astarion says coolly, and Irileth winces at the flinty edge of his voice. “It never has.”

Why? she wants to ask. Why doesn’t it matter? It should.

“And yes,” Astarion continues, his expression clouded and dark. “I was a magistrate. But that was a long time ago. I’m a lot smarter now than I was then.”

He looks away from her, though not before she catches the terrible bitterness that crosses his face, fleeting in the dim light. Astarion sighs heavily, and drops one of his hands from her waist.

“Here,” he says, and Irileth belatedly realizes he’s holding a healing potion out to her. “I figured that whatever we were getting up to tonight, it would be prudent to bring one of these.”

Oh. Isn’t that thoughtful. She takes one hand off the wall to receive the potion, but doesn’t open it. “Thanks.”

Astarion merely nods in response, turning his focus to her back once more, if only to steer their conversation into safer waters. (As if he didn’t bring them to this space of vulnerability in the first place—so utterly full of contradictions, this one.)

“Divine intervention indeed,” he muses aloud, gently touching a bruise that has already started to form below her ribs. “Well. The damage doesn’t look permanent, or at least it’s nothing our dear cleric won’t be able to fix. You might have to grovel for her help; that would be a sight, I’m sure.”

Astarion starts to back away but before he can release her shirt, Irileth stops him, struck by a sudden idea. “Wait.”

He looks at her, eyes bright in the firelight, and arches a brow. “Yes?”

Oh, Hells. With her shirt already rucked up to her midriff, she thought she wouldn’t have any shame left to feel. And yet, Irileth’s face feels mortifyingly hot as she looks at him and asks, “Do you need any blood?”

She is absolutely mad, she must be.

Astarion’s breath leaves him in a sharp gust as his pupils, if possible, widen further, nearly swallowing up the red. “You,” he says, and his hand flexes against her side, betraying his interest, “are hardly in a position to be offering.”

He may very well be right. Irileth clings to the wall, for her knees feel weak and unsteady beneath her. Gods, what is she doing? Why is she doing this? Out of pity, or out of gratitude? Is she just seeking another form of penance?

No, she offers because she wants to.

“I’ll be fine,” she says dismissively, even as her voice drips with weariness. “If you want it, it’s yours. I need you—you need to be strong tomorrow.”

Astarion is so still that, for a moment, Irileth frets that she has offended him with her offer. But then he leans in and his mouth grazes her ear. “Far be it from me to refuse you. Although I won’t be taking from your neck. Hold this for me, will you?”

He brushes his knuckles against her ribs and Irileth realizes that he’s talking about her shirt. Numbly, she sets the potion aside to take the fabric and starts to turn around when he pins her with a hand on her hip, holding her in place. 

Astarion’s grip is gentle but surprisingly firm. As a capable rogue who relies on agility and stealth in battle, it is easy to forget just how strong he is; Astarion has the unnatural strength of a vampire spawn, yes, but there is also lean muscle and sinew, corded tightly all along his bones. 

(Unbidden, Irileth imagines that strength turned against her. What would it take to make him hold her down?)

“What are you—”

“I can’t have you fainting on the way to camp,” Astarion explains and Irileth shivers when she feels his breath between her shoulder blades, right where the mace first struck her. “I’ll only take what has already been spilled. Well,” he pauses, and Irileth can tell he’s smirking behind her back. “Maybe just a little more than that. Is that alright?”

Irileth thinks she might black out when she understands what he’s implying. It is the easiest decision she’s ever made. “Yes.”

Astarion sighs dreamily. “Tymora’s priests only wish they were so lucky.”

And then she feels his tongue on her skin, brushing over one of the ragged punctures left by the mace. His hands tighten around her hips and Irileth bites down hard on her cheek, hiding her face in her elbow. She gasps as his lips seal over one of the cuts, sucking gently, and her body alights with ecstasy and pain in equal measure. 

“Oh.”

Irileth shakes violently when he repeats this process with another gash and Astarion pulls away, his hands petting soothingly over her waist, her hips, as he tells her to breathe. Irileth tries; her lungs quake, mind hazed with the near-agony of having her wounds reopened so soon after partially healing. Astarion presses his lips to an unmarred spot between her shoulder blades, a gesture so kind and tender, she almost tells him to stop. 

“Is it too much?” Astarion asks against her skin and the pitch of his voice has Irileth pressing her brow harder against the stone wall, her thighs clenching together. 

“No,” Irileth answers, even though it is. 

The sensation is not entirely unlike the way it feels when he drinks from her neck. The pain keeps her balanced on a knife’s edge, teetering between the bearable and the unendurable, and all of her senses feel alive, alive, alive as they focus in on the single, sacred point of contact between his mouth and her skin. And running beneath it all is the undercurrent of her desire, searing through her veins and between her legs.

She is overwhelmed. 

Astarion, to his credit, is far more considerate of her body’s limits than she is. Instead of resuming, he retreats—not far enough to cause her alarm, but enough to give her space.

“Did you reach the conclusion you’d hoped for tonight? I hope you didn’t forget the real reason why we came here,” Astarion asks as he waits for her, and—gods, is he making small talk now? There is certainly some innuendo here, though in Irileth’s state, the meaning eludes her. 

“Found a couple of ways in. There’s a cracked wall on the upper level of the courtyard. I think it leads to the rafters. Where you just were,” Irileth says raggedly, capable of little more than fragmented sentences, and she turns her head to peer over her shoulder at him. Immediately, she wishes she didn’t; Astarion is watching her with rapt attention, his chin glistening with her blood.

“You could climb through the gap,” she continues, dropping her head against her outstretched arm. Irileth exhales, trying once more to regain her composure; the sooner she pulls herself together, the sooner he can start… She doesn’t even know how to describe what he’s doing. She doesn’t care enough to try. “And pick your targets off from above.”

Astarion hums thoughtfully, his thumbs brushing over the dimples in her lower back. “Or take out the war drums.”

“Exactly.”

Astarion makes a soft sound of wonder and laughs lightly, resting his chin on top of her shoulder. “Oh, my sweet bloodthirsty friend, you have been scheming. Tell me more.”

“The barrels of alcohol outside,” she manages when Astarion squeezes her hip expectantly, urging her on. “They’re left uncovered. Unattended.”

“Hmm. We should do something about that,” he purrs into her ear and Irileth closes her eyes. “Put that little gift Nettie gave you to good use.”

Of course he remembers that. Astarion was so furious with her when she accepted the poison from the druid healer, promising to use it if she started to turn illithid. So vindictive, her spawn.

“And the Archdruid.” Irileth is babbling, hardly aware of what she’s saying anymore. She just wants Astarion to do something, to put his mouth on her back again. “He’s being held in—”

“In the northeastern corner of the temple, near the Nightwarden. Yes, I heard, darling,” Astarion quips, nosing against her cheek.  “Are you ready to continue?”

Irileth exhales. “Yes.”

Astarion bows his head once more, although still, he does not continue. Instead, he lowers his face to the side of her neck, grazing his teeth over the mostly-healed wounds he gave her days ago. “I could smell your blood from the rafters, you know. Could practically taste it. It was nearly enough to drive me mad.”

This time, Irileth can’t stop the helpless whimper that escapes her lips in response. The pain, the prospect of imminent violence, and Astarion—his simple proximity, the low tenor of his voice, the press of his lips—all of it is getting to her. Her blood is up and she is wet, afire with want.

