#so i can allow this indiscretion

[pulledpurplecurtains]

Apparently Rep is six, so in honour of that have another of Max's Unpopular Swift Opinions: I think Getaway Car is an overrated track and most of the album is better than that 🙈

so lemme get this straight

rep: **happily celebrates her 6th birthday

you @ me: i’m gonna attack this woman in her very home *turns to rep* happy birthday sweetie

[sayoneee]

☆ CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT

“i want to wear his initial on a chain 'round my neck, not because he owns me, but because he really knows me” - taylor swift (1.6k)

contains: luke castellan x daughter of ares! reader. secret relationship: the three times u guys were almost caught and the one time u were. pre-tlt.

kashaf’s note: working on requests as well so dw!! again. i just like this 1 lyric from this song <;/3

1. 

MORNINGS AT CAMP half-blood were both weird and normal — at a summer camp for kids with godlike abilities, you’d think that maybe they’d be cut some slack from all the monsters they’ve had to evade and maybe be allowed to sleep in some days, but no, life at camp half-blood was a regular survival of the fittest regime. 

or: eat, or be eaten, as you liked to remind your cabin. 

maybe that was why you were notorious among ares cabin, but to the rest of camp half-blood you simply embodied an other-worldly discipline, more of a tactician than anything, when compared to the rest of your half-siblings.  

“hey,” clarisse says in an undertone, nudging you as you take your designated seat beside her, “where were you last night?” 

your hand stilled as you picked up your goblet, shrugging your shoulders as the once-boisterous table came to a stand-still, eager to discover their shrewd head counselor’s indiscretions, hoping for something to loosen your high esteem for them: everyone remembered the time the entire cabin was put on cleaning detail for an entire month to repent for the mistakes of one.

your penchant for collective punishment wasn’t at all well-received among your half-siblings, but well, no one had really challenged you on your position yet, so.

“in bed,” you said, slowly, taking a sip, “why?”

clarisse shrugged, spearing a carrot from your plate, masking her annoyance with you — out of all of your half-siblings, camp half-blood, even, no one could boast of a relationship as close as yours and clarisse’s, yet no one could be more opposite. clarisse was chaotic, you were contained; clarisse was ruthless, you were just.

“i dunno, i just saw two people on the roof of hermes cabin.”

“and?” you drawled, ignoring the blood rushing in your ears, as the rest of your cabin looked on gleefully.

“one of them was castellan,” clarisse paused, searching your face for a reaction — you were grateful for all the nights spent in hermes cabin, because if not for the stolls persuading you to play poker with them almost every time, your expression would’ve never survived under clarisse’s scrutiny.

“the other one,” clarisse pauses as if thoughtful for once, then pointedly stares, pointing her fork at you, “looked like you.”

the other cabins are also looking in your direction as the dining pavilion is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop, before the table finally registers clarisse’s words, resulting in so much whooping and jeering, you’d think ares cabin won the lottery.

you snag a bite of clarisse’s pancakes, each word punctuated by a bite, “what would i be doing with castellan?” you pause, feeling the table pause with you. wrinkling your nose, you continued, “i swear, next you’re gonna say you saw us making out during capture the flag.”

you grinned as the table erupted into laughter once more, this time by your design. while everyone else went back to their original conversations, you’re summoning the memories of last night.

how luke had wrapped his arm around your shoulders and attempted to woo you with myths about the stars, how you had laughed and called him corny. how the moonlight had illuminated his face in the moment, when he laughed back, drawing you in closer, with his usual snarky response of, “you love it though.”

clarisse snapped her fingers in front of your face, bringing you out of your reverie. she frowned, whispering, “you’d tell me though, if that was you, right?”

“yeah,” you nodded, trying not to feel guilty about lying — clarisse deserved the truth. but it went against your agreement with luke. you tried not to think about how you’re essentially picking a boy over your sister.

2.

like all things camp half-blood, if not careful, could result in death — like capture the flag, but did that stop you, or anyone else for that matter, in taking it upon yourself to make winning a matter of life or death. 

this week, you orchestrated an alliance with hermes cabin, because of their numbers and ability to launch unforeseen tactics, and hephaestus cabin, for their resourcefulness. it also didn’t hurt that the head counselors were your boyfriend and his friend, respectively.

you’re standing by zeus’ fist, discussing strategy with luke and charlie, while your respective cabins go off doing whatever it is to prepare, when luke’s sloppily-tied breastplate catches your attention. 

before you’re fully aware of what you’re doing, you’ve already reached forward to grab it, while charlie stares at you like you’ve been cursed by athena and turned into medusa. 

“so,” charlie says, slowly, “anything you guys wanna tell me?” 

luke is silent, watching you work, while you’re too busy focused on fixing the breastplate to notice the knowing expression on charlie’s face, one you would’ve been irritated by if you had.

“nothing,” you say, nonchalantly, whirling back around to face charlie when you’re finished, while luke gets swarmed by the stolls, “these things just bother me.”

“in general, or luke specifically?” charlie grins, that annoying, all-knowing look is back, and although reluctantly, you can see what it is about him that has silena beauregard so hung over. 

“in general,” you say as if it were obvious, as if you’re trying to convince a child that storks are the ones to deliver babies, and no, you’re not lying, (both statements hold the same level of ridiculousness), “it’s the adhd — makes it distracting.”

“uh huh,” he says skeptically, “i’ll take your word for it.”

you resist the urge to shake him and question him more, but before you can toughen up and just ask, “what do you mean?” he’s already turned away, and capture the flag is about to begin. 

3.

“what’s that?” annabeth points at the tiny “L” on your necklace as it swings to and fro, finally set loose from the captivity of your neon orange camp half-blood tee, hidden under your armor.

“what?” you glance down, dropping the sword in your hand to hastily tuck it away, all the while cursing both yourself and luke for being stupidly sentimental. (it was his idea after all, though, you’re not sure how or where he got the necklace from, but you didn’t really care if it was stolen — you wouldn’t put it past him, especially since he was a son of hermes.)

“was that for luke? are you dating him?” annabeth persists, eyes widening with question after question — nothing can satiate the curiosity of athena kids, especially not annabeth, not when luke castellan, her brother, is in the equation.

“no,” you say, trying to catch your breath from the sword technique you had just shown her, and the gaggle of younger campers who have now caught on, looking at you eagerly.

“no to what? no to the initial on your necklace being for luke, or no to you dating him?” another camper chimes in with a bright grin, probably a child of apollo, and you’re so close to shooting yourself on the spot.

“no to all of the above,” you grit out, really regretting being nice for one of the few times in your life, because no one had asked you, in particular, to demonstrate sword-fighting to these kids, luke could’ve done it, but where your boyfriend was concerned, you were too.

“then, how come you have an “L” necklace?” annabeth asks again.

“it’s my mom’s,” you lie, “i’m a year-rounder, so it reminds me of her — before all this,” you waved in the general direction of camp half-blood.

the campers ohh’ed in unison, but you knew annabeth wasn’t convinced.

you sighed, it could’ve been worse.

+4.

you’re not sure when or where the whispers that your boyfriend had returned originated, but after what seemed like eons of not seeing him, you couldn’t find it in yourself to verify the rumors before dropping your sword in the middle of training and sprinting toward half-blood hill to see him for yourself.

you ignore the calls of your name from your half-siblings, as you were kind of in the middle of demonstrating a technique, instead choosing to focus on more important things, like if your boyfriend was even alive.

when you finally do make it to half-blood hill, and catch sight of your boyfriend, with chris and charlie in tow, you don’t stop sprinting, uncaring for all of the whispers from the other campers as they look on. 

when you finally do come in contact with luke, you nearly tackle him into the ground, as he drops his backpack behind the two of you, arms coming to wrap around you to secure you, as you mumbled, “i missed you, asshole,” into the crook of his neck.

luke laughed, the sound reverberating against your skin, and you get off him, taking a step back. he starts to say something, “i —” but is cut off by you grabbing his wrist, and tugging him over your shoulder, his back slamming into the dirt ground. distantly, you can hear the rest of campers gasp, before buzzing with excitement. ignoring them all, you put your knee on his chest, bringing your forearm under his neck. 

“i swear to everyone, if you disappear like that again—” you begin, as luke cuts you off.

“i won’t,” he promises, grinning as you pull him up. luke slings an arm around your shoulder, and you finally notice the jagged scar running down his cheek. 

he catches your gaze and stares at the ground instead, avoiding you.

“you look kinda hot now with the scar,” you settle for, you know you’ll get the chance to properly speak about it later, but for now, this’ll have to do. 

a light pink dusts his cheeks, and luke, looking up at the campers gathered behind chiron, then glances back at you, smirking, “looks like you gave them quite a show.”

you glared at him, shoving him, “i’m going to kill you.”

luke shrugged, wrapping the arm around you tighter, “the damage’s done, now i’ll finally be able to hang out with my girl in peace.” 

© sayoneee on tumblr. do not repost, plagiarize, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

[paperbackribs]

tags: steddie, pre-canon, season S2-ish, tommy hagan will always have a crush on Steve Harrington

🩵💥🩵

“Someday, you're gonna get bitch-slapped, and I'm not gonna do a thing to stop it,” Steve hears the echo of his words in the Hawkins High boys’ bathroom. Spinning off the tiles, pinging against its corners and stabbing at Tommy who stands gasping at his best friend.

But Steve doesn’t care. This has been a long time coming.

Tommy is a prick and Steve thought there wasn’t anything wrong with going with the flow, ignoring the snide comments, looking away from the rumours that Carol would spread, as long as his friends remained by his side.

But Billy Hargrove had infected Hawkins High. Steve stopped swallowing the cool aid. And Tommy is fuming; red in the face and ready to take it out on any unfortunate soul that crosses his path.

Enter Steve.

Or, really, enter Eddie Munson.

Steve wasn’t sure if Tommy followed Eddie into the empty toilets or coincidentally came across him or whatever could be going on in the mixed up mind of his former best friend. But watching Tommy square off his stocky, muscular body against the other boy, boxed into the corner and wide, brown eyes only visible over Tommy’s shoulder, Steve swears that he’ll no longer look away from Tommy’s indiscretions.

So, he says it again, nodding to the leather clad boy in the corner, “Eddie’s going to take a swing at you and not only will I not defend you, I might even fucking taking a swing too.”

Tommy gapes, “What the fuck, Steve? I know we’ve been having troubles, but you’d take the freak’s side over mine?”

Eddie’s face twists in the background. Steve can see the anger warping his eyes and he doesn’t blame him, almost wishes that Eddie would take a swing and then Steve could just stand back and let it happen.

He sighs: he’s allowed a lot of things to just happen so far and it’s not to his credit.

Weirdly, Steve's resigned gaze meets Eddie’s incredulous look and, just for a moment, Steve feels like he’s met someone who gets it. Someone who sees the ridiculous, short-sighted nature of the petty bullying in the hallways of their high school and knows how stupid and utterly pathetic it is.

Steve swears that the corner of Eddie’s lips kick up at the irony of their shared understanding but is distracted as Tommy strides forward, knocking against his shoulder hard enough to send Steve spinning against the wood of a stall. He steadies himself as Tommy slams the bathroom door shut behind him with a clamorous bang and shakes his head: how could he have had such loyalty for a guy who won’t even stop to talk out their stupid shit together?

Steve thought he’d at least earned Tommy’s patience, a moment of Tommy’s time so they could talk this out and find a way forward again. He stares after his former friend, a hollow, gaping hole in his stomach as he grieves the friendship he thought they’d shared.

Eddie approaches with a gentle hand, laying it on Steve’s shoulder, “Are you all right, man?”

Steve swallows around the thickness in his chest and belatedly realises that his cheeks are wet. He clears his throat and, through a tight smile, says, “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Are you okay?”

The deep richness of those brown eyes regard him for a long moment and Steve feels stripped bare. He thought he was the guy rescuing Eddie, but he suddenly feels like the one vulnerable and exposed to the other boy.

Eddie smiles softly, “Yeah, got saved, right? How could I be anything but peachy keen?”

Steve snorts despite himself, amused by Eddie’s tongue-in-cheek tone, “Like a summertime in Georgia.” He can’t help but flash to Tommy’s retreating back and hates that his tone is already bitter, “Except I’m the stupid fucking tree alone in the grove.”

His head twitching slightly to the side, as if he were weighing Steve’s words, Eddie lightly responds, “Well, maybe it’s time to try another field. Wanna hang out sometime?”

Steve blinks, bewildered at the offer. The suggestion given so freely and without conditions seems anathema to his experience of friendship, and especially friendship in the complex halls of high school. He eyes the other boy suspiciously, but Eddie’s eyes remain clear, his body loose and almost curled towards Steve as if he were the north to his compass.

What could it hurt? Steve thinks.

Looking at what he can only describe as kindness in Eddie’s eyes, Steve thinks that a lot of things could hurt. Could burn or scald or stab, but the sweet, clear acceptance in Eddie Munson’s eyes has him thinking of a world where Steve can offer his loyalty and receive it in kind. A place where he can be good and feel like he’s doing good and perhaps a lovely brown-eyed boy would wait and tell him he’d done the right thing.

Eddie sticks out his hand in a gesture of friendship that only bolsters the words he’d already extended to Steve. And nothing moves in the cold room of Hawkins boys’ bathroom, no wind or breeze, but as Steve reaches out to clasp Eddie Munson’s outstretched hand, he feels a seismic shift that he can’t explain.

Steve’s fingers fold around the warmth of Eddie’s palm and Eddie’s full lips stretch into a smile, welcoming and true. A gesture that Steve can’t be sure of, can’t let himself fully trust; yet, nonetheless, Steve finds himself hopelessly following after Eddie’s extension of friendship.

And it'll eventually allow Steve to follow him to the confusing halls of the Hellfire Club.

To the strangely welcome space of Eddie's uncle’s trailer.

And Steve follows.

Because he is helpless but to follow this wide, brown-eyed boy who smirks at him with a knowing smile.

[maddiethedogstories]

Erica's Big Night Out

This post stars @baby-erica because her naughty fantasy inspired it. Go check out her blog!

Erica was so excited! Mommy was going to be staying out of town for the weekend for work, and, despite her best efforts, hadn't found a babysitter for Erica. Ever since Erica and her Mommy started dating, the small woman had never been left alone. Every day and night, she'd been kept under Mommy's watchful eye. And, as much as Erica loved her girlfriend and her days spent as her Mommy's perfect little adult baby girl, she did miss certain aspects of her adult life.

One of the things she missed the most was going clubbing with her friends. Back before Erica met Mommy, she would spend every Saturday night in her shortest, prettiest dress, rubbing her ass on strangers while she drunkenly danced to the best club beats. Mommy, however, hated clubs. She always said that they reminded her of being in a daycare full of overgrown, unsupervised toddlers. Ever since Mommy had taken over Erica's life, the adult toddler had been forbidden from going clubbing. That restriction chaffed Erica more than the rest (even more than not being allowed to go potty anywhere other than her pants or her pink training potty).

However, with Mommy staying in a hotel an hour out of town, and without a babysitter to tattle on her, Erica had her opportunity. She was going clubbing!

For the week ahead of Mommy's trip, Erica spent her days secretly coordinating her unsupervised outing. She reached out to her old college girl friends. They were all more than happy to oblige their old friend's desire to get out of the house and let loose. She secretly bought and hid a slutty new dress to go out in, Mommy having purged her wardrobe of any clothes that wouldn't have been appropriate on a five-year-old when they moved in together. Erica even pre-booked an Uber and reserved a VIP table at her favorite club. She wasn't going to let anything ruin her night!

The day of her secret trip finally came. Erica gave Mommy a big hug and passionate kiss before Mommy left on her work trip.

"I'll miss you bunches, Mommy! I'll be so lonely without you!" Erica said, laying her lonely-little-girl act on thick.

Erica's Mommy reached down and squeezed the front of Erica's diaper, reflexively checking if it needed changed as she pulled away from her girlfriend's kiss.

"I'll miss you too, Baby Girl! Are you *sure* you can make it a whole night by yourself? I can still call in and say I'm too sick to go!" Mommy said, her worry coloring every word she spoke.