Irileth is about to release the wall to grab his hair, insisting that he bite her if he needs to—who cares about blood loss, this is more than worth it. But Astarion moves away before she can, closing his mouth over a wound on her shoulder. His tongue swirls around the edge of it, tasting her blood, before he sucks gently, drawing more out. He repeats this process on other tears, alternating between lapping gently at her skin and coaxing more of her life’s essence onto his tongue. All the while, Irileth chews on her lip as she tries not to whine and buck beneath his touch.

(This—This! It is so much better than anything the priest could have offered her: Astarion at her back, her blood in his mouth. She meant what she said: he can have this if he wants it, whenever he wants it. Her blood, her pain, she will give it to him freely, and perhaps that is what Abdirak meant about his offerings—'an intimate and loving thing.’ )

By the time Astarion straightens and Irileth’s back is sufficiently cleared of blood, she feels as if she is floating, her pain now a dull and warm presence that throbs in her core. 

“You are…” Astarion’s voice is gravel and Irileth’s stomach dips at the sound of it. “You spoil me.”

Gods above. Irileth clears her throat as she looks over her shoulder at him. “You enjoyed that?”

“Hah. I’m surprised you even have to ask.” His breath is almost warm on the back of her neck as his nose grazes her nape. “Darling, that was a feast in every way.”

She doesn’t think he’s just flattering her. 

“Do you actually like it?” she asks through the fog, struck by a sudden pearl of, not curiosity but concern, that hardens in her throat. “The taste of blood? Or is it just something you need?”

Astarion stills, hands flexing against her hips. She watches as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and considers her question.

“No, I don’t,” he answers at last, lifting his gaze to meet her stare, brows furrowed with thought. “Not always, at least. It’s different with every living thing. There’s animals and there’s people, and that’s like comparing plonk to wine. One you tolerate, while the other you can savor.”

“Then there’s other people,” he says slowly, voice low and breathy as he brushes his mouth against her ear, “and there’s you.”

Irileth shivers as his hands slide from her hips to her waist and his fine-boned fingers, long and dextrous, splay across her ribs. In between one breath and the next, Astarion’s tone shifts to a new, certain kind of hunger. His eyes are alluring in the firelight, glittering like so many rubies.

He murmurs, “I like you, Irileth.”

“Oh,” she utters weakly and he laughs, low and teasing.

Astarion slides his hands higher. Irileth’s rib cage expands beneath his palms, filled with her shuddering breath, and his fingertips stop just shy of grazing her breasts. “And you clearly like me too.”

Bastard.

 “The sounds you make, the way you tremble beneath my touch…”

“Astarion.” Irileth’s voice is high and reedy, and damn her, it shakes when his thumb presses into supple flesh. Her eyes flutter shut.

How cruel he can be! Irileth doesn’t want Astarion to stop—she really doesn’t want him to, but he must. 

“Yes, darling?” Astarion mouths at her cheek and his fingers caress her skin in maddening circles, never rising to where she wants them—needs them. One of his fangs grazes the tender flesh between her jaw and neck.

“Bite me.”

His lips part wider, his fangs hovering over her skin, and it takes all of Irileth’s willpower not to press herself against them, against him.

“No.”

She blinks, her heart stopping in her chest, but before she can ask why, an apology already springing to her lips, Astarion’s mouth is on her ear, her lobe trapped between his teeth. She gasps when he releases her, warmth beading where his incisors broke skin, and he collects the small droplet of blood that wells up with his tongue.

“Another night, I swear,” Astarion vows, guttural. “But for now, to have you like this—it is a dream. Tell me what you want. I promise I’ll give it to you good.”

Irileth nearly moans; she is certain he would. The slickness between her thighs only increases at the thought, but Astarion has no idea what a dangerous question he has posed: what does she want? The answer is at once easier and harder than she’d like it to be: Him. Anything. Everything.

Irileth’s mind may be in shambles, but her body remembers desire, hunger. She wants him to overwhelm her, give her something to fight against, to pin her against the shrine and hold those clever fingers in her mouth. She’s so wet she could take him now, but—

Her rabid fantasies derail with a single thought: I want you to want this too.

With tremendous effort, Irileth opens her eyes, forcing herself to meet his stare. “I…”

A loud groan cuts her off—the grind of heavy wood against stone shatters the silence of the sanctum. Instantly, Astarion presses her against the wall, his armored chest flush to her back. Irileth has to bite down on the inside of her forearm to muffle her cry as his pressure bears down on her wounds and she feels Astarion, hard against her backside. He swears under his breath, hot and low, his hips bucking once into Irileth’s before he releases her completely and turns toward the hall. 

Voices rise outside of the priest’s quarters, clamoring and eager, though it is impossible to discern a single thread of conversation with all of the echoing. Astarion wordlessly takes one of Irileth’s blades from her hips and stalks toward the gap in the wall to get a better view, shooting her a look that is clearly supposed to mean, Stay here.  

Irileth ignores him. At a dizzying speed, her desire is almost entirely extinguished by the surge of adrenaline that courses through her now. She pulls her remaining blade free and follows Astarion to where he peers around the crumbling wall.

All of the goblins that were idling around the temple proper have now clustered near a single female booyahg clad in leather hide armor adorned with bones and purple feathers. Having just entered through the front door, the goblin woman strides further into the hall, beelining toward a door set in the wall opposite of Abdirak’s room.

“Back!” the woman shouts, using a cobbled-together mace to swat at the goblin hands that reach for her pleadingly. “I told you all: no more branded blessings until morning! Now, scram!”

The woman unlocks the room, then with one final sweep of her mace, disappears inside, slamming the wooden door behind her. The two rogues silently look on until the small crowd disbands again and the goblins return, grumbling, to their posts.

Astarion turns to her, brow raised. He looks distressingly unruffled for a man who had just attempted to seduce her a few moments ago. Irileth doubts she can say the same for herself.

“I’d wager that little hag is the priestess our Sazza kept jabbering on and on about, wouldn’t you?” he asks softly, now that the sanctum has returned to its previous state of quiet inactivity.

“Priestess Gut?”

“That’s the one.”

Irileth purses her lips as she studies the way the other goblins still glance toward the booyahg’s room from time to time, as if anticipating the moment she will re-emerge once more. “I think you’re probably right.”

“Hmph.” Astarion pouts melodramatically as he eyes the door as well. “At least we know she’s real. Too bad we have to kill her tomorrow.”

Have to? Perhaps not. But will they? Highly likely. 

Then he turns his eyes back to Irileth, narrowing in on her with a single-minded focus that makes her wild heart leap into her throat. 

“Not that I wouldn’t love an audience…” Astarion reaches between them to tug her forward by the front of her belt. His gaze remains hot on her face as he resheathes her dagger, fingers lingering longer than necessary on the curve of her hip. “But we should return to camp, before we bring the entire place down on our heads or you collapse. Whichever comes first.”

With that, he releases her and returns to the table where their belongings still sit, forgotten until now. Irileth feels his sudden absence like a deluge of ice water as she watches him shoulder his bow and then hold up her armor for her, all prim and composed once more.

Hesitantly, Irileth accepts Astarion’s help to redon her leather cuirass, well aware of how her face burns as his fingers fly over her buckles, careful not to pull her straps too tight around her back. 

How quickly Astarion’s demeanor changes! Momentarily, Irileth cannot help but wonder if it was all an act, if this was just how he behaved with all of his targets, turning his seduction on and off once he had done what was required of him, like a snake shedding its skin. 

He had asked her, after all, what she wanted from him, just as he had the second time she let him feed. Was this another encore to that conversation? Was he still searching for ways to settle his debts?

But then, Astarion stands in front of her, pressing the healing potion, already opened, into her palm until she accepts it. All she can think about as she drains the bottle is the way his mouth curled against her cheek, how his hips had ground into hers. She’d felt it then, proof that he desired her at least a fraction of how she did him, and the knowledge of that makes her brain go all fuzzy, a pleasant change to its usual ache. 

“Shall we?” Astarion asks when Irileth joins him at the ingress, armed and armored once more. She nods, letting him lead the way. There will be time to analyze this later.

They leave the temple as stealthily as they entered it and when they pass down the narrow strip of land by the river, Irileth notices that all of the traps she’d passed earlier are disarmed. Astarion’s doing, she assumes. 

Astarion helps her whenever they reach an obstacle that might strain her back, his hand firm on her elbow or bracing her feet, his touch perfectly chaste. But beyond those small moments of communication, they remain silent long after they depart the ruined temple. 

Their silence is not strained, though something has certainly changed between them. Something has been changing between them; it started on the night Astarion first drank from her and has continued every moment they’ve spent together since.

When they reach Waukeen’s Rest, Shadowheart is on watch. The cleric nearly squawks when her green eyes find Irileth in the dark, moving stiffly to avoid chafing her back against her armor.

“Lady of Darkness, what happened?”

Irileth feels Astarion look toward her, expecting her to take the lead. As much as he clearly enjoyed taking charge with her back in the temple, Astarion seems content to reprise his role as a dutiful follower once more now that they are among their companions.

“Get the others,” Irileth instructs Astarion, brushing his hand from her elbow as she beckons Shadowheart to join her at the campfire. “I have a plan.”

Even with Irileth’s new information, it takes a while and a fair bit of bickering before the party settles on a satisfactory strategy for tomorrow and everyone disperses back to their bedrolls or their watch stations. Irileth is almost to her tent, set up in the corner of the courtyard, when Astarion catches up with her, grabbing the edge of her mantle before she can disappear inside. 

“A moment, my sweet.”

Astarion’s hands look like slivers of moonlight as they pass over Irileth’s blood red mantle, using it to pull her toward him until their boots nearly touch. Caught in the beam of his gaze, Irileth starts to burn anew, (had she ever stopped?) as if their sobering trek from Abdirak’s room to camp and the subsequent war council had never happened. It’s almost embarrassing, how much he affects her.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten how we were interrupted earlier, darling.” Astarion casts his voice low, placing his fingertips beneath Irileth’s chin to tilt her face up to meet his. 

For a wild moment, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Her lips part on instinct and Astarion’s gaze darts down to her mouth to catch the movement. He smiles indulgently at her and leans in, pressing his lips to her cheek instead. 

“I do so look forward to hearing what you want from me,” Astarion whispers tenderly against the corner of her mouth, but before Irileth can turn her head, chasing his touch, he pulls away, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“And I especially look forward to giving it to you.”

He drops his fingers from Irileth’s face, dragging the back of his knuckles along her arm until he reaches her hand. Astarion squeezes it once, slowly, and studies her through his long white lashes. Then releases her and retreats to his tent, leaving Irileth alone, blushing in the dark.

Oh, Hells.

[yisony07]

Fun to be possessed

Mark sighed as he stepped out of the shower, his body still damp and glistening from the water. He ran his fingers through his short, dark hair and then reached for his towel. He was a fit and muscular man in his late 20s, with broad shoulders, sculpted abs, and a firm, plump ass that always turned heads.

As he wrapped the towel around his waist, he suddenly felt a strange tingling sensation in his lower abdomen. It was as if something was pulling at him, from the inside. He winced and rubbed his stomach, wondering if he had eaten something bad. But then he felt it again, more insistent this time. It was like there was a hand inside him, pushing and prodding at his insides.

"Fuck, what's happening?" Mark muttered to himself, feeling a sudden wave of panic. But before he could do anything, he felt a sharp, burning pain in his anal opening, like someone was shoving something up his ass. He screamed and stumbled forward, trying to grab onto something to stop himself from falling.

But then the pain turned into a strange, pleasurable sensation, as if whatever was inside him was massaging his prostate. He moaned and gasped, feeling his cock stirring to life despite his bewilderment. And then he began to feel… different.

It was like his mind was being pushed aside, and a new presence was taking over. He felt like he was being possessed, but not by any normal spirit or entity. No, this was something else entirely.

Mark felt his body moving on its own, almost like he was being puppeteered. He watched in horror as his hands reached down and pulled his towel off, leaving him completely naked. Then he heard his own voice, but it wasn't him speaking.

"Hello, my lovely host," the voice said, sounding deep and sensuous. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion. I promise to make it worth your while."

It was then that Mark realized he wasn't alone in his body. He was being controlled by something, someone. And that someone had just spoken to him.

Mark felt himself being led through the door, his body walking on its own. He was scared, but also strangely aroused, like he was living out some deep, dark fantasy. He saw the room was filled with men, all naked and engaged in various sexual acts.

There were men kissing and fondling each other on the couch, while others were sucking each other's cocks on the floor. Some were even fucking, groaning and moaning as they thrust into each other.

"And here we are," the voice purred in Mark's mind. "Aren't they lovely? So free, so uninhibited. Let's join in, shall we?"

Mark could only watch in helpless horror as his body walked over to one of the couches. There was a man lying on it, his legs spread wide, his cock rock hard and dripping with precum. Mark's body straddled him, and then… he sat down on the man's throbbing member, impaling himself on it with a groan.

"Oh god, yes," the voice moaned in ecstasy. "You feel amazing, my host. So tight, so warm. Let's fuck him, let's make him feel our power."

Mark could only watch in silent terror and aroused as his body began to ride the man's cock, bouncing up and down on it with wild abandon. He could feel every inch of the man's shaft inside him, throbbing and pulsing with need. He could hear the man's moans and groans, feel his fingers digging into his hips. And all the while, the voice in his mind was urging him on, telling him how good it felt, how he was pleasing them both.

It was the most intense sexual experience of Mark's life. He was trapped inside his own body, forced to watch as the ghostly entity violated his ass and used him for its own pleasure… and oddly enough, he was enjoying it.

Mark's body moved from man to man, taking them all in turn, giving them and himself repeated orgasmic releases. The ghostly entity was riding high on the thrill of the senses, enjoying all the acts and pleasures it derived from them. But eventually, the night had to come to an end.

The guests departed, restless and spent, sweaty, glistening bodies departing into the night one by one until it was just Mark again, walking alone and shaken in his own apartment, where the ghost suddenly left him, confused on the bed, with the memories of the most strange and sexiest night of his life.

[accidentalmistress]

Accidental Mistress - Cat's in the Cradle

It's that time again! This post is a little later in the day than I like, but it ended up being a little longer than I thought it would. At any rate, today we have the triumphant return of Quinns and Oliver! And this one has some worldbuilding! Woo!

(For more Accidental Mistress content, check out the Master Post.)

Title: Cat's in the Cradle

Word Count: 3,882

Content and Warnings: snz (nonbinary), fantasy violence, some mild gore (translation: there's monster fighting)

In which Quinns's good intentions earn them a bit more than they bargained for...

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

The most basic utility of a sword is to swing it with a degree of force and try to hit whatever you’re aiming at with the sharp part.

Dark blood dripped from the end of their blade and sank into the dirt, leaving a stain that, in the moonlight, resembled a slick of black oil. Their chest heaved with panting breaths as sweat dripped down their brow and neck. The stench of entrails and ichor hung in the air, and they fought the sudden urge to retch that rose in the back of their throat.