Erica jumped back, realizing she may have gone too far.

"No, Mommy! I'll miss you, but I'll be fine! Go have fun on your trip! Don't worry about me!" Erica's words came fast and furiously in a way that made Mommy more than a little suspicious.

Erica's girlfriend's eyebrow rose with her suspicions. "You're going to be a good girl, right? You would be planning on breaking any of Mommy's rules?"

Erica blanched. Were her plans going to fall apart that quickly?

"No, no! I'm going to be a good girl! Of course! Plus, you need to go on this trip to get that big promotion!"

Mommy looked at Erica, clearly not mollified. But, Erica knew that she'd been right. This trip was too important to Mommy's job for her to pass it off. So, Erica waived goodbye as her girlfriend drove away, content that her carefully planned indiscretion was going to go off without a hitch.

The rest of the day before leaving for the club went quickly. Erica spent the morning doing her chores, making sure to set herself up for success when she inevitably came home too drunk to do her normal required daily tasks for Mommy.

After a quick lunch of a cut up peanut butter and jelly sandwich, apple sauce, and carrot sticks (carefully prepared by Mommy before she left), Erica changed her very wet diaper and climbed into her crib for her normal afternoon nap.

Eventually, evening rolled around, and Erica excitedly got ready to go hit the club with her friends for the first time in years. She changed out of her diaper into her thinest pull-up. She got her short, slutty dress out of it's hiding spot and put it on. She did her make-up and hair, and then admired herself in the full-length mirror in her nursery. Standing in front of her crib and changing table, Erica could only say one thing as she looked at herself.

"I'm so fucking hot!"

Erica's Uber soon came and picked up her and her friends. The night was incredible. Erica drank, danced, flirted, and partied harder than she had in years. Guys bought her drinks. She got felt up, which, normally she'd be offended by, but tonight, she took as a compliment. She didn't even notice the strange looks she got when guys felt a wet pull-up when they were expecting a firm ass. Her friends were all commemorating the occasion, taking photos and videos and posting them to their Insta. Nothing could ruin Erica's night. Or, at least, that's what Erica thought.

Three hours and countless drinks and dances into the evening, Erica was in the middle of the dance floor, grinding her soggy-padding covered ass on an incredibly hot guy she had first seen minutes earlier when her revelry was interrupted by a sharp tug on her ear.

"ERICA LYNNE! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" Mommy's voice rang out over all of the clatter of the club.

The music and dancing came to a screeching halt as a gap cleared in the center of the dance floor where Mommy chastised Erica.

"Mommy! I, uh... thought..." The small woman in the slutty dress stammered out uselessly.

"You THOUGHT? You thought what? You were a big girl, just because I was gone for the night? You wouldn't get caught breaking my rules because I was out of town? These people would see you as something other than the overgrown toddler you are because you put on that skanky dress to play pretend? Let's see how big they think you are when they see what you're hiding under that skirt!"

Unceremoniously and with every eye in the club on them, Erica's girlfriend-turned-Mommy hiked up the back of Erica's skirt and tucked it in the waistband of her soaking wet, pink Moana pull-up. Laughter came from everywhere, swallowing Erica up like the music had just moments before.

Erica broke from the public humiliation. The dam that had be holding back most of the urine created by hours of drinking gave way. Erica flooded her already damp pull-up in the middle of the dance floor. Pee ran down Erica's legs and puddled at her feet as the pull-up proved to be too little protection for the tsunami of piss coming from her now. Erica cried as people gasped, laughed, and called her a baby. Even her friends, women she'd known for years, were giving her looks of pity, shame, and disgust.

"Now look what you've done! Made a mess all over the floor! Naughty baby!"

Erica bawled drunk tears as she stumbled behind Mommy, being dragged to the nearest Lady's room for, what Erica was certain, was going to be a very humiliating diaper change. When they got there, one look from Erica's furious Mommy Domme immediately cleared out the bathroom.

"Of course this place doesn't have a changing table!" Mommy huffed as she pulled a changing mat out of the diaper bag she was carrying. "Lie down," she said, pointing at the mat on the floor.

Erica did as she was told without complaint. With her thumb firmly planted in her mouth, she stared at the stained ceiling panels of the club's bathroom as Mommy went to work.

"I can't believe you," Mommy lectured as she stripped Erica of her drenched pull-up. "I am gone for less than a day, worried sick that you're lonely, that you can't take care of yourself!"

Erica involuntarily shuddered as her girlfriend wiped her pussy with a cool baby wipe.

"I lay down on my bed in my hotel room, open Instagram, and what do I find?"

Erica lifted her hips, allowing Mommy to pull the wet pull-up out from under her and replace it with something much thicker.

"Pictures, videos, stories, reels, posts, you name it! Everything showing my precious little baby--the little girl who PROMISED me that she would be good--not only drinking, but drinking and dancing in a night club in a slutty, little dress."

Erica blushed as she lifted her hips again, allowing a second thick ABDL diaper to be slid under her.

"You broke more rules than your silly little brain can count to, princess!" Mommy said as she taped her disobedient charge into her double diapers.

Erica grimaced at the harsh tone with which her girlfriend had called her princess.

"And you're not going to get away with it! Stand!" Mommy pulled Erica to her feet.

Erica tried to pull the hem of her skirt down over her dress, but her choice of a skin tight garment had backfired. Her dress was so tight and the diapers were so thick that the best Erica could do to maintain any sort of modesty was leave her skirt hiked up to her belly button, not covering her diapers at all.

"Mommy, please," she whispered, begging for any sort of reprieve.

None came.

"What? You seemed to like showing off you body earlier? What's wrong now? Embarrassed to let everyone see who you really are?" Mommy said, not a hint of sympathy in her voice. "March!"

With her eyes turned down, the drunk, once-proud party girl waddled behind her Mommy through her favorite club, drawing everyone's stares and whispers.

Despite her embarrassment, Erica did her best to soak everything in. Something told her, as she watched her girlfriend's beautiful backside sway in front of her with a determined gait, she would be lucky to ever see the inside of a night club ever again.

[literaila]

lingering 

tasm!peter x fem!reader 

summary: peter feels pretty lucky. 

part one, two. 

warnings: fluff, protective peter, ridiculous suggestions 

*

when the two of you walk into the office, peter will linger a couple of feet behind. 

he'll get the next elevator up. he'll wait a few extra minutes and give you the time to sit down at your desk before he even moves to his. 

and most importantly, he'll spend two minutes trying to wipe the smile off of his face. 

it seems to be glued there, stretching into wrinkles, pulling at his teeth, and making his jaw ache. he tries to scrub it off with a hand, but as soon as it's gone, it comes right back. 

especially when you're right next to him, almost holding his hand. 

"are you going to go take photos of the train station?" you're talking to him and peter is... 

well, he's not really paying attention. 

he shakes his head at you, still smiling. "what?" 

"did you sleep at all last night?" there's a frown on your face, a wrinkle between your brows. 

peter would like to kiss it away. 

he would like to kiss every inch of you, actually. 

"no, i--" he clears his throat. "i got a couple hours. i'm okay." 

"you're distracted," you correct him, stepping out of the way for a woman hurrying down the sidewalk. and then you come right back to him, almost leaning in far enough for him to feel you. 

which he can, already, of course, because he can hear your heartbeat and smell your body wash and taste the chapstick you were wearing when he showed up at your apartment. still, he likes this proximity. 

he wonders how he ever lets you get more than a foot away. 

"well, you're distracting." 

he's grinning at you when you look away. he allows you the moment to let the compliment sink in, and then he reaches down, touching your palm to his. "what were you saying?" 

"i was asking if you're supposed to go take pictures of the train station today? the one that got destroyed on monday." 

you squeeze his hand, giving him a look that translates more than words can. especially in public. he's grateful for your indiscretion, even when he feels it goes too far (for instance, yesterday you told a waiter that you thought spider-man was a self-righteous pest. he got a kiss for that though.) 

finally, peter winces. "yeah, i'm heading there at noon."

when he looks over at you, you're pouting. 

he raises a brow in question. 

"so no lunch today?" you ask, almost whining. and then you tilt your head back, making a displeased noise. 

peter almost laughs, but corrects himself before he can. "i'm sorry, baby, i tried to get an earlier time." 

"how long will you be there?" 

"probably till three, at least. i'm not sure how many other photographers are going to be there." 

your hand slides out of his and you look at him accusingly. "are you even coming back to the office after?" 

he bites the inside of his cheek, looking away from you. 

"peter," you groan, hanging your head. "why didn't you tell me this? i thought i was going over to your place tonight." 

"jameson said that any break away from my face was a good one. i can just edit the pictures on my laptop. and," peter adds, trying to reach for your hand even when you push him away, "you are." 

you scowl. "you won't let me walk there by myself."

and then the smile is back on his face. "that's why i'm coming to pick you up." 

"do you mean that literally," you squint at him, distracting peter with the look on your face. "or figuratively?" 

peter shrugs. 

"you don't have to come all the way back," you tell him, voice soft and sweet. 

"it'll take ten minutes." 

"yeah, but you're already tired. you should sleep until later tonight." 

"i'd rather walk with you." 

you roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. "well, i'd rather have a sane boyfriend, but we can't all get what we want."

peter pokes you in the side, delighting in your giggles, and you finally take his hand so that he'll stop. 

but it's a little too late because the office is twenty feet away from you both. 

you're looking at him with a smile, but it's a different one than usual. a bit sullen. he can see it in the way your lips are turning down. 

"i'll go first?" you ask him, nodding towards the door. 

peter nods. "i'll come say goodbye before i leave." 

you blink at him, eyes and lips, and smile far too dangerous for him to look at for much longer. 

he kisses the top of your head before you go. getting goosebumps when your fingers graze past his as you walk away. 

peter watches you trip over a crack, almost reaching out to catch you before you find your balance again and look back at him with a grin. 

peter shakes his head. 

but he can't help it; he's grinning back. 

*

he's already smiling when you walk through the doors. he knows you're close, if by nothing but intuition. 

and he's almost pushed over--nudged, at most--by you crashing into him, hands around his neck, breath on his ear. 

"hey," you say to him, a moment too late. 

peter wraps his arms around your waist. he leans into your hug, holding you there for just a moment. and then you push him away, giving him a strange look. 

"you're early," you tell him. 

peter is still smiling. "so are you." 

"yeah, but i have an excuse," you lean into him, eyes grinning, "jameson said i was a disgrace to the office, and that i should leave before i broke anything else." 

at that, peter frowns. "what'd you break?" one of his hands goes up to your face, moving a piece of hair away from your eyes. 

"the coffee pot." 

peter blinks. 

"to be fair--" you begin to say, almost pulling away from his grip, but not quite. "rita was walking right behind me and what was i supposed to do? throw it up and catch it?" 

peter runs a thumb over your lip. "did jameson actually say that?" 

you scrunch your nose at him. "he's said worse." 

"yeah, but he doesn't usually say it to you." 

"well, i broke the most essential piece of equipment in the office. it was an accident though," you tilt your head to the side, finishing the sentence without getting peter to argue with you. 

like everything i do. 

"i don't like it," peter says, still frowning, even though your skin is so soft and he can feel you smiling against his hand, and you're looking right up at him. 

kind of like he's the only thing you'd like to see. 

"great!" you pull away from him, spinning around so you're walking backward, "because i don't like it when you're gone either. if you were there i probably wouldn't have dropped it." 

"yeah, 'cause i would've grabbed it before you could." 

"exactly." 

peter smiles again, leaning toward you. "is that your way of saying that you're still mad about this afternoon?" 

you hum. 

"how can i ever make it up to you?" 

your cheek twitches. "i can think of a few ideas," you say, with a tilt of your head. 

and then you almost crash into someone walking behind you, but peter pulls you in, eyes right above yours. 

"you'll have to share them with me," and then he kisses you, short and sweet, turning you so that he can put an arm around your shoulder. "let's go home."

*

you're dozing off on peter's shoulder when he finally looks at the clock. 

the two of you have been sitting there, trying to see who could catch more popcorn in their mouth--peter won with an unfair advantage--and then watching whatever was on cable. 

peter honestly didn't care, nor was he watching it. you were far more entertaining. 

but now it's eight o'clock, and it's getting dark. 

so he kisses your forehead and feels you hum. and then groan. 

"already?" you ask, voice rough. 

"it's been three and a half hours." 

you turn your face into his neck mumbling "i deserve five times that." 

peter is smirking at you. "i'll be back before you know it," he says, "and then we'll do whatever you want." 

"i'll be asleep." 

"then we'll cuddle." 

"can't you figure out how to clone yourself?" you grumble, leaning back. "you're smart enough." 

"which one would you want? me or the clone?" 

you look away, contemplating. and then you half grin. "i don't know. which one of you kisses better?" 

peter laughs, hand moving to your chin so that he can force you to look back at him. 

and then he answers that question without any words. 

*

when peter gets home that night, he can smell blood. 

and not his own, because he can feel it cracking on his knuckles and his chest, already dry. and not some thief's because he'd managed to avoid breaking any skin. 

no, this smell is potent. sort of sweet and metallic, familiar and not. 

when he climbs through the window, looking to the bed where he'd expected to find you, you're not there. 

he can hear rustling in the kitchen, a drawer opening and closing, and the click of a tongue. 

peter walks out of the room before he can even think about it, just barely keeping the mask on his face. 

but when he walks into the living room he only finds you, sitting on the couch, applying something to your hand. 

you look up with a smile, then furrow your brows, gesturing to your face. 

oh. peter still hadn't taken off the mask. 

he does, frowning at you, and taking a few steps forward. 

"there you are," you say with a grin. 

and despite how happy you look to see him, and how much he's missed you just in the last five hours, peter is still frowning. he bends down in front of you, biting his lip. "what happened?" 

you tilt your head, then follow his eyes. "oh. did you know that bread knives are sharp?" 

peter sighs, grabbing your hand. "how did you even do this?" he asks, turning your hand so that he can see the cut fresh on your palm. "i thought we talked about not going into the kitchen when i'm not here." 

"and i thought i said that it was a ridiculous suggestion and you were trying to starve me." 

he holds your hand up in front of your eyes, raising his brows. 

"it doesn't even hurt that bad." 

"really? cause it smells bad. and i'm pretty sure i can see bone." 

you laugh at him, taking your hand back. "i already washed it, i just need a bandaid. how are you?" 

he blinks at you. 

"peter," you groan, rolling your eyes. "it's not a big deal. but i'll share the bandaids with you." 

there's a question in your eyes, alight with the same eagerness peter has found to love. 

"i don't need 'em," he tells you and then stands up. "i'm going to go change. then we'll talk." 

"about dinner?" you call back.

when peter comes out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later, you're already sitting in bed. 

peter finally looks at you, almost smiling at his shirt and your spare pair of shorts you keep here, but then looks back to your hand. 

he crosses his arms. 

"can i help you, peter?" 

"do you see my point now?" 

you blow a raspberry, crawling towards him so you can reach his hand. "everyone gets a little banged up. i don't think you're one to talk." 

"what if you'd cut your finger off and i wasn't here?" 

you roll your eyes, again. "then i'd knock on mrs. robinson's door and ask her to sew it back on. besides, i'd look good with nine fingers." 

peter stares at you. 

you move up so that your face is close to his, and you're still smiling. biting your lip as you look at him. and then you poke his cheek. "you worry too much. also, i think this argument is hypocritical." 

"i'm fine the next morning." 

"don't brag." 

peter sighs again, and then he's taking a step towards you, one of his hands going to your back to keep you up. "i don't like leaving you." 

your lip curls. "i know. but it's good because then we have something to argue about when you get back." 

peter smiles at you, nudging your nose with his. 

you close your eyes, tilting your head up to meet him better. "i missed you." 

"yeah?" 

you're smiling against him, leaking joy and contentedness and every ounce of adoration you have into him. peter knows because he can feel it. 

in just your skin on his fingertips, he can tell that you've poisoned him. and he doesn't really mind. 

you nod against him. 

"a lot?" peter prods. 

you seesaw your head. "mmm, i think i mostly missed how warm you are. 'cause your heaters broken." 