The creature was dead. That much was clear as a rush of mana flowed into them, as with killing any monster. Its furred head lay several feet away from its body, frozen in a snarl that bared its erratic tangle of crowded fangs. The rest of the grotesque corpse still twitched as it cooled on the side of the road. The oversized, hand-like paws had too many fingers, too many joints. The massive barrel chest was completely at odds with the slender, almost emaciated, waist and hips. Its skin was a patchwork of fur, scales, and feathers that made no sense, had no pattern, and was dotted with weeping splits and sores.

This was what happened to Devourers eventually. They became an absurd pastiche of whatever they consumed, until the imbalance in their form started to tear them apart. They were then at their most dangerous, attacking indiscriminately and without provocation as they were driven to frenzy by madness and agony.

A barking laugh cut through the tension that clung to them like a suffocating blanket.

“Ha! Amazing! Knight Shaw, you’re incredible.”

They flicked the blood off their sword before sheathing it with a deep sigh.

“You don’t have to call me Knight Shaw. Just call me Quinns.”

They turned to the person sitting on the ground behind them and offered him a hand up, hauling the much taller and broader young man to his feet with a grunt.

“Oh, right. And you can call me Oliver!”

The green and black uniform he wore was nearly identical to Quinns’s own, save that Oliver’s lapel only bore a single gold stripe instead of the three Quinns possessed, denoting their difference in rank.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Oh. Right. Um, then how about you call me Ollie?”

“Let’s just get this thing off the road, please.”

“Oh, sure thing! I’ll grab the front legs if you get the back legs.”

“All right, fine.”

It was no mean feat to drag the Devourer’s reeking corpse, seeing as it was the size of a horse. Even as the two Knights grunted and strained with the effort, Oliver couldn’t seem to keep from chatting with that goofy grin on his face that drove Quinns up a wall.

“It’s a lucky thing -ngh- you got here when you did. -urgh- Another few minutes -hnng- and I would’ve been Devourer chow.”

Quinns made a noncommittal grunt and kept hauling. They weren’t about to tell Oliver that the only reason they’d been there at all was because they’d been tailing him since he left headquarters that night. They couldn’t shake the feeling that if they didn’t keep an eye on him, the naive younger Knight was going to do something stupid and get himself killed—a feeling that turned out to be correct when Oliver decided to take the Devourer head-on, alone, with nothing but a sword and the skills of a First-Rank Knight.

Once the dead monster was safely away from the road, Quinns cast a spell that would immolate the corpse by morning. They tried not to look at its six asymmetrical eyes, dead and glistening in the light of the arcane fire.

“Funny coincidence running into you out here at this time of night, huh?”

Quinns cast a sideways glance up at Oliver’s open, honest face. The taller Knight had a broad grin on his face, the furry, pointed ears on top of his head twitching. The cat ears and tail he bore marked Oliver as an Anima, a type of demi-human with animal features.

“I was just doing my own patrol. Couldn’t sleep, as usual, so I figured I might as well do something useful.”

A hearty clap on the shoulder made them wince.

“Ha! That’s my senior for ya! Always the overachiever! Save some glory for the rest of us, huh?”

They crossed their arms in front of their chest. “I don’t do this for glory. I do it because someone has to. You know, I don’t recall you being scheduled for a patrol either.”

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck with an abashed chuckle, his mismatched eyes, one gold and one blue-green, cast aside like a child caught sneaking a sweet from the kitchen.

“Ah, yeah, you got me. I was doing my own patrol, too. The higher ups hardly ever put me on official patrols anymore! I don’t know why; I don’t think I did anything wrong. Recently, anyway…”

Quinns kept their mouth shut. They were pretty sure they knew the reason: Oliver had quickly built a reputation around headquarters, and not an entirely favorable one. He’d passed his exams less than a year ago and was generally known to be affable and pleasant, yet already he had caused the Knights several embarrassing incidents. Quinns was away at the time, but they heard that during his first patrol, Oliver decided to attempt spellcasting in the middle of the marketplace, spooking a horse that was attached to a merchant’s cart and causing a messy collision with a fruit stand. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the Knights ended up responsible for the damages.

Not long after Quinns was officially introduced to Oliver during a late night sparring match, the junior Knight set up a series of bonfires throughout the training yard, apparently to simulate “being attacked by evil fire mages”, which quickly grew out of hand into a conflagration that set a stack of hay bales and half the company’s wooden training dummies ablaze. When Quinns arrived on the scene, they managed to contain the fire with a magical barrier until the other Knights got enough water to put it out. Quinns could still clearly picture how Oliver’s orange cat ears had been nearly flat with shame against his bright blonde hair as their Captain had chewed him out.

That incident, paired with this fight with the Devourer and a hundred other minor screw-ups on the part of the bumbling, cat-eared Knight left Quinns with the sinking feeling that they weren’t finished cleaning up Oliver’s messes. How had he even passed his exams?

Oliver’s voice brought Quinns back to the present.

“Well, since we’re both out here, why don’t we go patrolling together? I wouldn’t mind the company!”

Quinns blew out a sigh through their nose.

“Yeah, all right. Might as well.”

“Might as well keep him out of trouble, more like…” they declined to add.

As they set off together, walking side by side down the road that eventually led to Chambelf, Quinns remembered the other reason that Oliver quite literally irritated them: Quinns was allergic to cats. They cleared their throat as it started to prickle slightly and managed to avoid coughing, silently praying to any god that would listen that they could get this impromptu patrol over with quickly.

“What do you think a Devourer was doing this close to a town?” Oliver had his hands clasped behind his head and was walking along with his gaze on the starry night sky like he didn’t have a care in the world. Must be nice.

Quinns shrugged.

“It looked like it was dying. They go crazy right before they die, and they’re not exactly stable to begin with, so there’s no telling what it was thinking.”

“Do you think there could be any more around?”

“I highly doubt it. They don’t travel in groups; they’re solitary creatures.”

It didn’t escape Quinns’s notice that when he’d asked the question Oliver sounded a little… excited.

“You’re not actually hoping to run into another one of those things, are you? The first one almost killed you.”

The other Knight chuckled. “Well, okay, maybe not another Devourer, but it might be cool to fight some other kinda monster.”

A scoff of disbelief passed Quinns’s lips. “Seriously? Do you have a death wish or something? Why the hell would you want to fight another monster?”

To Quinns’s surprise, Oliver dropped his arms to his sides and a slightly awkward look came to his face. Was he embarrassed?

“Uh, y’know, no reason… It’s just… I-It’s what Knights do, right? Yeah, we, uh, we fight monsters and protect people, so… Just really excited to do, uh… Knight stuff.”

Quinns regarded Oliver with narrowed eyes and was just about to accuse him of being a terrible liar when an itch blossomed in their nose, so instead they turned to the side and rubbed it against their sleeve with urgent strokes.

“Agh…”

“Hey, you okay?”

“What? -snf- Oh, y-yeah. -snf- I’m fine.”

They thought for certain that their sniffles would give them away, but Oliver seemed to take them at face value and nodded.

“Oh. Okay, good!”

Quinns bit back a sigh. While they were relieved that he hadn’t caught on, it really illustrated just how overly trusting Oliver was. The guy needed to cultivate some common sense before it got him killed.

“You know, I feel pretty lucky right now,” Oliver said, and Quinns wasn’t sure if he was purposely trying to change the subject or if he just always said whatever came to mind. Probably that second one.

“What do you mean?”

Oliver glanced over at them, putting his hands up behind his head again with another trademark grin.

“Well, not everybody gets to go on a patrol with the Quinns Shaw. Actually, you almost always go out alone. Makes me feel a little special, you know?”

It actually took some effort for Quinns to not openly gape at Oliver. Sure, it was true that Quinns usually worked alone, but was that really so noteworthy? Furthermore, why did Oliver hold them in such high esteem? Did they stand out that much? They wouldn’t deny their own skill—they were the youngest Knight to ever achieve Third Rank—but they didn’t exactly go out and do heroic deeds every day. They mostly performed their regular duties, did any other tasks the higher-ups assigned to them, picked up any slack where necessary, and kept their head down the rest of the time. They were so thrown off by Oliver’s comment, in fact, that they were totally unprepared for when the itching in their sinuses flared back up. They froze up, powerless to stop it, before their head snapped forward.

“Etchoo!”

“Whoa, bless you. You sure you’re okay?”

Another rub with the sleeve. “It’s nothing. Thanks… Oliver, I really don’t think I’m as amazing as you seem to think I am.”

“Well, I think you are that amazing. I’m real grateful that you’re willing to spend time with a loser like me, honestly. Feels like you could be doing… I dunno… better things.”

Quinns opened their mouth to reply, but abruptly shut it again as they realized that they didn’t actually know why they concerned themself so much with Oliver. Getting involved with other people only complicated things. Just look at the whole situation with Noelle: if anyone knew Quinns was aiding a witch, they’d be before the Inquisition in irons in less time than it took for Oliver to make them start itching. Keeping an eye on the younger Knight just gave them more work to do and more stress to deal with, so why did they bother? Was it simply to protect a comrade from getting hurt, or were they somehow a magnet for hard luck cases?

They had to say something into the silence that had already dragged into uncomfortable territory after Oliver’s last statement, but no words came to their rescue. No sarcastic quip, no snappy comeback, not even something truthful came to Quinns’s lips. Instead, Oliver’s cat ears abruptly twitched, then flattened against his head the moment before he flung himself bodily into Quinns, pushing them to the ground.

“Look out!”

An explosive frenzy of sound and motion followed. Before they even knew what had happened Quinns was facedown in the dirt of the road. Something blocked the moonlight above, casting a deep shadow in the night’s gloom. Training, adrenaline, and instinct took over. They pushed off the ground, and by the time they were on their feet their sword was in hand. Quinns spun to face what attacked them and briefly froze at what they saw. There stood Oliver, ears flattened, teeth bared in a snarl that showed sharp canines that Quinns had never noticed before. He was face-to-face with a huge reptilian creature: long and sinewy like a massive snake, its hide protected by thick, leathery scales. It had no legs to speak of, and the frilled head with its long snout would not look out of place on a dragon.

A wyrm.

Not quite full grown, but still big enough to snatch up and drag either of them away. Sharp teeth the size of daggers lined its yawning maw, currently held open by Oliver with one hand each on the upper and lower jaws as the creature struggled to make the young Knight its next meal. Oliver’s heterochromatic eyes flicked over to Quinns for the barest moment.

“I can’t… hold it… forever!”

Snapped from their reverie, Quinns tightened their grip on their sword.

“Right!”

With a cry, they ran at the wyrm with sword raised, held in both hands to put their full weight behind it. The wyrm’s hide was too thick for a simple slash to do much damage, and there was no time to cast a spell or perform some flashy move. So Quinns used their sword for its second most basic utility: aim the pointy bit at something you don’t like and shove as hard as you can.

This punctured the wyrm’s thick hide, causing the creature to shriek bloody murder, which was probably warranted given the circumstances. It darted aside, abandoning its attack on Oliver in favor of swiping its lengthy tail at Quinns instead. They leapt back to dodge the blow, the whiplike appendage missing them by inches. When the wyrm did not hit its intended target, it switched its attention back to Oliver, curving the arc of its strike towards the other Knight. He made no move to dodge, standing there with his arms wide open like he was waiting for it.

“Don’t tell me he’s gonna try to—”

With a resounding thump, Oliver caught the wyrm’s tail in the chest and grabbed on, holding it in place. How was he still standing? That strike had to have been powerful enough to break bone. More importantly, though—

“What the Hell are you doing?!”

The grin Oliver flashed them was more appropriate for someone who had caught a prize fish than a guy currently bear-hugging the tail of a monster.

“I got it!”

Quinns watched as a powerful undulation traveled swiftly down the length of the wyrm’s body, and Oliver’s feet left the ground.

“Wooaah! I-I don’t got it!”

The younger Knight was flung backwards, landing heavily against the trunk of a tree with a worrying crunch.

“Ollie!”

Surprisingly, or perhaps less so at this point, Oliver gave Quinns a thumbs up from where he sat at the base of the tree. “Koff! Don’t worry! Koff-koff! I, uh, I’m good!”

“Damn it, just… Just stay there, okay?!”

A guttural growl cut through the night air as the wyrm redoubled its attack, launching itself towards Oliver, still recovering from being thrown.

“Shit,” Quinns swore as they rushed forward, beginning a chant that would cast a protective barrier spell in front of Oliver. Icy panic gripped their stomach as they realized that the wyrm was far too fast.

They weren’t going to finish the spell in time.

With a fluid motion that was unlike Oliver’s usual bumbling clumsiness, the cat Anima rolled to his feet and leapt forward to meet his monstrous opponent. As the wyrm charged, baring its fangs with a horrid screech, Oliver once more managed to grab the creature by the jaws. One step, two—despite the wyrm’s size and strength, Oliver yielded only two steps to its crushing assault. Straining with the effort, he then began to prize the monster’s jaws slowly apart.

Still rushing to Oliver’s aid, Quinns thought for a moment that the other Knight was trying to break the creature’s jaw. Instead, Oliver wrenched the wyrm’s head to one side with a triumphant shout. Confused at first, Quinns then realized that with its head turned they now had a clear shot at the roof of the creature’s mouth.

They turned their run into a charge, both hands on the hilt of their sword as they raised it to eye level. With a rising cry they closed the distance, then thrust their blade deep into the soft flesh of the wyrm’s mouth, piercing its brain. The beast didn’t make a sound. Its long body spasmed with weaker and weaker movements until at last it went still.

Quinns pulled their sword from the monster’s corpse, and Oliver dropped its head to the ground. Within moments, the wyrm’s spent life force poured out in the form of mana, which Quinns felt flow into them. Beside them they heard Oliver gasp.

“Oh my gods, I think… I think I just got mana.”

Quinns raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that usually happens when you kill a monster.”

Oliver looked over at them wide-eyed as a grin slowly stole across his face.

“Does that mean…” He suddenly looked down at his arms in front of him. “Do I get my Mark now?!”

“Your… what?”

“The Adventurer’s Mark! How do I know if I got it?”

Quinns blinked.

Plenty of people in the world became Adventurers, but it wasn’t simply a job title. Slaying monsters, practicing magic, training in certain martial arts—these sorts of things granted one mana. Once a person’s mana reached a certain threshold, they would gain a Mark: a symbol somewhere on their body that marked them as an Adventurer. As one then grew in power, so too would the Mark, growing in size and complexity as proof of one’s skill.

“Wait, are you saying… you’re not an Adventurer yet?”

Oliver shook his head.

“No, I’m not. Or, at least, I wasn’t? Maybe I am now!” He actually started to unbutton his uniform shirt. “Would I feel it? What does it feel like? Does it, like, burn or something? How do I know where to look?”