"you just don't know how to set it." 

"i don't know how to set it because it's broken and you don't want to fix it." 

peter shrugs. "can't fix something that isn't broken." 

you're shaking your head against him, and then he leans forward, catching you in a kiss. 

your mouth is almost unbearable. your smile and the way you laugh when he pulls you even closer, and the way your hands wrap around his neck and fall into his hair. 

how he ever lived without this, peter isn't sure. 

you break away from him, breathing strained. "you okay?" 

peter pushes you down, climbing on top of you. "i am now." 

*

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf  @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon  @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl    invisibletrolleyson-jeremy  @sharkswaters  @rowniebow @anaislfbv @take-my-hand-time-boy @mileyc111 

[malk1ns]

Yesterday I came across the 5 on 3 video and since then I have been thinking about baby sid being infatuated by baby geno. Maybe one of them having a crush on the other and just being so not normal when around their crush.

so i had a little bit of a conversation with @plethoriall along these lines earlier today that is helping inform this; i hope you don't mind third party POV!

Mario has rarely regretted offering to have Sid stay with him.

Sid's rookie year he'd been a breeze; compared to most 18-year-old hockey players Mario's known, rear-ending the nanny's car was small potatoes. Sid was respectful of their home, didn't mind when the kids demanded his time and attention, and never put Mario in the awkward position of having to talk to him about not bringing hookups back. He'd expected much of the same when Sid called to let him know when he'd be returning for camp before his sophomore year.

That was before Malkin arrived.

Mario's memories of being a lovesick teenager are pretty dim at this point. He'd had his fair share of ill-advised crushes, more than one person he'd hooked up with that he probably shouldn't have, and Nathalie had forgiven more indiscretions than she should ever have tolerated, but being a 19-year-old with a world-ending crush is foreign to him.

He's doing his best to be empathetic, really he is. But there are really only so many stories one man can be expected to sit through while still pretending that his prodigy isn't head-over-heels for a teammate.

(He'd tried to broach that topic once, when Sid had come home from a night out inconsolable about Geno taking a girl back to the hotel room he still had rented in his name even though he'd essentially moved in with Sarge. Sid had locked himself in his room for three days, only coming out for practice. Austin had been devastated.)

"—and then Geno said the funniest thing," Sid is saying, and all Mario can do is grunt and listen, because Sid had followed him down to the gym and Mario figured he could put him to use as a spotter. He should have known better. "He said that Ovi's last name was...well, I don't remember exactly, but he basically called Ovi a sheep. Isn't that funny?"

"Hilarious," Mario gasps, and luckily Sid notices and grabs the bar before Mario drops it onto his chest. "Okay, I think that's enough for today."

Sid frowns, looking at the clock on the wall. "You've only been down here for twenty minutes, though."

"I have a phone call, just wanted to get a quick set in," Mario says, clapping Sid on the shoulder and making for the stairs. "Thanks, kid."

He manages to lock himself into his office before Sid can come find him with another story about Malkin, dialing Sarge's number and pouring a glass of whiskey as the phone rings.

"What," Sarge snaps as he picks up, and Mario laughs.

"Long day?" he asks, taking a sip.

Sarge's sigh is noisy over the line. "Jesus, Lem, you'd think nobody in the world has ever had a crush before," he complains. "I swear to god, If I have to listen to Sidney this or Sidney that one more time, I'm kicking him back to that hotel. It's ridiculous."

"Not much better over here," Mario murmurs, flicking through his daybook. The younger players have a PR event at Dicks tomorrow; maybe if he makes a few calls he can get Sid and Geno paired up. The cameras can't be on them the whole time. "He almost let me drop the barbell on myself just now."

Sarge snorts. "And somehow they both think the other one couldn't possibly feel the same way, even though they spend half their time making cow eyes at each other. I swear I was never this stupid."

Mario thinks back to the 90-91 season and winces. "I'm sure I came close a few times," he allows.

He has to pull the phone away when Sarge guffaws loudly in his ear. "Oh, I've heard stories," he says, and Mario wrinkles his nose. "But I don't think anything either you or I have ever done could hold a candle to this. And Zhenya won't hear a word from me about it, he acts like the world is ending whenever I try to bring it up."

"Sid's still pretending that he's just a big fan of Malkin's hockey," Mario sighs. "I'm thinking of telling comms to put them together for that event tomorrow and distract the cameras for an hour."

"We could lock them in the equipment room?" Sarge suggests. "Not for too long, of course, but..."

Mario thinks back to dinner the night before, when Sid had chattered on and on about Malkin for so long that even Nathalie's patient smile had started to fray. "I think you're on to something," he says. "Sid always stays late to talk to people—when is Malkin due for a trainer appointment? I'm sure Dana will help us out."

[bird-inacage]

Only Friends Finale: Ray & Sand vs Boeing

Admittedly it's taken me a few days to unpack the resolution to the Boeing conflict (aka final boss arc), how Ray and Sand went about this, and how they came out of it unscathed as a couple. There’s a fair bit to cover here so hang in there folks - this is a long one.

Sand's Uncertainty: Questioning the Present or Tributing the Past?

I can see why people had grievances about Sand not being more assertive, why he allowed Boeing to kiss him, why he wasn't definitive when Ray accused him of still having feelings for Boeing if he did not.

The scene in which Sand apologises to Ray briefly touches on this but doesn’t really convey the extent of it. By Sand's own admission, it is hugely difficult to be confronted by someone you used to love, especially a first love. Sand had planned his hopes, dreams and future with Boeing very much in the picture. Boeing's sudden return brought that all back and the lack of closure that came with it. Sand’s hesitancy to act is not due to a resurgence of his feelings from back then, but rather the nostalgia and sentimentality attached to this chapter of his life. Boeing very knowingly plays on this too.

During the pool scene, Sand hasn't made this distinction yet, and is generally lacking clarity on what exactly he feels for Boeing. So when Ray suggests they kiss to find out, Sand does question himself. The 'what if' from his past makes him wonder; an open-ended question he never got an answer to. 'What if Boeing came back to me?' But indulging in such a curiosity is never going to be satisfactory because the circumstances are no longer the same. Time has moved on and Sand along with it.

I believe Sand was also keen to pass Ray's test. He later refers to the kiss as Ray 'challenging' him to do it. We've seen him rise to Ray's goading before, only he's never quite as assured in his execution as he thinks he is. The most obvious example being when Ray suggests they have sex first and initiate a friendship second. Sand agrees with a sense of misplaced confidence that Ray will be hung up on him, when he's promptly the one to catch feelings. As much as Sand tries to be objective, he's consistently tripped up by emotion. Boeing's return is no different. His downfall is that he cares too much.

The way Sand behaves when Boeing kisses him is extremely telling. It feels like an attempt at muscle memory, retracing something he can't quite recall anymore. He looks lost, detached, slightly thrown and overpowered in Boeing's presence. This may be residual patterns of behaviour caused by Boeing controlling the end to their relationship. This is in stark contrast to how Sand kisses Ray, which is passionate, needy, mutually engaged and eager.

Sand's inability to push back against Boeing's advances is because his judgement is coloured by their history, their shared past, the feelings he used to have for Boeing. Not by the present. In an ask I received last week, I mention that Sand's apparent leniency is out of politeness, a final act of kindness even. It's his way of saying 'I don't like what you did to me but I'm trying to be civil because I owe it to who we once were to each other.' Sand's attributing that last bit of leniency to the Boeing he used to love, not the Boeing in the here and now.

Sand doesn't like to hold grudges. If someone apologises to him sincerely, he can let it go. When Ray does this back in Episode 1, he immediately forgives him. Since Sand has now moved on, it doesn't serve any purpose to harbour animosity with Boeing or to go out of his way to actively hate him. It's a lot of wasted energy to be resentful and Sand has far better things to do. So when Boeing makes his reappearance, Sand's initial reaction is not anger. Therefore I do believe his sentiment to "let bygones be bygones", which may explain why he was willing to let a few indiscretions slide. What he didn't anticipate is that Boeing would try to manipulate him, and cause a wedge in his newfound happiness with Ray as a result. Having his final act of decency thrown back in his face was rightly the last straw for Sand, and irrefutable confirmation that he doesn't owe Boeing anything. Sand wants to continue looking forward, not back.

Ray's Ultimatum

As much as I praise Ray for being noticeably more level-headed and mature in this episode, he still falls prey to being over-zealous; boxing Sand into an highly uncomfortable and sexually charged battle between himself and Boeing. Ray initially expects Sand to take responsibility, even if Boeing is the instigator. Largely because Ray presumes what Sand is feeling. "You still love him," he claims, though Sand is yet to confirm or deny. And that is the exact genesis for Ray's concern, because he can't fathom why Sand is puzzling over what this means to him and why he can't provide an immediate answer.

The fact that Ray thinks Sand's kiss with Boeing proves he's "second string" is absurdly untrue. Anyone with eyes can see Sand is miles more passionate and responsive with Ray. "Anyone can see he wants you back," Ray echoes (ironically), which is later debunked by Mew. It just goes to show how blindsided you can be when you're in the situation itself. Ray is misinterpreting this as a 'me vs Boeing' issue but it's really not about that at all. Sand isn't trying to compare the two. Neither is he planning to make a choice between them, because that wasn't even on his radar. What Sand is unsure of is how he feels about Boeing, irrespective of Ray. He never managed to reconcile his feelings for Boeing after his betrayal.

I don't think Ray is wrong for demanding that Sand determine this. However, the man probably had emotional whiplash from seeing his ex and boyfriend in the same room together, let alone watching them aggressively make out, all in one night. Sand was hoping to deal with this on his own terms, without Ray complicating the equation. Whilst Ray proceeds to do exactly that, hastily jumping the gun in order to provoke the answers out of Sand by force.

Essentially they wanted the same result but didn't discuss it. So it’s no surprise when their separate approaches don't sit right with one another. Sand appears far too permissive and ambiguous by Ray's standards, and Ray appears far too irrational and defiant by Sand's. This is partly due to Ray feeling compelled to intervene as Sand was struggling to be decisive, but Ray is also hugely impatient by nature.

Once Mew tells Ray that Boeing is intentionally trying to rock the boat, Ray recognises this is no longer Sand's burden to resolve alone. His concerns rested on the belief that Boeing genuinely wanted Sand back, and attempts to display guilt or regret may have tugged on Sand's heartstrings, causing him to waver. But since there's no truth to this, there's no basis for Sand giving him another chance. Sand's past with Boeing is very much 'dead and buried', with Boeing being the one who put the nails in the coffin.

Mutual Respect or Ownership?

By the time Ray and Sand have their final confrontation with Boeing, they are both on level footing. They have aligned their intentions. When Ray says "he's my boyfriend", what he's saying is 'his problems are my problems'. Similarly when Boeing quips "that's up to him", Ray retorts with "that's up to me too". This is what they've learnt from their earlier run-in with Boeing. As a couple, they will stand as a united front going forward.

Ray defending Sand on his behalf does not belittle him in any way. Sand allows him to do it. You see the air of pride he has in watching Ray fight for him. Besides, Ray is merely saying what Sand is already thinking, he's just allowing him the satisfaction of hitting back at Boeing for trying to demean his position at Sand's new boyfriend. What little leniency Sand may have reserved for Boeing is now gone because he actively tried to exploit Sand's good will and patience.

This is further supported when Sand states himself as being owned by Ray (only because Boeing started the analogy of referring to him as a dog). Sand is purely making a point about his loyalty. His loyalty will be steadfast based on the sincerity of the recipient. Ray has proven himself worthy of Sand's loyalty, and that's why he's happy to let Ray take control or be more dominant at times. You can only do this with someone you truly trust.

Though declarations of ownership such as 'you're mine', 'you belong to me' can sound like there is an inherent power play, but actually the language of 'owning' someone is a more possessive way of saying 'I take responsibility for this person and their wellbeing'. If I own them and they belong to me, I will be responsible for their everything.

As Sand has generally taken the care-taker role in their relationship, Ray's way of returning this sentiment is often through this love language, "I'll handle it." "They're gonna have to deal with me." The least Ray feels he can do is to defend his boyfriend's best interests and honour if the situation ever calls for it. Sand no longer has to deal with things on his own.

[seijorhi]

Shelter from the Storm

Oikawa Tooru x female reader

w.c 8k

tw: yandere, blood, murder, nsfw, smut (sorta), oikawa is awful in this, technically everything is consensual but... big yikes.

A gentle breeze blows past, a lock of loose hair fluttering in its wake. Early still, the sky is painted with buttery oranges and pinks, a perfect, picturesque sunrise. Leaning on the railing of the balcony, you gaze to the city below, lost in thought. 

Behind you, the sliding door opens, a warmth enveloping you, strong, sinewy arms curling around your middle. 

“Morning,” Oikawa murmurs, drawing you closer. His bare chest rumbles at your back when he speaks again, “You want some breakfast? Coffee?”

How many times can you make the same mistake – fall into bed with the same person – and still claim it to be a momentary lapse in judgement? Maybe you’ll set a new record. 

“Oikawa…”

Lips press against the back of your head, strangely affectionate. For all your little indiscretions, the time you’ve spent together, this sort of affection – the casual touching, the… intimacy of it all, feels out of place in broad daylight. “Mm? We could go and get one of those croissants from you like from the place across the road? Or get something delivered if you’d rather stay in?”

“Oikawa,” you sigh again, more insistent this time. You spin in his arms, turning to face him. Hair still mussed from sleep, shirtless, smiling down at you – unfairly handsome in the morning light. 

“What? Not hungry?” he asks, a faint amusement lacing his tone.

Your hands find their way to his chest, your pinky grazing the raised, puckered outline of one of his scars. While curiosity might eat away at you, you’ve never quite mustered the courage to ask him about them.

You’ve heard enough of the rumours that swirl around Oikawa; they won’t be pretty stories. 

“We can’t keep doing this. You have to stop.”

He laughs, surprise flitting across his face, “Me? If I remember correctly, you were more than eager to get those lovely hands of yours on me last night.”

“That’s not–” you break off with a flustered huff, cheeks warming. “That’s not what I meant, stop twisting my words! You work for my father, I can’t keep– we can’t keep doing this.”

A little of the mirth in his expression fades at that, “You don’t think I can handle keeping you safe while we’re sleeping together, ‘s that it?”

“He’s paying you to keep me safe. I’m a job, Oikawa, that’s it. That’s all.” You bite back a sigh, shifting to put some distance between you two – as much as his grip will allow. “This is a bad idea, you know it as well as I do. In a few weeks, or months–”

“So?” he asks, cutting you off. “He can’t say I’m not doing an excellent job, keeping such a careful, close eye on his beloved daughter,” the hands the rest on your waist slide down to your ass, squeezing it appreciatively as he closes the gap between you once more. The grin he wears is nothing short of devilish – not to mention incredibly self satisfied – his mouth a hairsbreadth from your own. He continues, “I’m keeping you safe, satisfied and very, very happy. If anything, I should be getting paid extra for that.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that’s how he’ll see it.”

Oikawa leans forward, kisses the tip of your nose, and then your lips. 

“I’d kill for you, how many other guys can say that, hm?” When the joke fails to garner a response, he sighs. “We’re not breaking any rules, and I’m not going anywhere. Stop overthinking it.”

—

In the days following the first threats made against your father, the idea of having a bodyguard shadowing your every step seemed laughable. Ridiculous. You weren’t some darling, young starlet with creepy, obsessive fans. Not a witness set to testify in some groundbreaking criminal case.

No, you’re simply collateral, caught up in a mess of your father’s making, one that has nothing to do with you. 

That you love him in spite of it is an immutable fact. You’ve tried hard – so, so hard – to distance yourself. To separate the life you’re trying to lead and the good you’re trying to do from the shadowy reach of his legacy. 

In any case, you felt perfectly comfortable brushing aside his offer of protection. You neither wanted nor needed someone monitoring your every move under the guise of keeping you safe. 

And then the focus of the threats turned to you. To your step-mother. To Ryo, your little brother – a kid. 