Quinns had to admit that they were a little impressed. An Adventurer’s Mark was not a requirement to become a Knight, but a person was limited in the skills they could use and the magic they could cast without one, which of course made the job more dangerous. Though rare, it wasn't unheard of for someone to join up in the hopes of gaining their Mark, Quinns had just never met one before. Oliver had guts, that was for sure, and he could clearly take a beating. His eagerness to kill a monster now made a lot more sense as well: monsters granted a large amount of mana, so monster-slaying was often the fast-track to Adventurer status.

Quinns placed a placating hand on Oliver's arm before the other Knight got too carried away with stripping in the middle of the road.

"Whoa, slow down there, champ. I… I can't really describe it, but trust me: if you gained your Mark, you would know."

They watched as Oliver’s expression turned crestfallen, his orange ears drooping as he began to slowly button his shirt again.

“Oh… Yeah, that, uh, makes sense.”

Quinns pressed their lips together before sighing, though one corner of their mouth tugged up in a small smile.

“Hey, don’t let it get you down too bad. You’re well on your way. You’ll just have to deal the finishing blow next time.”

The quickness with which Oliver’s ears perked right back up was nearly comical.

“Next time? You mean… you wanna do this again sometime? Like, you’ll go out with me?”

At that Quinns was unable to stop a chuckle from escaping as they nodded.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to make it sound like a date.”

“A date?” Oliver’s cheeks quickly flushed pink and he waved his hands in front of him frantically. “N-no, I didn’t mean it like that! I-I mean, not that I wouldn’t— if you wanted to! But if not that’s totally fine! Wait, no- I mean, I’m not asking you on a date! Right now. I… I really just meant patrolling…”

He placed a hand over his face, thoroughly red. Another laugh bubbled up in Quinns’s throat, but all that came out was a cough. As the adrenaline that surged in their veins during the battle faded, the allergies it had suppressed returned in full force. They tried to forestall any further coughing by swallowing hard, but the ticklish feeling in their throat stubbornly persisted. Quinns put their back to Oliver and cleared their throat a few times, which only seemed to aggravate the irritation. A series of coughs seized them, which they tried, unsuccessfully, to smother with a hand.

“Uh, Quinns? You okay?”

“I’m f- Koff! Koff! I’m f-fi-...” Their body froze, which meant— “Etchoo! Etchoo! Ugh… I’m fine.”

A rare double sneeze. With a groan, Quinns remembered that Oliver had touched them when he pushed them out of the way of the wyrm’s initial ambush strike. He must have gotten cat hair on them.

“You don’t sound fine.” The cat in question came around to face Quinns, prompting them to take a step back. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?”

Talk about awkward. How do you tell someone you’re allergic to them?

“Uh… I have… Etchoo! … allergies?”

Oliver’s golden eyebrows rose, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern.

“Oh, no… Well, you shouldn’t be outside, then! Come on: let’s get you back to headquarters.”

Quinns felt a firm hand on their shoulder, and suddenly Oliver was marching them back up the way they’d come.

“W-wait, Ollie- Hang on, what about- koff! What about the wyrm?”

“We can inform one of the other patrols, and they can come clean it up. I don’t think anyone’ll use this road anyway, and—” He paused. “Wait, you just called me Ollie!”

“Oh, uh, -snf- yeah… guess I did.”

Slight relief washed over them that he hadn’t noticed them yell it during the fight, but that was quickly squashed when Oliver’s arms wrapped around them in a bear hug.

“Aw, that means we’re friends now! I’m so happy!”

Quinns made a mental note to visit the temple when they got back, because the only explanation they could conceive for the events of the evening and their current situation was that, at some point, they had caused the gods some great offense. Of course, that was assuming that they made it back to headquarters alive, and, given how things had gone so far, Quinns was increasingly convinced they might regret letting this particular cat cross their path.

[honeybellexox]

Chapter 3

TW- A little warning, this chapter contains dissociation - H xx

He stood there with his back turned against her.

He appeared to be taking in all the changes that had been made to the room, during his absence. It was back to its original form of grey, black and white - all traces of Khushi had been erased.

Khushi was momentarily stunned, frozen at the sight of him; was it truly him or was she hallucinating again?

Khushi felt her senses blend into one another, that dreaded numbness crept up on her once again; it was a feeling that was unknown to Khushi - she struggled to articulate the emotion. All she knew was that it was something twisted and wrong … an unnatural sensation that made her feel more corpse-like than human, a sickness. She feared her mind was beginning to slip away like fallen sand in a desert as reality seemed to have become a question.

The strange, sudden urge to touch- to test his tangibility overcame her ; was he truly present or was this the Arnav whom visited her dreams?

He must have sensed her presence as he turned around. His eyes once again took in her entire form, his expression remained unreadable. Khushi instinctively took a step back.

As per their usual dance, Arnav took a step forward.

‘‘Khushi …’’ He softly let out in a gentle murmur.

Once again she was hit by his sharp, intoxicating scent; he was real. He had to be - his scent cut through her fog of confusion like a sword.

‘’Are you okay?’’ He asked her. His tone was measured.

It was curious, Khushi felt something hidden in those three simple words. This particular question, that he had a habit of asking her, was a deeply cherished possession of her heart but today it seemed different, she felt something underlying in the words…something beneath the surface, something consuming.

Arnav’s dark eyes no longer blazed with intensity, instead they were like a black-hole that drew Khushi in. There was a pit in her stomach as she noticed glimmers of emotion in his eyes.

All her doubts fizzled into nothingness as she was wrapped up once again, in his arms.

He held her in the way one would handle a porcelain doll - delicately. He had never held her so carefully before…

He began to lightly stroke the back of her head, a gesture that was so small - so seemingly insignificant but it's profoundness had the power to reduce her to tears.

A single tear drop was followed by many as if a dam had burst open. Her vow not to cry in front of him had already been broken.

She silently sobbed into his shoulder, grasping him tightly - choking on her own cries.

‘’Shhh... I’m here now, Khushi. I’m going to take care of everything. Shhh.’’ Arnav cooed, his voice was a whisper of comfort, the words were a balm to her wounds. He held onto her for what felt like hours, anchoring her racking body.

But Khushi stilled almost at once, as she felt a ghost of a kiss placed on top of her forehead; the warm, fluttering sensation had stopped all her tears in their track and left her in a state of temporary paralysis.

She was suddenly aware. Of everything. All at once.

The kiss had sobered her.

Khushi would later blame Devi Maiya for what she would do next - not knowing what possessed her; she gave Arnav a hard, forceful shove.

Arnav had clearly not expected the reaction as he stumbled back a few steps from the impact,his dark brows knit together in shock.

Khushi hurriedly wiped her tears, her heart hammered wildly.

A mix of anger and adrenaline burned through her veins but despite her tumultuous state, Khushi couldn’t help herself from shooting a quick glance around the room; through the glass doors and windows, in case there had been a prying eye.

It seemed to have become ingrained into her being; this sense of paranoia - the paranoia that someone might discover the truth of their marriage. Even within their own bedroom, there was no real moment of privacy. Authenticity had become a luxury and unfortunately, they were afforded none.

She knew he felt it too. The paranoia.

Khushi saw no one in her line of vision however the doubt was still deeply etched into her mind. Her husband’s unusual behavior didn’t help ease her worry.

Something about him was off.

Khushi pursed her lips tightly as she waited for his rage; her body trembled as she attempted to prepare herself for his yelling, manhandling, condescendence or whatever was to come but a moment had passed and nothing had happened, not even a glare.