Your father, a man unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no’, introduced Oikawa the very next morning and would not budge on the issue. ‘You do not have to like him,’ he’d said. ‘But he’ll keep you out of harm’s way, and you will listen to him.’

It was – is – an adjustment. 

Those closest to you, your friends, your work colleagues – the ones you interact with on a daily basis at any rate – have all been made aware of the truth behind his presence. For everyone else–

“Don’t mind him, Oikawa’s my new assistant,” you explain to the hotel’s manager, smiling sweetly at her bemused expression.

Oikawa matches it with one of his own, saccharine and glittering. 

A cup of tea is set out before each of you by one of the hotel’s employees, and he thanks her quietly, swirling the cup round in its saucer to better reach the bone china handle. Lifting it to his lips, he takes a smooth, slow sip. 

“I’m really just here for the free tea and cake.”

One look at the blushing manager, and you can tell she’s thoroughly charmed – which is the only reason you abstain from kicking him under the table. 

“Ignore him, please. I had a thought about letting some of the kids come up and talk on stage as part of the opening speeches, but I wanted to make sure that wouldn’t push us too far behind with the entertainment.” There’s a slight nudge at your thigh, “And um, we also wanted to run through the security measures, if possible.”

Her brow wrinkles, “Security, I– well, we’ll have doormen to check the guest list, and I suppose we could have some of our security staff posted near the ballroom exits if you’d like?”

You nod, “Yes, that’ll be–”

“You should have a few dressed to blend in with the crowd, mingling throughout the room, regular security at the stairs, and we’d like some guards working the backstage area as well,” Oikawa interjects. “Considering the guest list, not to mention the A-list performers we’ve hired for the night, the least they can ask of us is to ensure we’re making their safety and security a priority, no?”

“All these extra measures are a little last minute, don’t you think? The gala’s tomorrow night!” 

On the brink of exasperation, she looks to you, no doubt expecting you to rein in your employee. 

You simply smile, folding your legs over one another, taking a moment to indulge in the tea you’d been so graciously provided. “We chose this hotel as our venue for a reason, I’ve heard nothing but excellent things about you and your staff. A few added security measures shouldn’t be too difficult for your staff to accommodate. As my assistant said,” your eyes slide to Oikawa’s, a faint hint of a warning there, “we simply want to ensure everyone has a safe, enjoyable evening so that the foundation can raise as much as we possibly can.”

“… Of course,” she concedes.

“Perfect! So, let’s get back to the opening speeches.”

And so it goes, the two of you discussing the final touches and small details for the event you’ve spent months bringing to fruition, the foundation’s first charity gala. 

Untouched by your father’s hand, you built this foundation from the ground up, it’s yours – your baby. Your pride and joy. 

You think nothing of it when Oikawa excuses himself to take a call. He doesn’t leave the room – he won’t risk straying that far – and you’re distantly aware of the quiet tones of his voice speaking into his phone. You pay it no mind, focused on closing out your meeting with all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed. 

By the time the meeting’s finished, you’re thrilled. 

Naturally, there’s still plenty you have left to do; one last check in with the caterers, you have to go and pick up your dress, and there’s the debrief with your team. You’ll have to come back to the hotel early tomorrow to make sure that the set up runs smoothly and nothing’s slipped through the cracks. 

Regardless, promising that you’ll touch base first thing in the morning and thanking her again, you can’t quite tamp down your excitement, or the giddy little grin you wear, exiting the hotel with Oikawa. 

At least, until he stops you just shy of the town car waiting out front, his hand on your arm, murmuring your name. 

“What, what is it?”

He appears almost hesitant. Regretful, certainly. “There was another threat delivered to the main house today…”

Your stomach sinks. 

You can see it written across his face, know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth, “Don’t, don’t you dare–”

“There’s too many variables, I am not putting you on the stage in a dark, crowded room–”

You throw your hands up in a huff. “Fine! I won’t speak then.”

“You’re not going at all. Shizuku can do your speech, the team has everything else handled. I am not risking your safety, point blank.”

“That’s not your decision!”

Oikawa’s eyes narrow, “It is. You can be pissed at me all you want–”

“We’ve been working on this for months! Oikawa, this is the most important night of our entire year – we need this funding. The kids need this funding! You can go as my date, you’ll have every excuse to spend the entire night glued to my hip. We just got them to agree to all that extra security stuff you wanted, what more do you need? Don’t ask me to sit at home because of some baseless, stupid threat, please!”

You hate that your voice sounds so desperate, so pleading – but it’s frustration, not disappointment that’s to blame for the thick lump that chokes you up. The hot tears that sting in the corner of your eyes. 

“I’m not asking.” 

The callousness hits you like a slap in the face.

All that anger, that mounting, seething frustration, it cools in an instant, settling like a rock in your stomach. Without another word you turn and climb into the backseat, slamming the car door behind you.

If that’s how it is, fine. 

Oikawa joins you a moment later, rattling off instructions to the driver. 

The two of you have argued before, more times than you care to count. As charming as he thinks he is, Oikawa’s equally capable of being obnoxious, annoying, rude, arrogant, the list goes on. This is the first time it’s truly mattered, though. Maybe that’s why the cold dismissal – his refusal to give so much as an inch – stings more than it should.

“Don’t make me the bad guy here,” he murmurs when the silence between you grows too heavy to bear. “I won’t apologise for putting your safety first.”

He reaches for your hand then; a peace offering, an olive branch. You yank it back before his pinky can so much as brush against yours, lacing them together over your lap.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s what you’re being paid for, right?”

—

Days later and the elephant in the room remains firmly lodged between you two. 

It’s hard to justify anger towards someone who claims they’re only making your life difficult because there are people out there actively trying to hurt you and your family. At the same time, Oikawa’s insistence on smothering you under new ‘security measures’ isn’t doing him any favours.

Driving home from work, the twinkling lights of the city speeding past in a blur, the purring hum of the engine a comfort in the otherwise silent car, you can only wonder how much longer this’ll go on for.

How much more of it you can take.

“I have a date tomorrow night,” you admit in a quiet voice. “A friend of a friend, she’s been trying to set us up together for months now.” 

You glance at Oikawa then – hesitant, searching his face. Momentary surprise flickers there, and then he simply raises an eyebrow, “Oh? And you’re telling me this because you want me to give the two of you a little privacy, right? I guess it would be slightly awkward to have the last guy you were fucking watching from the next table over.”

Though his tone is perfectly pleasant, there’s no disguising the razor sharp bite of the words themselves. Guilt stabs at your insides, twisting like a knife. “That’s not what I–” 

You’re so tired of arguing with him. Tired of all of this. Your hands can’t lie still, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles in your skirt, and though your attention falls to your lap, you can’t escape the weight of Oikawa’s watchful eyes, following your every move. 

Waiting on the verge of impatience for you to dig yourself deeper. 

You sigh, wetting your lips. “I’m not interested in him. This isn’t about that. I just… I can’t do this with you, Oikawa. I can’t handle every detail of my day – what I do and who I see – being monitored and micromanaged. I can’t handle you acting like a glorified babysitter and then still trying to get into my pants the moment we’re alone. I just– I need one night without that, that’s all.”

Maybe that’s a selfish thing, a stupid decision. You’d made it at the drop of a hat, your friend gushing over this guy over the phone for the umpteenth time. He doesn’t seem like the type to have a favourite gun, and that was good enough for you. 

Oikawa snorts out a laugh, “If you’ve got an itch you need scratched, I’m more than happy to offer my services, pretty girl,” he drawls, low and lecherous, grinning so condescendingly you’re honestly tempted to slap him. “But there’s no way in hell I’m letting you run off to play date night with some asshole you know next to nothing about when there’s a target on your back and I’m the one keeping you safe, understand?”

You’d anticipated some kind of resistance – Oikawa arguing over where you’d go, wanting the names of the guy in question, the friend who set the two of you up, all of it.

The possibility he’d outright refuse hadn’t even crossed your mind. 

You open your mouth to argue the point, only to close it softly a heartbeat later. Why bother? What good would arguing do when you’re perfectly aware that he has no intention of budging on the subject.

Which isn’t to say that you’re letting him off the hook entirely.

 “Careful, you’re sounding awfully jealous there, Tooru.”

His eyes widen a fraction, but it’s delight, not aggravation, that gleams in those deep, brown depths. “Do you want me to deny it?” he challenges, the car pulling to a stop out the front of your apartment block. “You wanna know what I think?”

Not particularly, but that’s never stopped him before.

“You want me just as much as I want you, you know we’re good together. You accuse me of being jealous, yet you’re the one running scared, jumping at the first, half-baked opportunity presented so you can lie and tell yourself that you’re not missing me.”

“Please,” you scoff, unable to help yourself. “You’d have to be gone for me to miss you.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Rolling your eyes and biting back a huff, you nevertheless accept the hand he offers to help you out of the car, the two of you making your way inside. He greets the porter by the door, inclining his chin in a short nod, and calls the elevator with a swipe of your keycard – the one he’d snatched right out of your hand the very day he’d met you.

All in the name of doing his job and keeping you safe, of course. 

‘Well what if I need to use the stupid lift and you’re not around?’

‘Unless you’re planning on ditching me, I don’t see that being a problem, do you?’

Impossible, right from the start. 

While Oikawa leans against the mirrored walls, smug and all too self satisfied, you snatch your phone from your purse, angrily typing up a quick message to your friend about tomorrow night. No doubt she’ll think you’re being overdramatic, if not outright lying – she, however, doesn’t have to contend with Oikawa on a daily basis.

By the time you reach your apartment, you’re tired, grumpy and itching for a glass of wine and a nice long soak in the bathtub. 

You’re only half paying attention, impatient to kick off your heels and soothe the day's stresses – you don’t notice that the door’s hanging ajar, at least not immediately. Oikawa does, his whole body tensing, eyes alert and cautious. 

The second you try to move, his arm’s there, outstretched to keep you at bay while he hastily tries to shut the door and obscure your view.

Not quickly enough.

Through the crack, you see it; the crimson splashed across your living room, stark and hideous against the white tile floors. 

Blood. 

It’s everywhere. Dripping from the lampshade, down the walls, pooling on the tiles.

Red, red, red, spattered and sprayed like the set of a b-grade slasher flick. And the smell, coppery and pungent, sitting in the back of your throat as bile creeps up to meet it. 

No one person can bleed that much, can they? 

Your breath comes quick; short, heaving little gasps far too shallow to do you any good. Your limbs feel weightless, weak – a stumbling step backwards almost sends you to the ground. Nausea churns in your guts, threatening to upheave. 

All that blood… Your apartment–

They– they were in your home. 

And a sudden thought occurs to you, a fresh wave of horror sinking its claws in deep. Without stopping to think, you lurch forward, desperate to get inside. Arms seize your waist, yanking you back, and you let out a blood curdling shriek, thrashing against the grip.

In the haze of your blind panic, you recognise that it’s Oikawa’s voice, speaking in your ear in a low, urgent tone. You don’t care, you can’t make sense of the words anyway, not amidst the overwhelming fear, the terror and the pounding of your racing heart. 

“Ryo–” you choke out, struggling to get free, “I have to– h-he might be–”

“He’s not in there. He’s not in there!” Wrangled back from the door, he all but shoves you against the wall, caging you in close as your fists beat weakly against his chest, your pleas little more than whimpers. He exhales heavily, moving in closer to press his forehead against yours. “He’s at home, with your father. They’re not in there, I promise. We have to go.”

He takes your hand, leads you one step after another, murmuring reassurances the whole way. 

You’re numb to it. 

You don’t remember much, the ding of the elevator, stale air of the underground parking garage and a chill nipping at your skin. An unfamiliar car you’re hastily bundled into. 

Time moves strangely after that, seconds trickling by like the drip of a leaking faucet. 

The car is quiet. Dark. The cityscape out the window a blur that barely registers. Your mind ticks over the same thoughts, a reel stuck playing the same loop over and over; blood splashed across the curtains, the couch. Your apartment – your home – awash with it. The stench of it, clinging to you like perfume. 

No one was hurt.

They were in your home.

You’re fine, Oikawa’s fine. Ryo was never in danger.

They were in your home. 

You let out a shuddering breath, shoulders curling inwards as you draw your knees up to your chest. Oikawa clocks the movement, sparing you an assessing glance from the corner of his eye. 

 “… Where–” you wince at the raw sound. “Where are we going?”

“Back to the main house. Your father’s been alerted, he’s expecting us.”

Ah. Where else?

Your father has ‘round the clock guards at every entrance, high tech, expensive security systems. You’d be with your family, safe and protected within the walls of the home you grew up in. The minute he’d heard what’d happened, your father would’ve demanded Oikawa bring you back without delay. 

Despite that, you find yourself shaking your head, “I… I don’t want Ryo– he’ll get upset if he sees me like this,” you mumble into your knees. “He’s already scared. Please.”

He looks at you again, properly this time. There’s a muscle working in his jaw, long fingers drumming against the leather of the steering wheel. 

You’ve seen him angry before, irritated. Never like this.

Every breath he draws in is tight and controlled, his features set like granite. You only catch sight of it when the yellow glow of the street lights outside wash over you both in thick swathes; the cold fury that lurks in the black pits of his irises, held back like a caged beast. 

It should scare you – it does, a bit. The man sitting next to you feels like a stranger, and yet you force yourself to hold that stare, not to shy away.

Oikawa won’t hurt you. 

Whatever seethes beneath the surface, it’s not directed your way – you can’t say how you know that for certain, only that you do. 

But neither one of you can return home to your family tonight, not when you’re both so wound up and strung out. You’ll beg on your hands and knees if that’s what it takes to sway him. Ryo’s already afraid enough as it is.

Your heart thumps painfully against your ribs as you wait in tense silence. 

Oikawa considers you for a moment longer, mutters a curse under his breath and casts a look back over his shoulder, throwing the car into a sudden – and very illegal – u turn. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I hope you realise that,” he groans, but the words lack the hard, clipped edge they’d carried before. 

He takes you instead to an apartment downtown; nondescript, small, tidy. The furniture appears new, fitting in with the same clean, monochromatic colour scheme as the rest of the apartment. There’s books on the coffee table, bland art lining the walls, cushions on the couch, a knitted beige comforter tossed over the armrest. It’s… fine, if not a little soulless. 

Turning to face Oikawa, you lift an eyebrow, “You… live here?” you ask.

The brunet’s lips quirk upwards, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of one of the chairs. “Not often. It’s a foxhole, one of a few I have, actually. This one just so happened to be the closest.” At your confused expression, he continues, “Think of it like a hideaway. There’s no paper trail tying me to this place and very few people who know of its existence. We can lie low here for a few days while we figure everything out.”

Somewhere that can’t be tracked, because there are men out there who want you dead. Faintly, you nod, trying your best to ignore the pool of dread sitting heavy in your gut. 

There’s no pretending the threats aren’t real anymore. 

But you’re safe here, with Oikawa. No one’s coming to hurt you tonight. 

Exhausted, your whole body aching, you shower under a scorching spray, drying yourself off and pulling on one of Oikawa’s old shirts to sleep in (‘We’ll get you some proper clothes tomorrow,’ he’d promised). There’s only one bed in the tiny apartment, and even if you could find it within yourself to care, you’re altogether too drained to say anything when, after a quick shower of his own, Oikawa crawls in beside you. 

He’s warm and solid, the scent of him familiar as his arm slides over your middle, drawing you close. 

“I’m not going to let anyone touch you,” he murmurs into the dark. “I’ll kill them first. You’re safe with me.”

—

Two days later, your father summons you home.

Oikawa’s curtly dismissed at the door, left to his own devices. You, meanwhile, are taken into the study, tea is poured, and the conversation, naturally, shifts towards the break in at your apartment. 

“You can always stay here with us, little one, for as long as you’d like. Ryota would be thrilled to have you back.” Your father smiles, setting the steaming cup down. “As would I.”

The childhood endearment makes your heart tug. You’ve spent too long clawing your way free of his influence to do some good in the world, to return home now, no matter how tempting the thought, would undo that in seconds. 

“I know,” you reply. “And I appreciate it, dad. Oikawa’s taking me tomorrow to see a few apartments, though, so hopefully we’ll find something that works.”

He makes a dissatisfied noise, mouth tightening. “Yes, well considering this happened under Oikawa’s watch, perhaps you should rethink the weight you place in his judgement.”

“It’s because of Oikawa that they broke into my apartment. He never gave them an opening to come after me directly, so they tried to scare me instead.” Tried, and succeeded, mind you. “You’re the one who hired him,” you grumble.

“I hired him to protect you, nothing more,” he replies sternly. “If you’re put at risk again I will not hesitate to replace him with someone better suited.”

Peering down at you from behind wire frame glasses, he considers you for a moment – the same weighty, assessing stare he’d give you when, as a kid, he thought you were misbehaving. “I am not so blind that I cannot see what is happening in front of my own eyes. You’re close with him, you… trust him.”

“Am I not supposed to?” Wasn’t he the one telling you you had to listen to Oikawa?

He doesn’t answer you straight away, seemingly weighing up his response. When he does eventually speak, the words give little comfort. “Oikawa is… a necessary evil. He has the temperament and skill set which make him a natural choice in protecting you – they’re also what make him dangerous. If your life weren’t at risk I would not want you within a thousand yards of that man.”

You think back to the scars that litter Oikawa’s torso. The look in his eyes that night, the tempest raging, violent and volatile. 

It’s not as though you ever believed Oikawa to be a saint – if his association with your father wasn’t proof enough, the frankly alarming number of weapons you’d stumbled across, stashed throughout the foxhole certainly did the trick.

You grew up surrounded by men like that. Your father, your uncles. Business associates invited to dinner. None of them ever frightened you.

Unease slithers down your spine.

Satisfied, perhaps, that his warning struck home, your father straightens in his chair and clears his throat. “Enough of that. Come, drink – your tea’s getting cold.”

He keeps you there for a little while longer, to indulge in another cup and talk of other, lighter subjects; your work with the children’s foundation, Ryo’s progress at school (he’s becoming quite the little scientist), to the gardens that surround the estate, the cherry blossom trees set to bloom in a matter of weeks. 

On your way out, he asks for you to send in Oikawa. 

It takes you less than a minute to find him – sitting cross legged on the living room floor, deep in conversation with your seven year old brother. Ryo’s the one to spot you first, his whole face lighting up. Discarding the open book he’d had splayed across his lap, your brother jumps to his feet and barrels towards you with a delighted shriek of your name, arms outstretched. You catch him with a grin, squeezing back when he hugs you firmly.

“Careful, bud” Oikawa laughs, “you’ll knock her right off her feet.”

You ruffle Ryo’s hair. His mom would say the unruly locks are desperately in need of a trim – you think it suits him, reminds you of a wild thing. “Please, this little guy? Light as a feather.”

The indignant grumble you get in response, his face still buried in your middle only makes your grin widen. 

Still sprawled across the floor like a kid himself, Oikawa meets your gaze with a warm one of his own, something in your chest fluttering at the sight of it. He looks content, perfectly relaxed here with you and Ryo. 

In that moment, you’re struck with the realisation that he’s not the only one.

Whatever gripped you back in your father’s study, there’s no trace of it now, it holds no bearing here with the two of them. This is the Oikawa you’ve come to know, the one you trust.

The one you like, if the warming of your cheeks is any indication to go by. 

… Maybe it’s time you stopped running from that.

Saved from any further musing by your brother’s attempt to crush the life out of you in one final squeeze, Ryo reluctantly lets you go. 

“I missed you,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning pink. He kicks at the carpet a little, chews at his bottom lip, hesitating just a touch. “… Dad said you’re coming home to stay this time. Are you?” And beneath the wide, puppy dog eyes that tug at your heartstrings with practiced ease (no wonder he has both his parents wrapped around his finger), there’s no hiding the hope glimmering in his tone. 

“I missed you too, squirt.” 

At the mention of your father, however, something else springs to mind, and you turn your attention back to Oikawa. “Oh, almost forgot – he said he wants to see you. He’s in the study, waiting.”

The brunet nods, rising. If he’s bothered by the demand at all, there’s no outward indication. From your own conversation with the man, you can’t imagine he’s about to walk into anything particularly pleasant. Then again, you doubt that whatever your father has in store for him – whether it be lecture or complete verbal evisceration – is in any way anxiety inducing to someone like Oikawa. 

Sauntering past the two of you, he stops for a second, lays a hand on Ryo’s shoulder and leans down to whisper conspiratorially into his ear – just loud enough for his voice to carry. “Why don’t you show your big sister the new project you were telling me about, hm?” 

Ryo lights up again with a giddy gasp, racing from the room, and Oikawa winks at you, breezing on through. 

—

The moment you’re through the door back at the foxhole, he’s on you.

Ravenous, hungry, lips moving feverishly against yours, prying them apart for another taste of you. The clothes he’d bought for you are hastily discarded, thrown to the floor and kicked aside as Oikawa lifts you up, hiking your legs around his waist so he can carry you into the bedroom.

“What’s gotten into you?” you laugh, half breathless when he deposits you on the bed. 

“Do I need a reason?” he retorts, yanking off his shirt and casting it aside. “I’ve been waiting to do this all afternoon.”

He climbs onto the bed then,pushing your shoulders back down the mattress as his lips find yours to kiss you senseless. Your hand meanwhile slips down between your bodies, a feather light touch grazing the bulge in his jeans. 

He moans into your mouth, breath shivery and light, hips bucking ever so slightly to chase the touch. When he draws back, your stomach flips in anticipation at the positively wolfish expression you find there, “Careful, pretty girl,” he warns. 

“Or what?” 

He takes your hand then, pulls it back to his crotch and grinds into it slowly, shuddering, “Or you’re gonna be in for a long, long night.”

You arch up to kiss him, lips finding his throat, the two of you working together to hastily free his cock from the confines of his boxer briefs. 

The moment you’re successful, the hard, flushed length bobbing against his stomach, Oikawa lets a fat glob of spit fall into his palm and takes hold of it, twisting his wrist as he slides his hand back and forth along his cock, groaning and nudging your thighs apart. 

Usually, he likes to take his time prepping you, lowering his mouth to your pretty little pussy, teasing you and edging you until you’re a squirming, hot mess beneath him, all but begging him to hurry up and fuck you. Other times – when he’s in a more selfish mood – he’ll send you to your knees instead, taking his pleasure by fucking your face, fingers curling in your hair, the tight, wet warmth of your mouth too tempting to pass up.

But something feels different this time. More than hunger, or desire, beyond simple urgency. It glints and gleans in his eyes, seeps from his skin like the bead of sweat that trickles down the curve of his neck. 

It crackles like electricity in the air between you. 

And when he drags your hips down close, and pushes his cock deep into your warm, fluttering cunt, it robs you of all words.

True to his promise, Oikawa takes his time. Fucks you on your back, legs locked around his back at first – and then pressed back either side of you, the ache in your thighs second only to the stretch of your pussy, clenching around him with every languid roll of his hips.

He flips you over and draws your ass upwards, your face pressed down into the pillows, pounding into you from behind. 

Hands on your hips, guiding you up and down his throbbing shaft, hungry eyes fixed on the way your tits bounce so enticingly for him. 

And then, when your legs are shaking, pussy leaking his seed and every cell in your body is electrified and buzzing, he lays you down at the edge of the bed and feasts on your poor, sensitive, abused little hole ‘til you’re grabbing at his hair, bucking up and writhing on his tongue, screaming yourself hoarse from an overload of pleasure. 

Only then does he allow you rest, kissing you sweetly as he slips from your side and exits the bedroom. 

He returns moments later with a glass of water, which you gratefully accept and guzzle down. Collapsing back on the bed, you let out a groan, “I feel like I could sleep for the next thousand years.”

He chuckles. Climbing onto the mattress to flop down beside you, Oikawa rolls close, smiling with a soft look you’ve only ever seen directed at you. “So sleep. We’ve got an hour or so ‘til dinner, a nap won’t kill you.”

—

You wake to the sound of a car backfiring.

Eyes bleary, disoriented, you struggle to gather your wits as the door to the bedroom flies open. Oikawa appears in the doorway, still wearing his pajamas, gun in hand, eyes focused and alert – and it’s then, in the dim, early morning light that you realise that the sound you heard wasn’t a car at all.

With his handgun and attention trained on the front door, Oikawa spares you only the briefest of glances, “Get up, we need to go. Now.” 

Your heart skips a beat, chest tightening as the reality of the situation – at least, as much as your sluggish brain can piece together – dawns upon you. 

Questions, one after another, claw their way up your throat, desperate and urgent, terrified, you force yourself to swallow them down, along with the near paralysing fear that takes hold. There’s no time for that. No time to panic. Pausing only long enough to ascertain that you are in fact somewhat clothed – an old tee of his and a pair of sleep shorts you must’ve thrown on at some point last night – you scramble to Oikawa’s side. 

Any reassurance you feel at the grip he takes of your hand is quickly and overwhelmingly buried, however, when you catch sight of the dark mass by the entryway. 

Your stomach lurches, blood running cold. It’s a body – a man’s. The room’s not yet light enough to get a good look at his face, but the open, unblinking eyes and the sticky looking pool beneath him tell you plenty.

Dead. 

“Don’t look,” Oikawa murmurs.

His fingers tighten around your hand in a reassuring squeeze, already pulling you onwards. Like a bad accident, tearing your eyes away is easier said than done.

That man, he… he’d come here for you, hadn’t he? To kill you. 

You’ve never seen a dead body before, and now there’s one lying across your living room floor, riddled with bullets from Oikawa’s gun and that–

That could’ve been you. Would’ve been, if not for Oikawa.

Your chest constricts, a noose tightening at your throat. And just like that night at your apartment, the fear that takes root begins to strangle you, making it hard to breathe, harder to think.

Every uneven thump of your heart rattles your chest, your limbs feeling like they’re disconnected from the rest of you. Oikawa notices, and curses softly beneath his breath. There’s no time to coax you down, his grip turns iron, half running now down the fire door stairs with you stumbling behind him.

Somewhere above you, shouts begin to sound, and with a fresh wave of terror hammering through your veins, you force your legs to move quicker. There’s no choice but to run, to duck and cower when the creaking door to the floor above swings open and Oikawa abruptly yanks you forward to fire up the stairwell behind you. 

Bare feet pounding against the floor, chest heaving with ragged breaths, you burst out into the parking garage, and still you don’t stop. 

For the second time in less than a week, you’re corralled into a car, shaking and numb, on the verge of outright sobbing.  

Oikawa drives for a long time.

You don’t ask where you’re going, if they’re still following you. You don’t speak. 

The traffic on the streets thins out, the towering skyscrapers disappearing in the rearview mirror. Wherever he’s taking you, it’s not towards home.

And there’s a pit in your stomach, a bleak, festering emotion that grows harder and harder to ignore with every passing mile. Oikawa’s silence – tense and uncomfortable, only adds to your unease. 

This isn’t like last time, when he was angry beyond words. This feels… different, somehow. 

When you’re well beyond the city limits, he pulls the car to a stop on the side of a deserted stretch of road and turns it off, leaving the keys in the ignition. 

“There’s a phone in the glove box, can you get it for me?” 

Doing as he asks, you pop the compartment open, only to cringe when the first thing your fingers brush over isn’t a cell, but the cool metal of a handgun. Nevertheless, you keep going, eventually finding the black phone tucked away near the back and wordlessly passing it into Oikawa’s waiting palm.

He smiles at you, leans over the console to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, “Thanks. Stay here, alright? Gotta make a quick call.” 

He’s already dialling, smoothly exiting the car before the words truly register. 

You’re helpless to do anything but watch anxiously from the passenger’s seat, fingers worrying away at the hem of Oikawa’s shirt. Seconds tick by – nothing. No one picks up. No one answers. 

A small frown graces his features. Glancing into the car to check up on you, Oikawa simply ends the call, dials another number, holds the phone to his ear, and waits for whoever’s on the other end of the call to pick up. 

… But nobody does. The phone rings out.

He spares you another brief glance then, your wide, worried eyes meeting his. His brow furrows, the edges of his lips thinning into a hard line and before you can call out to ask him what’s wrong, who he’s trying to get ahold of, he’s moving away from the car and out of earshot. 

This time, he seems to take longer to find the number he’s after, drawing the phone back to his ear, foot tapping away as it rings and rings and rings. 

You don’t realise that you’re holding your breath, fingernails biting into the palm of your hand until you see him speaking into his cell, nodding at whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying.

Yet that reprieve, unlocking the breath trapped in your lungs, soothing over all of your tension and that awful, gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach lasts only as long as it takes for you to realise that Oikawa, staring at you from yards down the road, looks entirely too grim for the relief that you’re feeling.

He ends the call with a heavy exhale, shoulders slumping.

Your heart stops cold in your chest.  

One look at his pained expression, the pity swirling in his eyes, the sympathy, and your whole world comes crashing down around you.

Fingers fumbling for the door latch, you unbuckle your seatbelt to stagger to your feet, lurching towards him. Oikawa reaches you first, letting you collide into his arms, pulling you close. 

“He– he’s fine, right?” you beg in a thick, trembling voice, trying in vain to blink back hot tears. “Ryo’s fine. They both are. They’re okay. Tell me they’re okay. Please, Tooru, you have to– you have to tell me that they’re–”

As words fail you, Oikawa sighs. With a gentleness that shatters something inside of you, he cups your cheek in his palm, brushing away your tears, and presses his forehead against yours. 

“I’m sorry. They… they hit the house before they came for us. No one made it out.”

No… no, no, no, no, no. That’s not true. You clutch at him, desperately shaking your head. Ryo can’t be dead, he’s only seven. He’s just a kid, an innocent, good kid. He’s your little brother.

He can’t be dead.

But Oikawa’s looking at you so brokenly, and you feel like somebody’s ripped you open from the inside out and saved your heart for last of all. You open your mouth to beg for him to tell you he’s lying, but all that comes out is a sobbing wail. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, holding you close, cradling you against him. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

—

The soft sound of leather shoes walking atop marble tiles echo throughout the empty halls of your father’s estate. 

There’s no need for Oikawa to disguise his presence now – not that there was much of one to begin with. 

The staff had opened the door without blinking, welcoming him inside, the guards on rotation nodding in acknowledgment when he strode past. They might not particularly enjoy his presence (no accounting for taste, he supposed) but after months working for the patriarch to keep you safe, they’d come to begrudgingly accept it. 

In their eyes, he was one of them, and so no one thought to stop him and ask why he’d shown up at the estate so late in the night, seemingly without reason. Without you.

It made picking them off one by one that much easier. 

Well, not all of them. He had left one alive – unconscious, possibly paralysed, but breathing all the same. Oikawa smirks. 

With the guards and household staff dispatched, he’d turned his attention towards the bedrooms. 

Ryota was first. Fast asleep, clutching the teddy-bear you’d bought him, your baby brother hadn’t stirred when Oikawa crept in with the shadows. He made it quick. Painless. As much of a mercy as a man like him was capable of. 

The kid’s mom was next; the second wife, the replacement. The money hungry, greedy, vapid little cunt. 

It was no secret that your father had been married before, that his first wife – your mother – had died after a long, tragic battle with cancer when you were sixteen. The first time he’d tried bringing it up, you’d shut him down and quickly changed the subject, but in the end, all it took was one too many glasses of wine, a few stories of his own, and those pretty lips of yours were spilling all sorts of interesting secrets.

That your step-mother was fucking him before she was even cold in the ground was one such fascinating tidbit. 

While he’d felt a slight twinge of guilt over killing the boy, Oikawa had no such qualms shooting her while she slept, the silencer on his pistol ensuring it raised no alarm, just like the others. 

While you’d mourn for your beloved baby brother, he knows you won’t shed any tears for that bitch. He wonders if you’d even thank him for it, if he ever decided to tell you the truth.

A pleasant shiver rolls down his spine at the thought of how sweetly you’d go about it.

Presently, he raises a fist to knock at the door of your father’s study, one final goal in mind.

“Come in,” a deep voice replies.