Arnav had remained rooted in his spot as he studied her silently. There was not the slightest bit of anger on his face.

Khushi could almost see the cogs turning in his mind, she wondered what he was he thinking as he gazed at her intently.

Only Devi Maiyaa knew what was going on in that mysterious head of his.

Khushi felt naked under his eyes, as if he was dissecting her…he said nothing nor did he move from his spot, but his gaze made Khushi feel like an animal being watched in a zoo…as if her soul was being unearthed from within her.

She desperately needed to shield herself from his eyes, those dark eyes that seemed to bore right into her. Khushi sniffled a final time as she turned and walked towards the cupboard.

‘‘Khushi, turn around.’’ There was no trace of malice in his statement but Arnav had made it clear in his tone that he wasn't requesting.

Khushi puts away the dress that she had been playing with and turns around, he’s suddenly standing very close to her.

Arnav’s finger gently brush aside her stubborn fringe of hair, his touch felt featherlight and ticklish. Khushi intakes a sharp breath, her golden eyes widen a fraction.

‘‘Arnavji…?’’ Khushi’s voice cracks as his name slips out, her throat felt sore and dry from having cried so much.

Arnav’s hands carefully cup her face.

‘‘Are you sure you’re okay?’’ He stresses out his question, once again.His eyes meet hers, searching for answers.

Khushi blinks, her mind and heart were at war. Her fierce heart wanted to yell at him, to shout, to push him again but her foolish heart also desired for his comfort and affection - for another tender kiss and embrace. Her stubborn mind won over.

‘‘yes, Arnavji, I’m fine’’

All traces of concern had immediately vanished from Arnav’s face, all emotion had been covered under a stoic mask. His eyes however, remained deeply pensive.

Khushi took this as her chance to leave, he doesn’t stop her.

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A very, very belated happy new year to you all!!! ❤️ I’m sorry I didn’t wish earlier, I hope you’re all well and that 2023 is a blessed year for us all xx

And to kickstart the new year, here’s another chapter! It was a headache to post on tumblr, random paragraphs kept getting erased and despite checking twice, I’m still paranoid there’s a missing paragraph somewhere!💀😭

Please, please proceed with caution when reading this, there’s mentions of dissociation and poor mental health and the last thing I would want is to unintentionally trigger anyone 💕

But I really hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Honey! 💖

[casspurrjoybell-27]

Claimed by the Beast - Chapter 13a

*Warning Adult Content*

Possession - Part 1

I'm going to kiss you now.

Everett isn't that far off from begging for it.

The dark look swirling in Knox's eyes burns brightly, the heat so intense that Everett swears he's beginning to melt from the inside out.

He's more excited about kissing this man than he had been about losing his virginity all those years ago.

That night, which later turned out to be a disappointment, doesn't compare in the slightest to what's happening right now, the scorching result of an attraction that has taken its sweet, sweet time to grow.

Everett told himself again and again that he needed to behave while living at the clubhouse and especially when around Knox.

His body, however, had rejected that ludicrous request every single time.

Why be good when it feels so much better being bad?

Having Knox's hands on him isn't enough.

Everett wants more, so much more.

His chest continues to rise and fall as he breathes heavier, faster, lust having put him in a violent chokehold.

The realization that this isn't a dream, that this is finally happening after weeks of teasing each other, has him scared he'll spontaneously combust before Knox can seal the deal.

The man doesn't look nervous at all, at least not on the outside, so what the fuck is taking him so long to wrap up what he started?

"Do it," Everett whispers, barely able to recognize his own needy voice. "Kiss me, damn it."

His quivering hands grip Knox's waist and slowly travel up his muscular back as if he's scared the man will poof and disappear in the next ten seconds.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Was giving you one last chance to back out," Knox says. "You sure you don't want to take it?"

"No, I'm not going anywhere."

What Everett does take is matters into his own hands.

He tilts his head back, pushes his mouth forward and closes his eyes when he feels their lips touch.

Holy shit.

Occasionally, Everett can be a bit of a dreamer.

But never did he think he'd ever get to experience a moment like this, one he had only seen in movies.

He feels it happen the second after they kiss.

He feels the world shift beneath their feet, pleasure dancing beneath his skin as Knox's tongue wastes little time tasting the inside of his mouth.

Everett, wholly and happily, succumbs to Knox's possession.

He feasts on it.

Drowns in it.

Becomes one with it entirely.

Fuck, does he feel what I'm feeling?

He has to feel it, too.

He has to know.

The kiss begins and ends all too soon as the sound of footsteps slows to a stop beside them.

It's like a bucket of cold water gets poured over Everett when Knox pulls away from him with a deep growl to check out the sudden intrusion.

The man's irritation gradually morphs into anger as he guides Everett behind him before turning around to face one of his brothers.

"Can I help you with something, Mason?" Knox scowls, widening his stance despite there not being a threat. "Because I'm pretty fucking busy here."

"I'll be quick. So I finally have an update on the..." Mason pauses when he catches Everett peeking from behind Knox.

He flashes the boy a friendly smile that Knox immediately disrupts with a low grunt, urging him to keep talking.

"You know what... Uh, just forget it. You two were obviously in the middle of something. I'm sorry for ruining it."

"It's okay..." Everett starts.

"It's not," Knox interrupts, still glaring at Mason.

"Oh my God, can you please chill?" Everett slaps Knox on the arm, then smiles at Mason. "Really. It's okay. We were just, um, talking about what we wanted for dinner tonight."

Mason nods, playing along with the blatant lie.

"Yeah, of course."

Out of all the members that Everett has met up to this point, Mason is the only one who doesn't look like he belongs here.

He's tall and skinny with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes.

His slender body contains not a single piercing or tattoo.

Everett wouldn't stop and walk in the opposite direction if he saw Mason coming his way on the street.

The guy's vibe is more of a surfer boy than member of a dangerous motorcycle club.

Then again, looks can be deceiving.

Everett knows better than to judge a book by its cover.

Mason has clearly put in the work, whatever that consists of, to become a patched member, so he can't be as innocent as he looks.

Everyone living at the clubhouse probably has blood on their hands. Some more than others.

"Hey, listen. I don't want to cause any problems, so..."

Everett steps from behind Knox, trying his best to appear calm and collected despite getting caught red-handed locking lips with, allegedly, the deadliest member of The Fallen Angels.

"I can just leave and give you two a moment alone if it's something important that needs to be discussed in private."

"No."

Knox doesn't give Everett the chance to sneak off.

He grabs him by the hand and tugs him right back to his side.

"We've got other places to be, so Mason will have to wait."

Arching a brow and tilting his head slightly, Knox dares Mason to object.

"Isn't that right?"

"Yeah, man. Whatever you say."

Mason gives them an apologetic look before slowly backing away.

"Just, uh, try to come find me whenever you become available again. I'm going to try to hunt down Pres and tell him what I discovered."

He smirks at Knox once he's a safe enough distance away.

"You two lovebirds have fun and play safely."

"Better watch it, you little shit..." Knox snarls.

Mason sprints off, laughing up a storm before Knox can snatch him up and force his words back down his throat.

"I can't believe this has happened again. Another interruption. I swear we can't get a fucking break around here. It's like they exist to keep us from..." Knox exhales a deep breath, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"Another time, I guess."

Everett giggles and pushes up on his toes to kiss Knox on the cheek.

So not what he had in mind for them minutes ago.