Oikawa has to give the older man some credit, one look at him – gun in hand, the flecks of blood spattered against his crisp, white shirt – and your father stills, the colour draining from his face. He doesn’t panic, though, doesn’t shout or cry out for help, much less for mercy.

They both know none is coming. 

Instead, he sets down the papers he’d been working on and rises slowly from his chair. No doubt he has at least one gun stashed nearby, but with Oikawa’s pointed towards his chest, the brunet’s index finger poised on the trigger, and his better years behind him, the odds don’t fall in his favour.

“My wife?”

Oikawa grins, clicking his tongue, “Dead.”

He nods, taking a moment to process the information. “And… my son?” 

“Dead.”

“… I see.”

Oikawa’s heard more than one person accuse your father of being a cold, heartless bastard. It’s an easy assumption to make – no one gains a reputation like his without a certain brutality and overall disregard for the lives of others. The truth is simpler; your father does have a heart, it resides in both of his children. While his voice might not shake at the news of his son’s demise, his hands, splayed out over the papers on his desk, most certainly do.

He swallows with difficulty, takes in a trembling breath, “My daughter, I assume you killed her, too?”

“God, no,” he laughs. “She’s sleeping, safe and sound, blissfully oblivious to all of this.” 

And for the first time since Oikawa crossed the threshold, a look of confusion adorns your father’s face. Before he can give voice to it, however, the brunet decides to nudge the conversation along. The drugs in your system will only keep you down for so long, and there’s still plenty he has left to do before the two of you can have your fresh start. 

“You seem to be under the impression that I’m working for the people who want you and your family wiped from the map. I’m not. I’m simply making the best of an opportunity." He sighs, shrugging, “We could have avoided this nastiness, you know. Maybe not indefinitely, but for a little while at least. All of this, it’s your fault; you gave me a gift, and then,” his smile turns sharp, an edge of anger bleeding through, “you threatened to take her away.”

There are worse fates than death. 

“If it gives you any solace,” Oikawa murmurs, the soft, placating tone at odds with the cruel twist of his vicious grin. “I intend to keep my promise. She’ll be safe with me, no one will ever lay so much as a finger on her.”

No one, that is, except for him. 

[henriettadreaming]

I find it so funny when Team Black stans get so angry about Alicent "spreading rumours" about the legitimacy of Rhaenyra's sons, putting them at risk of being killed.

First of all, these rumours are clearly true. Rhaenyra knows they're true. Viserys knows they're true, even though he acts blind to it. I'm sure the servants and guards across the Red Keep knew they were true and had a grand old time gossiping about it. Hell even Daemon, who's all the way in Pentos, knows Rhaenyra's children are illegitimate.

The illegitimacy of Rhaenyra's children affects Alicent's children. By Westerosi law bastards cannot inherit land or titles, meaning that even if Rhaenyra were to ascend the throne with no issue, Aegon should legally be her heir instead of Jacaerys.

Viserys knows his grandsons are illegitimate, and does everything in his power to shield them anyway. He's always protected Rhaenyra and allowed her indiscretions where likely no other king would. He continues to protect her from the consequences of her actions, saying that anyone who spoke out about his grandson's parentage would have their tongue removed.

And you can love and support Rhaenyra as much as you want, but you cannot tell me if the roles were reversed she wouldn't speak out against Alicent. If she knew, or even believed, that any of Alicent's children had been fathered by say, Ser Criston or Tyland Lannister, that she wouldn't hesitate to run straight to her father.

[havenplaces]

Rafayel smokes for the first time !!

paring: Rafayel x f!reader

wc: 1k

content: not proofread, possibly error, silly, unserious, drug uses.

After a long shift of being rafayel’s bodyguard for the day you pull out a cigarette to accommodate the agony you faced being in he’s presents. You clutched the hand with the cigarette and walked over to where rafayel is to say goodbye because the last time you didn’t…

Not only did he not give you a review but also made you work your way back up in his favor by spending after work hours with him, buying him treats and humoring him and his art.

“Rafayel I’m going now, I’ll text you when I make it back h-“

you had only turned halfway into the entryway of his living room when you should’ve suspected he’d be there. his back leaned up against the wall looking right at you as you step into the living room.

you thought rafayel would be on the couch or back up on the ladder. You fixed your face and smugly decided to distract him with your normal tease.

“Aww rafeyel~ Did you think I wouldn’t say goodbye?”

“I bet you would’ve stood here miserable if I left.”

“Yeah, but I bet before you would’ve cared puffer fish would be flying, coral reefs would be growing up for the ground, sea anemone would be a new candy and finally, finally you care about me!”

“but that’s ok because I see you have a little present for me… so hand it over.”

He held his hand out closely to what’s clutched up in your palm. You smugly smiled placing your hand over his release the cigarette that was in your palm now into his.

“A nice cigarette for the end of an obnoxious day.” the cigarette was for yourself but this proved quite interesting.

“W-what! What is this?! You!! You really don’t care about me at all and now you’re trying to kill me?!”

You hold your hand out suggesting he hand it back.

He flinches and crosses his arms hold the cigarette in his fist.

“What kind of gift is this anyway? You could’ve just got me some candy like pocky sticks or-“

10 minutes later

“Here I don’t want it.”

You take the cigarette back heading back towards the front door, waving your goodbye

It’s super late now so you call an uber. As time passes, you decide to light the cigarette and just as you blow out the smoke in the corner of your eye you can see Rafayel’s peeking for behind the door.

You clear away the smoke and tug on the door. “Rafayel what are you standing here for?” he lets go of the door and steps out, holding his hand out to you. You pull out a cigarette and hand it to him.

“Does it have an exotic flavor?”

“Nah not really oh and by the way this is the only cigarette I’ll ever give you.”

You could have told him there was something similar to cigarette packed with different flavor but you didn’t wish to start something you couldn’t stop.

You light his cigarette and moments after he blows out his smokes he looks like he seen a ghost.

He starts to uncontrollably cough and grabs onto your shoulder and his chest.

It probably only chest pain or that burning feeling in the throat and lungs but it’s Rafayel. Even if he was overreacting you sat him down on the pavement of his house and you run in to get him some water.

2 hours later

You dragged him into the house and laid him on the couch, but it been an hour since he woke up and he still refused to speak to you. You had done everything you could to help him to which he allowed but still frown angrily at you.

“Do you… feel ok?”

“No..that was awful it’s bad taste doesn’t mix well with those peppermint and my stomach doesn’t feel any better than my head, throat or chest. I’m your employer and this is how you treat me. What do you have to say for this!?”

You smile seeing that he’s genuinely feeling better.

“I’m sorry your majesty for my indiscretion. I’ll remember no planes, no cats and most importantly no cigarettes.”

[sky-kiss]

@taneysha-pictures requested Raphael doing a torture about EIGHTEEN THOUSAND YEARS AGO. Apologies for the delay, hopefully this scratches the “Raphael is terrible bastard” itch.

R/F!T: Your Blood, My Wine

She disappointed him for the last time.

Raphael considers himself a generous patron, even-tempered, and endlessly patient. No, he does not come calling at first sight of the little mouse's indiscretions. He waits, a snake coiled in the dark, to gauge her intent. He does not bat an eye when she first crosses the threshold into the House of Hope. He'll call it mortal curiosity. 

He's amused when she makes use of Haarlep, feeling the phantom sensation of her cunt spasming around his cock. The little thing breathes his incubus' name in the throes of passion, but he feels the truth: desire for him, hungry and ill-suited for a hero. 

Two missteps in quick succession.

And then the little dear makes a critical error, the only sin he might have called to account: she betrays him. Trust is not a currency a devil deals in, not truly, but he's placed a degree of it upon her shoulders. He treats her fairly and constructs a partnership! And then, this. 

And he cannot allow it to stand, can he? Not as a creature of order. Not as a master of law. 

Raphael reclines in his seat, casting a glance to his right. His mouse hangs suspended, a delicious gift strung up in silver chains. Blood trickles from the mangled ruin of her hands, cutting rivulets down bare skin and precious metal alike. So lovely, his Tav. He's carved fresh ruins in the delicate skin of her belly, painstakingly elegant infernal. It must burn in the open air. 

"Are we paying attention, pet? This lesson is for your benefit." 

She doesn't speak or can't. The poor thing's chin rests on her sternum, the muscles in her neck straining. She's looking so worrisomely pale. He lifts a claw, dragging it across the inside of her ankle. Blood still rushes to the surface, but the trickle into his goblet is slower. 

"Haarlep. A drink for our guest." 

The incubus snickers. They move around the table with an exaggerated sway, holding the healing draught to their toy's lips. She whimpers and tries to turn her head away. Haarlep snarls, squeezing his jaw until Raphael hears the bones click. The message is quite clear: open, or they'll break it. The incubus doesn't give them time to adjust; they pour the water down their gullet, leaving them choking, sputtering, and screaming. 

Raphael rests his chin on his hand, cooing. "Oh, how shortsighted of me. I quite forgot." 

The healing is arguably worse. Tav's flesh tries to pull shut, but the hooks are already set. It's new skin closing around the barbs and tearing all over again. His little mouse howls. 

Raphael strokes the inside of her calf, touching it with deceptive tenderness—a lover's caress. The cambion smiles. He takes his goblet and drinks deeply, the sweetness of her blood washing over his tongue. A treat, a prize, compensation for his efforts and the resources he's lost. 

"A toast, pet. To all that we might have been." 

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 17: Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Astarion begins to unravel the mystery of Ban's family.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by @nyx-knox <3

Astarion sat with his legs crossed. The stool was as filthy as when he’d last seen it, but he’d accepted it this time, if only to accentuate the desired effect. In front of him Roderich dithered, trying to explain away his actions - not that Astarion cared. He forced his attention back onto the man, as unpleasant as it was, and leaned forward.

“It was a desperate time. There wasn’t enough money to fund our… our way of living, and the guild is rich. Far richer than it had any right to be,” Roderich stammered. “Meiros must have taken some too! I’m sure he skimmed some off the top as well, considering there was no one to look into his activities. He’s just as guilty, his hands just as bloody. I don’t see why you would even begrudge me this!”

None of this stayed in Astarion’s mind. He had considered the information irrelevant. “Repeat the last thing you said,” he drawled. “Your bleating proved too much for me.”

Roderich clenched his jaw, looking out the store windows. The moment Astarion had walked in and demanded an audience he had sent his customers away, telling them to come back in half an hour. They were outside, waiting, and the minutes were ticking by. “I just think… this conversation should be held somewhere else, if at all.”

If at all. If nothing else, he could admire Roderich’s nerve. He lazily looked over to the small group of people waiting outside. Behind them his carriage loomed, black and gold and waiting to whisk him away from this drivel.

“Oh, but I haven’t yet touched on why we’re having this conversation.” He crossed his arms. “Did you really think I would care about you stealing guild funds?”

“I suspected you wanted to punish me for… for whatever imagined slights you think we committed against our daughter.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve done nothing of the sort. She may have been unhappy, but everything we did was for her wellbeing - her success.”

“Your success,” Astarion corrected. “I daresay I’ll be the judge of whether wrongdoings were committed or not - and they have,” he glared, “but that isn’t why I’m here. Nor is it why I’m bringing up your financial indiscretions.”

Astarion looked at Roderich, relishing the way the older man looked at him - equal parts fear and indignation. He could feel Roderich’s anger bubbling, his wariness keeping him from allowing it to boil over. Any other man would have assumed Astarion couldn’t do much in public, with the crowd peering at them as it was. But Roderich knew that if he pushed him too far, he’d find himself waking up to fangs sinking into his neck.

So Astarion waited for Roderich to master his temper, idly looking past him to the display of mirrors. He was reflected in all of them, from various angles, and he couldn’t resist admiring himself a little. From the corner of his eye he saw two of the patrons outside fanning themselves and rolled his eyes.

Finally Roderich found his voice. “Then what was this visit for?”

Astarion smiled and returned his attention to Roderich. “A matter near and dear to Ban’s heart, and therefore mine. Your son.”

Roderich spluttered. “Adrien? We already told you-”

“And we are painfully aware you’re lying.” He gazed at Roderich’s reflection, eyes boring into him. “Don’t make it difficult, Roderich. We can have a nice, civil conversation,” he thought about it, “or I’ll have to resort to less… pleasant measures.”

Roderich sighed. “I… of course. I would at least prefer to talk in private. Perhaps in my home.”

“Fine. I can’t keep the good citizens desperately wanting mirrors waiting, can I?” There was also the fact he figured having Arlette around for this conversation might be better - if only so that he could have all possible information at hand. That, and watching the people peering at him through the glass was starting to grate.

“Thank you,” Roderich breathed. “After the day is done, head there. I can have Arlette prepare supper, and you could bring Ban.”

Astarion stood. Roderich tracked every move he made, but didn’t speak. Astarion stepped closer, enough so that he could look down at him. “Just me, unfortunately. My wife has far more important business to attend to. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

The raised eyebrow made Roderich shrink back, to Astarion’s satisfaction. The man rubbed at his bald head. “Why of course. We’d be more than happy to host you.”

A wide smile graced Astarion’s face, the tips of fangs peeking out. “I’m glad to know that. Provide my chauffeur with your address, and I shall be there tonight.”

The house was large, situated against the walls of the upper city, although just like the shop it showed signs of neglect. As he approached, the door opened before he could even rap his knuckles against it. Arlette’s pale face greeted him and this time her eyes did not rake over his features. As he stepped into the house she looked at his feet and cleared her throat.

“Erm. Your shoes, if you would be so kind.”

He fixed her with a pointed look and stepped forward anyway. The request reminded him of Ban, but he brushed the thought aside. She had stayed home, knowing he was handling the issue with her family. Seeing them again would not do her any favors.

Arlette hurried alongside him, walking fast to keep up with his longer strides. As he walked he took in the house. Ban had lived here most of her life. He allowed his mind to wander a little, musing. Where would she have sat? Had her room been neat? Had she owned dolls? Read books? Had she dreamed of adventures, or being swept off her feet by a dashing prince?

His thoughts were interrupted by Arlette. “I hope you don’t mind. We weren’t sure what you’d prefer to… eat, but we assumed some soup and roast would be-”

Astarion held up a hand. “I prefer we skip the niceties and get to the matter at hand. Where - or rather,” he scanned the house - what he could see of it anyway - finding no sign of a third person, “when am I ever to see this son of yours?”

He had surmised that he wouldn’t see Adrien in his brief conversation with Roderich earlier today. The man had said that he would explain everything, whatever that meant, as he’d hurried Astarion out the door.

As he turned the corner and entered the dining room he saw Roderich sitting at the head of the table, waiting. Roderich stood as Astarion walked in, obviously tense. “There was no need for all that unpleasantness earlier today. We would have told you, had we known what you wanted.”

Astarion sat on the opposite end of the table, steepling his fingers and settling in. He could almost taste their discomfort, and it was gratifying. “We provided you the chance to disclose everything civilly, remember? You chose to lie and be difficult.”

Roderich bristled, but Arlette put a hand on his shoulder. “You could have us removed from the guild, but the coin… it doesn’t exist anymore. It’s gone.” Her eyes locked onto his steepled fingers. “You’ve gotten married.”

“Hm?” He raised his hand for them to see. “Indeed we have. I won’t apologize for the lack of invitation. We wanted only those important to us in attendance.”

He savored the affronted looks from the couple, daring them to voice their complaints. When none came, his thoughts drifted back to the misappropriated guild funds.

He wasn’t surprised. Meiros had mentioned that the Glasscrafts were used to a life of relative luxury; the loss of customers and their retreat from active networking would have put a dent in that. Their theft from the Guild coffers had been discovered a few years ago but Meiros had deemed it unnecessary to take action at the time. Apparently, the amount of coin had not been significant, and he’d felt some pity for Roderich after the disappearance of his daughter was made known. In any case, Astarion was glad; it provided him ample ammunition to leverage the Glasscrafts with, if needed.

Astarion reached for the carafe, pouring himself a glassful of what looked like wine. He sniffed it, ascertaining it to be so, and took a small sip. It felt safe, at least.

“Whether the money is gone or not, all I have to do is to ask. Meiros will act at my behest.” He locked gazes with Roderich, allowing the silence to stretch. He lounged back, waiting.