"We should get cleaned up. I feel gross and sticky... but like, not in the good way."

Knox laughs.

"You and your filthy mouth."

"Shut up. I know you like it," Everett smirks.

"Very much," Knox says.

"Let's get out of here before we get another fucking visitor."

[thefloatingstone]

That's good enough for me. Here it is.

(from the book "Nor Crystal Tears" by Alan Dean Foster)

-

Then there was no more time for study. There was only time for a sudden upwelling of fear. His body had been changing for months, subtle tremors and quivers jostling him internally. He’d felt his insides shift, felt skin and self tingling with a peculiar tension. An urge was upon him, a powerful desire to turn inward and explode outward.

The Nurses tried to prepare him for it as best they could, soothing, explaining, showing him again the chips he’d studied over and over. Yet the sight of it recorded on screen was clinical and distant, hard to relate to what was occurring inside his own body. All the chips, all the information in the world could not prepare one for the reality.

Worse were the rumors that passed from Nurserymate to Nurserymate in the dark, during sleeping time, when the adults were not listening. Horrible stories of gross deformities, of monstrosities put out of their misery before they had a chance to see themselves in a mirror, which others said were allowed to survive for a life of miserable study as scientific subjects, never to be permitted out in society.

The rumors grew and multiplied as fast as the changes in his own body. The Nurses and special doctors came and went and monitored him intensively. Around it all, encapsulating all the mystery and terror and wonder and hope, was a single word.

Metamorphosis.

The process was something you could not avoid, like death. The genes insisted and the body obeyed. The larva could not delay it. He had studied it repeatedly with a fervor he had never applied to anything else. He watched the recordings, marveled at the transformation.

What if the cocoon was wrongly spun? What if he matured too soon and burst from the cocoon only half formed or, worse yet, waited too long and smothered?

The Nurses were reassuring. Yes, all those terrible things had happened once upon a time, but now trained doctors and metamorphic engineers stood by at all times. Modern medicine would compensate for any mistake the body might make.

The day came and he hadn’t slept for four days before it. His body felt nervous and ready to burst. Incomprehensible feelings possessed him. He and the others who were ready were taken from the Nursery. Befuddled younger larvae watched them go, some filling their wake with cries of farewell.

“Good-bye, Ryo … Don’t come out with eight legs!” “See you as an adult,” shouted another. “Come back and show us your hands,” cried a third. “Tell us what color is!”

Ryo knew he wouldn’t be returning to the Nursery. Once gone, there was no reason to return. It would belong to another life, unless he opted for Nursery work as an adult. He watched the Nursery recede as his pallet traveled in train with the others down the long central aisle. The Nursery, its friendly-familiar whites and grays, its cradles and compassion the only companions he’d ever had, all vanished behind a tripartite door.

He heard someone cry out, then realized he was the noisemaker. The medical personnel hushed him, calmed him.

Then he was in a great, high-ceilinged chamber, a dome of glowing darkness, of perfectly balanced humidity and temperature. He could see the other pallets being placed nearby, forming a circle. His friends wiggled and twisted under the gentle glow of special lamps. On the next pallet rested a female named Urilavsezex. She made the sound indicative of good wishes and friendship.

“It’s finally here,” she said. “After so long, after all these years. I’m—I’m not sure I know what to do or how to do it.”

“Me either,” Ryo replied. “I know the recordings, but how do you tell when the precise moment is, how do you know when the time is right? I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

Does anybody want to read this excerpt from a 1982 sci fi book where a young mantis-like insect alien is stressed out because he's about to go from larvae to cocoon to adult phase?

[moxfirefly]

Hello hello ma’am! May I get some really raunchy, rough sex with reader x Donnie? Perhaps some sexual frustration or tension that just has to be unleashed. And then some soft soothing cunniligus for after care? Do your filthiest my dear. I love your work!! 💜💜💜💜

When am I not in the mood for this guy. Alright let’s do this, been a hot minute.

Goes without saying,

Rated Explicit (18+ only)

There was never a proper way to explain what this felt like. Being with him so intimately, all the in’s and out’s of a night spent with Donnie could warrant a long long talk.

Never a dull moment, that could surmise it best.

All train of thought sort off barreled to a halt when his mouth found your hip and teeth sank into the flesh there. It was a mixture of a tickle and arousal that spot.

To say he had been at it for hours was an understatement. It at least felt like an eternity, he had that tendency to keep going and going until you were an incomprehensible mess of words. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary when he gripped the underside of your knees and pushed them up and against you. He wanted leverage, wanted you open and willing for him. That smacking of his hips mixed with sweat and all sorts of fluids were just enough to show how long this had been going for.

Donnie wasn’t through just yet, he needed to at least pull one more orgasm from you to feel fully satisfied himself. Oversensitivity had already hit and that dull ache mixed with the pleasure was doing wonders to you. Each moan, each slam, each time you said his name, it urged him on. You felt his hand wrap it self around your throat, his thumb caressing up and down before he gently but purposefully squeezed enough to make you clench around him. “You like that so much, don’t you?” It was teasing, of course he was teasing, he was riding the high of what he was doing to you. Something close to nodding was all you could manage and that along rewarded you with another squeeze before he leaned down to capture you in a kiss. He peppered those kisses around your jaw afterwards, that gentleness he possessed always showed up even in these types of sessions.

But back to matters at hand, he had to of course resume his original plan of leaving you spent.

Those hips of his slammed and they slapped against your own and the lull of his kisses left. Your eyes glues themselves to where you were both joined, and that seem to only rile him up even more. “Yesss, keep looking, want you to watch what I do to you, see how pretty of a mess I make in you” He leaned back to offer more space for said view, held your legs apart by the thighs and made quite the show of pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in.

Words weren’t even something you could consider, there was simply no way of you managing anything that wasn’t a combination of a wail with his name attached to it. “Keep watching, keep watching how I fuck you” Oh, oh Christ there was no way you could cum again but he was clearly about to prove you wrong. That very thumb that had been caressing your throat not too long ago had found itself on your oversensitive clit and Donnie of course decided to rub those treacherous slow circles that always got you. Your breath caught and he couldn’t help but smirk. He was angling his hips and that particular spot that killed you was being touched.

Your eyes rolled back and your mouth opened and whatever else inhabited your mind was eliminated. It was sudden and such a rush, your thighs cramped up and Donnie didn’t stop thrusting until he was sure you rode through your release in its entirety. The squeeze around his cock made his eyes roll back, it was imposible to ignore each tremor that pulled him and inevitably made him cum deep within you. With a few lazy thrusts he pulled out just a little to see the last of his cum leave in small spurts on you.

What was air anyways? You knew you needed it to come back into your lung but right about now it was proving quite hard in doing so. Donnie’s large hands kneaded your hips, soothing some of the stiffness but quickly you noticed the shift in the bed.

He was sliding down.

Throwing a leg over his shell.

“I-ohmyfuckinggod” Your toes curled, more overstimulation hitting you as Donnie began to lick your folds. He lovingly lapped at your combined mess, groaning with each stroke of his tongue.

Your hands flew to his head, a hand finding his shell to which to gently smacked. “I’m gonna fucking faint, Don please” Your voice was small and shaky but thankfully he understood you had reach your limit. A few final licks had him resting his cheek on your thigh. The warmth of his breathing hitting you, he drew circles on the skin and smiled sleepily when he felt your fingers rubbing the top of his head.

Against the flesh of your thigh he mumbled he loved you.

Somewhere between exhaustion and sleep grabbing you, you told him you loved him too.