Roderich broke, clasping his hands together. His eyes were downcast, fixed on his own hands. “After Ban left us, the… arrangement we had with her betrothed’s family fell apart. We needed to find another suitable arrangement, and so we quickly found an associate with a daughter around Adrien’s age.”

“He was displeased, just like she had been, and one night-” Arlette began, but Astarion held up a hand.

He laughed. “You drove both children off the same way? How very ironic. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson the first time, but no - you had to push the other away too!” The savage glee he felt definitely raised Arlette’s hackles - he saw her eye the fireplace poker.

“Oh. I wouldn’t even attempt that, Arlette.” He waved a hand at her. “Or you could try your luck, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind livelier fare tonight.” He gave her a quick grin, baring his fangs, and was satisfied when she backed down.

“A wise choice.” He curled his lip. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? ‘My son left, same as my daughter did, because I was an abusive ass’,” He copied Arlette’s cadence, the smile only widening as she seethed. His eyes then returned to Roderich. “Now. I’m assuming you know where your son went?”

He knew the answer was likely not. Ban had, after all, stayed in the lower city for several years, within the same city, and her parents had never bothered to seek her out. He surmised they were the type who would not deign to head into the lower city unless absolutely necessary.

Roderich sighed. “We asked everyone we could ask. All we know is that the night he left…” he glanced over at his wife; Arlette finally sat down beside him, glaring at Astarion.

“Contrary to your assumptions, my lord, Adrien’s departure was not like Ban’s.” She sneered, or her best approximation of one, anyway; her fear of him prevented her from managing true disdain. “He did not take anything with him. No clothes, no extra coin. No materials other than what he’d usually bring on a night out.”

“We had an argument,” Roderich interjected. “The usual one, about him wanting his… freedom,” he scoffed, “to choose his spouse, and how the girl we’d betrothed him to was a spoiled, overgrown child.”

“And ugly, to boot.” Arlette shrugged. “He wasn’t wrong, but really.”

“So he left to cool off. Not an unusual occurrence, except he didn’t return. We assumed he’d found someone to keep him company for the night, and would return on the morrow, but… he never did.”

The hardness in Arlette’s features disappeared for once. “We waited. Days, weeks, months. We asked folks that we knew. No one knew where he’d gone, nor had they seen him. It was as if he’d disappeared into thin air. There were whispers we heard then, rumors.”

To Astarion’s surprise, Roderich pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re Szarr’s heir, are you not? You would know better than most. The stories of folk disappearing, of debauched parties in the night. You would know.”

His pique rose. “And you know someone who’s disappeared, beside your own children? Both of whom ran away of their own free will?” Astarion challenged. They’d been specifically forbidden from hunting in the upper city. Cazador had preferred victims from the lower classes, and rightfully so. Nobody ever went looking for them, not for long anyway.

Roderich looked away. “Well… no.”

“What does it matter? Whatever those rumors were alluding to - they’re obviously true!” Arlette stood and rounded on him, hands on the table. “Look at you. Look at what you made our child into.”

Astarion refused to allow their words to slip under his skin. Her anger was meaningless. All the same, he couldn’t resist baring his fangs at her. “I’d be careful pointing fingers, Arlette. Your daughter left too, and she didn’t end up as food for… monsters, did she?”

“Well, she became one herself!”

He laughed, the sound theatrical and dangerous. He stood as well. “Considering that she was raised by a pair of them, I doubt she found it much of a leap.”

Arlette screamed in frustration, scrabbling for the knife on the table. Astarion watched, amused, as Roderich slammed his hand down on her wrist, preventing her from aiming it at him.

“Let her go. Let her try, if she chooses to.” Astarion crossed his arms.

Roderich shot his wife a warning glare, then slowly lifted his hand away. She stood there for a second, chest heaving, hand clenched around the knife. Astarion merely stared indifferently.

Finally she cursed, letting go of the knife. “I would say I hope the gods curse you, but… I think you’re already there,” she spat.

He took it in stride. “Rude of you, really, when I’m here to find your son. Not to return him to you, of course, but I would have at least informed you when I found out if he was safe, something you two have obviously failed to determine.”

Roderich’s eyes bulged. “You dare-”

“Yes. I dare.” He picked up his glass and refilled it with painful, deliberate slowness, dragging the moment out. “I assume you asked people you knew, not people Adrien knew.”

“He didn’t have a lot of friends. He kept to himself.”

“Perhaps he did not prefer the company you made him keep?”

The two did not respond. Astarion swirled the wine lazily. “Tch. Your investigation was incomplete. If you employed the same methods you did when Ban first left, then you certainly haven’t even scoured this city, let alone further.”

Roderich gulped. “We… did not look for her.”

Astarion blinked. He balled his fists, and the urge to snap their necks was almost irresistible. “You… did not look for Ban, but looked for Adrien.” He said it slowly, enunciating each word, voice dripping with venom.

“She left with most of her belongings. And, well… Adrien was still there…” Arlette stammered, shrinking back as Astarion began to stalk towards them.

“Of course. Your beloved son was there, so what did her departure cost? Nothing.” He drew closer, eyes narrowed into slits. “Why would one failed arrangement matter, when you had the more valuable piece still in play, hm?”

He raised his eyebrow as Arlette finally grabbed the knife and lunged for him. Too slow, of course, but he admired her verve. Roderich reached for her, but Astarion was faster, catching her wrist effortlessly. He pulled her close, hissing against her ear.

“I would relish the opportunity to rip you apart, and then tear your husband into pieces,” he whispered. “But I doubt Ban would be pleased to find out that I’ve eviscerated her parents without asking her first. Consider this, however, your final warning. One more false move,” he pried the knife from her hands and set it down on the table, “and I will accept her ire and act in… well, let’s say self-defense.” He let her go, and she sank back onto her chair, her husband standing protectively behind her. He eyed Roderich.

“Any complaints?” He didn’t respond, and Astarion smirked. “I thought so.”

He leaned against the table, making a show of looking at his nails. “So. You did not bother to search for Ban, but did so for Adrien. Despicable, but unsurprising from you lot.” He raked his eyes over the pair. As much as he wanted to rip into them, there was the far more urgent need of actually finding out where Ban’s brother was. “When you say you searched for Adrien… who exactly did you talk to?”

“Like you said,” Arlette said, her voice small. “We asked the people we knew. The rumors about Cazador Szarr became the only lead we had. And it was just… that. Whispers. Someone knew someone who knew someone, who’d heard stories.”

Astarion shrugged. “No doubt it was easier to believe a monster had taken your son than to think the ones in his own home had pushed him away.” He glanced at them, daring them to try contesting his words. When no dissent came, he returned his attention to his fingernails.

“I shall be conducting my own investigation. If I find Adrien…” he considered this for a moment, “and he does not want to be found, I shall tell you of his survival at the very least, if you two cooperate with my search and never come close to either of them, ever again.”

“But-”

“It’s that, or I seek out Adrien on my own and you never learn what I discover. I’ll also request Meiros to very kindly look into the missing funds from the guild treasury. And were you to breathe a single word of what Ban and I are, well. I never refuse a free meal.”

The two exchanged a long glance, and then finally nodded. Satisfied, Astarion straightened up. “Are we agreed, then?” Slowly, they nodded again.

Astarion sat back down. “If you could provide more details - how Adrien looked, what he was wearing, the date of his disappearance, any other details you would deem pertinent - that would be delightful.”

“We last saw him four years ago, a year after Ban left. He was twenty-one then,” Roderich provided.

Four years younger than Ban, Astarion noted. “And the day?”

“Thirteenth, of Alturiak. It was a chilly, rainy night.”

This, he also noted. “Was he dressed appropriately?” If not, Adrien could not have gone far without purchasing a cloak.

“He was, to a point,” Arelette offered. “He was wearing the jacket I’d made him. It did not have a hood.”

Astarion sighed. That widened his circle somewhat, and reduced his chances. He had hoped to encounter a vendor who might have sold him clothes. He took a long look at the couple.

Arlette walked away, quickly leaving the dining room. He could hear her rummaging around and she came back with a locket. To his surprise she pressed it onto his palms.

“This is a portrait of Adrien. We stowed all the family portraits away when he disappeared. It was… too painful… to look at the mantelpiece and see his face. But this should help.”

He opened it to reveal a young man. There was a small tug of familiarity, and little wonder. He had strikingly dark eyes - Ban’s eyes. Raven-black hair, the same golden skin, the same half-smile. He could be her twin, he thought as he closed the locket.

Along with the locket was a cufflink. It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

“His favorite cufflinks. We never found the other.” Roderich nodded at it. “We assume he had it that night.”

Astarion pocketed both items and stood. “I shall write to you if there are any developments. If anything comes up, I shall expect the same courtesy. You do remember where to write, yes?”

“The Crimson Palace,” Roderich said, and Astarion smirked. He’d never forgiven the man for not knowing that the first time they’d met.

“Perfect.” He reached over and downed his glass. “Thank you for the dinner. It was most… enlightening.”

He gave them a small, sardonic bow, and headed for the door.

Astarion fingered the clasp of the locket as the carriage made for the palace, flicking it open with one hand. He stared at the face looking back at him, frowning. The other half of the locket had a piece of paper in it instead of a portrait, one seemingly folded in half. He reached in, pulling it out. The paper was thick; he unfolded it carefully.

The content of the paper was not what he expected, and not anything useful, but he was glad he’d opened it all the same. Ban, from years ago, her face less lined, a little fuller and far softer than she looked now. She was illuminated in what looked like a sunset; the golden light highlighting the side of her face that it hit. Her hair wasn’t tied back in her usual ponytail, or even the bun she occasionally preferred - it fell in loose, long waves, framing her face. He’d seen her with her hair down of course, but almost never in public.

He ran his finger down the side of her face, then traced those lips he’d come to know so intimately. His thoughts drifted back to her, of her youth spent in that house and in that shop. He couldn’t recall his own past - two centuries of torment had ensured it was all but gone - but he did not envy Ban hers. Astarion closed the locket, but kept her portrait for himself, pocketing it.

As the carriage drew to a stop and he stepped out, he spied her in the foyer, waiting. The sight never failed to make his heart swell, and he made a beeline for her.

“Home at last,” she said, as he drew close for a quick kiss. “I trust everything went well?”

“Mm… well enough.” He had no intention of informing her of anything until everything was laid bare, as they had agreed upon. “Some progress has been made, I would say, but nothing concrete as yet. You’ll have to wait a little longer.” He’d told her where he’d been headed, but had not informed her of any pertinent details.

She led him to the dining room, not bothering to turn towards him as she spoke. “It’s not a huge pain. I’ve… not even thought of them in so long. I can stand to wait a little longer to see how Adrien’s doing.”

He helped her into her seat before seating himself. Taking a bite from her fork, she eyed him. “Were your dealings with Meiros at least helpful?” Whatever their arrangement was, she hoped it had been useful.

“Yes… and no,” Astarion admitted. “I would have achieved the same effect without it, but it would probably have taken more… convincing. I would not have minded doing that, but you might have.”

Ban scoffed. “As prideful as they are, they’re cowards. They’re frightened of you - of… of us now, I suppose. I have little doubt they’d immediately cave.”

He laughed, remembering today’s encounter. “You’d be surprised. Your mother may or may not have attempted to kill me.”

“She wouldn’t.” Her eyes widened at the look on Astarion’s face. “You… you’re serious. Really?”

“With a knife, which I’m sure would have done the job, given enough time.” He began to eat. “I can see where you inherited your… spirit.”

“You mean to say my temper.”

He bit back a mirthful bark. “Your words, darling, not mine.”

There was silence for a while as they both ate. Astarion’s eyes flicked over to her, unconsciously comparing her face with the portrait that was now in his pocket. He burned with a desire to ask her for more, but wasn’t quite sure how to broach it.

Her eyes drifted away from Halsin’s wedding gift on the mantelpiece - a dragon sitting on its haunches - and noticed his staring. She tilted her head. “Something on my face?”

He shook his head. “Is there a reason why you wear your hair the way you do now?” He fingered the paper inside his pocket, then took it out, handing it to her.

She unfolded it, silent as she took in the portrait. “Mother preferred my hair down. Said it would hide the… features of my face. One of the few things she and I did not disagree on.”

Astarion considered this. He ran his eyes down her current - and now permanent - physique, mulling over the potential implications. She handed the portrait back to him and returned to her meal; he quickly stored it. He was sure he’d ask about it some other time, but for now, he was content with what she had revealed.

They were walking in the garden after dinner when he broached the topic. “Darling… was your mother the first person to tell you you aren’t… attractive?”

She paused and turned to look at him, half bent over to look at a particularly large rose. “What makes you think that?”

“Your comment about your hair. The way you always glance at the prettiest woman in any room, then down at yourself. The clothing choices - cloaks, capes.” He ticked these off with his fingers. “Even your hair. Held up now, yes, no longer quite hiding - but still plain. As if you feel like any adornment other than your braids would be a waste.”

“Well.” She took a deep breath, then plucked the flower. “Having my hair up became a habit after I ran away. Came with the job, really. Fighting with it loose would be unwise.” She straightened up, smelling the rose.

“And everything else?”

She chuckled. “Everything else you got spot-on.” She fell into stride beside him, tucking the flower by her ear.

“You are perfect, and your mother is a wretched woman whose opinions have no real merit, other than in her own miserable mind. You’d do well to realize none of her comments had any worth.”

Ban raised both arms, flexing them at him. “This isn’t what you’d normally see on a beautiful woman, Astarion. Not what most men would want, even.”

“Yet you chose that,” he noted. “Perhaps you wanted to be strong, truly strong, unlike what your mother wanted you to be.”

“She wanted me strong, but not in this way, that’s true. This I chose for myself.” She put her hands down, then ran her hand down the swell of a tricep. “I wanted it, yes, but I’m also aware this isn’t-”

“And why should we bother with the opinions of fools and miscreants who would not know how to tell a gem from a rock?”

“Because… I mean, Astarion. Let’s face it.” She took both of his hands, and he fixed his gaze on her. “Look at me. Then look at yourself. Tell me you don’t see what they see. You even said it yourself - they see me as a trivial matter in their path to you, right? Because I look the way I do.”

“Then they can shove their frankly insipid, dull ideas of attractiveness,” he snarled, “far, far up their own asses. And if they dared to breathe a word of it to you, or me… well.” A smile broke through her dismay, exactly as he’d hoped, and he led her to the fountain. He slipped behind her as they both admired it.

“You are beautiful to me,” he murmured, “and considering I am looked upon as world-endingly beautiful myself, that ought to mean something, shouldn’t it?” He leaned in, the humor slipping away. “Trust me.”

Those familiar words sent a shiver down her spine. Trust. Something she had given so freely before, and something she had been giving again recently, even though there were times that it still felt hard. It would be work, she knew - she’d need time to do better, just as he had - but she hoped she was at least making some headway. Her mind wandered, away from thoughts of her appearance to hoping this conversation was at least a sign of progress in his eyes.

“Ban?” Astarion paused from the path his lips had been making down her shoulder. “Is everything alright?”

Ban turned to focus on his face. She could see the fear beginning to creep in his eyes, and she quickly kissed him. He visibly eased, exhaling.

“I- I thought for a moment…”

“No. You did nothing wrong.” She kissed his jaw, then his cheek, running a comforting hand through his hair. He leaned into the touch, eyes shuttering. She fought the instinct to just leave it at that, and pushed on. “Can you tell me, love, if all this… everything I’ve been trying to do... Has it been working?”

“Your hair could stand to be decorated sometimes.” One look at her withering glare and he shifted gears. “Er - the wedding arrangements were more than sufficient,” he said automatically, “and I think everyone went home satisfied. Well, perhaps not Minsc, but-”

“Astarion,” she said, a note of urgency in her tone. “Quit deflecting. You know what I mean. Fixing… this. Us. Being better for you.” Somehow these words felt harder to say than even her wedding vows, and she tamped down the voice inside her that told her that this was unnecessary talk.

“Yes.” He met her gaze, uncertain, but unafraid. The irony was not lost on her. “I suppose the wedding and the whole…” he waved a hand, “...game, occupied most of our time recently, but, yes.” His eyes darted across her face, and he bit his lip. “I see more of you. Feel more of you.” As soon as he said it his eyes flicked away, and she caught it.

“Please?” she asked, and he exhaled.

“I would be lying if I said everything is perfect.” He braced himself, then met her gaze head-on. “It’s far too soon to tell for certain, and we’re both aware that wedding planning wasn’t the most… normal of times.”

“I understand.” She leaned forward and rested her head against his collarbone. “But I promise you. I will be who you want me to be… maybe not the hair, though.”

He chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around her. “I will adore you regardless of who you are and what you choose to look like, Ban. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Astarion awoke from his trance just as the sun began to shine, its rays slipping in through a gap in the drapes. He stood up to close them, not wanting Ban to stir. Before he pulled them shut he stood, watching the light touch the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the palace grounds.

He’d have to begin his search somewhere, and it was likely that he would get no answers in the upper city, but he planned on sending some of his staff to ask around just in case. He would handle the lower city himself, figuring that would yield more results, considering Roderich hadn’t explored that option. It likely hadn’t even occurred to him until last night, the idiot.

The question, however, remained. What would happen once they found Adrien? The relationship between the siblings didn’t seem exactly… warm. His eyes wandered over to Ban’s sleeping form, worry creasing his brow.

What if her brother rejected her for what she’d become? For what they had done? There was no need for him to know, but he wasn’t sure if Ban would tell him everything - including the circumstances of the rite. Save for their companions, no one else knew of the price that had been paid. To everyone else, he was a regular noble. To the people he had met on their journey who knew what he was, he had merely found some means of being able to withstand the sun.

Well, other than the Society. They had quickly inferred that it had been a contract of sorts, no thanks to Omeluum. They had kindly kept the information confidential, but he was still irked at the thought that they knew at all. Ban had suggested keeping them close, to foster goodwill, which they had done.

He brushed away the unpleasant path his thoughts had taken. He needed to focus on the matter at hand. Sending out feelers in the upper city, and venturing into the lower city. Ban may know the names of some of Adrien’s associates, the ones their parents hadn’t approved of.

He merely hoped all this would lead to her finding some closure.

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Dark Signs

Astarion x F! Dark Urge, Set in Act 1

18+ violence, death, dark urge shenanigans, pining, complicated feelings, heavy petting, blood drinking, fingering (f!), thigh riding, restraint, oral (f!), menstruating, Astarion being a freak, tenderness

After killing Alfira in her sleep, she can't help but seek him out...

-

"You know, I dont really even care that you killed her," he laughs, eyes unburdened.

The blood still in her hair, she stared at him. A deep and festering war inside her mind at his words.

The poor girl hours dead, she couldn't bear to hide her, to run from what she had done. So she left her there, stared at her beautiful corpse until morning. Until the others woke and discovered her sin.

The rage and disgust in their words, in their hearts were shockingly short lived. Forgiving her too easily. Of all of the transgressions, that scared her the most. They still trusted her, still relied on her.

"Well," She shoved all of her thoughts further down her throat. "I feel terrible about it."

He was the only one she hadn't spoken to about her urges. Had broached the subject with everyone else in camp, if only to ready them. There's something inside me, something that demands blood. They hadn't understood naturally, the gravity of the situation lost on them. But at least they were warned.

Having precious little chance to talk, with him being rather closed off, she hadn't had a chance to alert him.

I am a weapon, dont get closer than you need to.

But his words now, the lack of judgment, the lack of care in his eyes. It... comforted her, despite herself.

She should be punished, in words and coldness, abandonedment. Hells even death, and yet...

Why aren't you afraid of me?

The merriment and spirits floated, the tiefling refugees chattering happily. Not allowing herself any inebriation, she smiled at Halsin. Encouraged him to mingle, to have fun. Leaning in, her hand on his arm to be heard over the revelry.

Feeling the prickle of eyes on her neck, she looked up.

Crimson eyes beckoning to her.

Feeling her stomach flip she turned back to Halsin, letting an easy smile on her face as he reassured her.

No, not this. Not him.

Traveling together since that awful night, she had found herself... fascinated by him.

She had managed to stifle her feelings, keeping her yearning close to her chest. But Gods was it there.

Keeping him in her party he was unavoidable. She had considered leaving him at camp if just to see him less, but he was too good at what he does.

The way his nimble hands would twist when she needed assistance with a locked chest. Drawling voice at her back as they walked. His arrows coming down on high to strike through the chest of an enemy prey right in front of her.

She had touched herself to that memory in her tent only nights ago.

Steeling herself, she approached. Hells, what did he want?

"You know, I never saw myself a hero." He started, wine bottle sloshing in his hand. She eyed it, realizing that he can drink. Assumed that he could only drink blood. Felt another shiver at the thought. She would like to drink his blood for a change.

"But now that I'm here, I hate it. This is awful."

She laughed, surprised. Responding before she could stop herself, "Well you got to kill lots of goblins, that was fun." Felt hot shame rise up her collar at her indiscretion.

He smiled, eyes softening. "That was fun, wasnt it."

The roaring in her chest got much louder.

Allowing herself some banter, they chatted. Flirted, even. Throwing lines back and forth, until she had somehow agreed to meet him later. Alone.

She kept her face light and neutral as they parted ways, but the moment her back was turned from him. Panic. Dear Gods, panic.

Oh this was a problem, a multifaceted problem.

She should not be alone with anyone, especially someone so beautiful. He would make such a pretty corpse.

Pacing in her tent she was a mess. She should stay here, dont go. Dont go to him. For the love of all that is good, do not go.

A vision of his eyes when he fed on her, his mouth when he pouts. The way his breeches hugged his hips, the veins in his forearms.

Her tent flapped shut behind her, feet moving swiftly.

"There you are," He purred, stepping from the treeline. Chest bare, hair catching the moonlight.

No words possible, she pulled her tunic off. Hot with need. Taking her chest bindings off in the same motion.

Saw his eyes widen in surprise. "My, eager are we?" He crooned, stepping closer.

"Shut up," She traveled the distance between them. Fingers in his hair, on his hip. Pulling his mouth down to hers. Lips crashing.

She had to get it out or she would erupt.

He groaned into her, lifting her up to push against a nearby tree. Oh he shouldn't be manhandling her like this.

Wrapping her hips around his waist she kissed him hungrily, greedily. The last meal of a woman on the gallows. The one piece of relief she would allow herself.

Hips already grinding into him, seeking. An animal call. Heat. Madness.

Flipping her onto the ground he began pulling her leathers off. Lifting her hips to help him, the bite of small stones against her shoulders bringing her small clarity. Her pelvis ached, her head swimming.

He looked into her eyes, heavy with lust but something else... a twinge, a hint. Fear, she realized.

Her heart sank, he could feel it. The madness inside her. Slowing, she trailed her hand tender to his cheek.

Looking at her again, his eyes widened. She bared her neck to him.

Leaning down on his forearms, he sank into her. The cold chill welcome against her feverish skin. Trailing a tentative hand into his hair. Her long nails scratching lightly.

A quiet moan into her wound. Felt him shiver against her. Encouragement.

Hand still in his hair she let her other hand slip onto his neck, touching lightly. Trailing up to his ear.

Immediate, he bit down hard on her. Hips grinding against her thigh.

The heat rising again she ran her thumb along the long point, in awe. He groaned into her, wrapping his arms around her waist he hitched her up to him. Chest to chest, straddling. Him still pulling from her neck.

"Oh Gods," She moaned quietly. The hazy miasma of lust overwhelming her again. Hips ablaze, grinding into his cold thigh. The leather of his breeches soaking.

His hand gripped her ass, pulling her harder into his leg. Heard a low growl from his chest.

Panting, she rode against him. His sharp mouth still pinning her in place against him. The slick pressure in her pelvis rising. Hands reaching for his chest, his back, something, anything to ground herself.

His pale ones, quick as lightning, found her wrists. Pulling them against her lower back, snaring them down in one hand. Her eyes hitched back. Yes, restrain me.

Still riding into him, she felt herself getting lightheaded. Though it wasn't unwelcome, Gods, anything to empty her head, knew she was losing too much blood.

"Astarion, stop," She breathed. He groaned into her flesh, still pulling.

Wrapping her thighs strong around his leg, she squeezed as hard as she could. Trying to pull him from his trance.

With the last of her strength she bit him, hard, on the shoulder. Muffled her own moan when she realized she had drawn blood. Her own blood spilling back into her mouth. Oh no, oh fuck.

He pulled off of her, gasping. The pain waking him. Looked, shocked and ashamed, into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Caron."

Hearing her name, her chosen name, her eyes watered. No, she didn't want to hurt him. She could stop.

"I'm okay," She reassured tiredly, the ever present headache receding slightly at the bloodshed. "Are you okay?" She added quietly.

He blinked at her, eyes layered in many emotions. None she could pick out with certainty.

"Darling, I'm splendid." He drawled, lying, she could tell. "Now, if you dont mind I'd like to finish ravaging you."

Confusion spiked through her. Certain that they were done, the spell thoroughly broken.

"Wait," She whispered, as his hands slid to her core. He paused, eyes searching hers.

"You dont have to, I'm okay to stop." She looked into his eyes, hoping her sincerity reached him.

Saw him swallow, eyes wavering for a moment, then coming back.

"Lay back, sweet thing." He hushed, urging her gently onto her back again. Pushing her thighs apart to accommodate him. Sliding down between them.

She sighed as she felt his breath against her thigh, letting her head fall back. Her body responding once again. Realized that the nausea backed away when he touched her. The pain, though still present, distant.

Felt a tear of relief slide down her face, glad he was too far down her body to see it.

Heard a small gasp and looked up, panicked. "Oh," He breathed, fingers swiping up her, holding them to the light. Blood.

She had started her cycle it seemed. Groaning, getting up onto elbows, about to start cleaning up. His eyes flashed.

"Dont you dare," Felt a thrill in her chest, his fingers entering his mouth. Tongue splaying, twisting along his hand. Lost in it.

She clenched, pulsing, against nothing. Her breath hot little gasps.

"This is a gift." He marveled, leaning back down. Moaned at the fresh blood her pulsing had pushed out.

Mouth crushing into her without warning. His tongue working in frenzy. Taking as much of her in as he could.

She moaned loud, arched against him. Hips already squirming.

He hooked his arms around her thighs to keep her from retreating. Slurping, suckling. Tongue crushed velvet, hot, seeking.

When he clamped down around her clit, tongue pulsing, she thought she was dying. Stars blooming behind her eyes. Body going rigid.

One hand coming down on the skin below her navel, flat, a gentle hold.

"Fingers," She whimpered out, his mouth driving her to the brink. But still she needed more.

"What was that, darling?" He mused, lifted to look at her. Gore-dripped mouth smiling.

Oh Gods, the heat. The bloodlust.

"Put your fingers in me. Now." Her voice unrecognizable to her. Low, demanding.

His eyes flashed again, pupils widening. Jaw tightening. Looking down at her like prey.

Oh only if he knew.

His two fingers slid inside her, eyes still trained on hers. Watching her head lean back, hips rising. Watched her shiver as he hooked his fingers. Smiling like a fox that caught a rabbit.

Satisfied, he leaned his mouth back down to his work. Fingers still pulling, slowly.

When the dual sensations hit her, his hungry mouth, his clever fingers, she writhed and whimpered. Hands in his hair, trying her hardest not to pull.

Her body was so tender, every touch tenfold, her cycle thoroughly started. Pinching her sensitive nipple. Clenched down hard on his fingers, pushing out more blood slick. Felt his growl reverberate against her. Tongue lapping around his fingers.

Oh she was close, her limbs feverish. The viper coiled, about to strike.

Her mind flooded. A dagger, plunging. An arterial wave of blood. Them, twisted into eachother, gore smeared. Straddled over their prey. His fingers pushing the viscera inside her.

She shrieked against him. Her end hitting her like an impaling spear. Hands gripping his hair. Arching her back so hard she heard a crack. Eyes screwed shut tight. Vicous waves of annihilating pleasure.

He eagerly lapped up all of the creamy blood slick that poured out of her, rubbing her clit, encouraging more.

She bucked against his hand, clenching again and again. His mouth catching it all.

She fell back, collapsing into the earth. All thoughts, all threatening, gone from her mind.

The night air heavy with their pheromones, the blood. Both smells intoxicating her. A spike of shame.

Well, almost all thoughts.

"Why aren't you afraid of me?"

It had slipped out, a near whisper, before she could stop herself.

He had laid down next to her, looked over at her now. Eyebrows threaded together, confused. Shit.

Stared at her for a moment then he laughed, face relaxing. "Oh please, you killed someone. Darling, I think you forget you're in the presence of a monster." Leaned down to draw little circles on her sternum. "You're not the only one who craves blood around here."

"You're not a monster."

He looked up at her, his eyes round. Soft. Her heart fluttered. Then they settled back into their guard.

"Common minds would disagree." Smiled at her, head tilting. "But you're not common, are you?"

Now she laughed, snorting. Everything about this so funny suddenly. Two killers seeking eachother in the grass.

He laughed with her, her light seeming to overcome him.

"Gods we should kill someone together."

She laughed even harder, falling into him.

~

Part 2

[cool-cowboy]

Summary:

In which Father Kennedy comes up with a plan to expel your mutual lust by forcing the both of you to cope with it, and the plan works, for about a minute, then he confesses his undying and eternal love for you and does you on the altar while you stare at Jesus Christ.

This is the second work in this storyline, reading the first one isn't all that necessary, just know you've already indulged once before, during the previous Sunday's confession. If you like your men obsessed this one is definitely for you. Enjoy!

Tags:

Priest Leon S. Kennedy, Alternate universe- Medieval, Church Sex, Catholicism, Guilt, Adultery, Love confessions, Catholic prayers, Altar sex, Naked female clothed male, Body worship, Semi-public sex, Multiple orgasms, Oral sex, Vaginal fingering, Teasing, Vaginal sex, Cum shot, Aftercare

Blurb:

“If we are to abstain, why would we come here alone? Is that not counterproductive?”

“Temptation can only be overcome if it is present, miss. We are in no position to flee, we must face our desires and let God lead us in the way he sees fit. I intend to cure us of our illness in as quick a manner as possible, so we will need to bury ourselves in it, let the wound fester prior to healing."

Text:

“Father? Um- Stephan’s home, you-”

“I wasn’t looking to come inside. Accompany me through town, we have some things to discuss.” I nod, unsure exactly what said discussion will entail, considering it has been only a few days following our indiscretion, and I haven’t seen him once, though the guilt has been heavy, making me sickly to even look at Stephan, who is none the wiser, thankfully, I wouldn’t want to need to sin again by lying to ward off any suspicion regarding my adultery.

“Alright. Let me go and tell Stephan, he doesn’t like for me to leave without notice. Come in, Father.” I pull the door a little further open, allowing him inside and out of the cold, my thoughts already ungodly at the sight of him in his casual clothing, the collared shirt tight over his neck, and his upper body as well, providing an overly enticing view which leaves very little to the imagination.

“Hurry along, miss, we have things to attend to.” I nod, a little feverish, not glad to have been caught ogling, as well as anxious to speak to Stephan about the Father in any regard. I hurry to the study, admittedly delighted at the thought of any manner of time spent with the priest, even if it is sinful.

“Stephan?” He has the door closed, was telling me a few hours prior my cleaning was interrupting his work, so much so he had to close his door to keep me from being bothersome. He utters a soft “Come in” from the other side, so I do, opening the door slowly to keep from disturbing him, wary to rouse his bad mood.

“What could possibly be so damn important you’re interrupting a second time?” I don’t look at him, well aware being too bold is never a smart decision, just keep my gaze down and wring my hands, any attempt to calm the nervousness falling entirely flat.

“I just- I wanted to tell you I’m heading out for a short while.” I glance up, his expression unhappy, though he really should be glad to be rid of me, if I truly am being such a nuisance.

“Where?” A tight leash, that’s what he’s named it, his stipulation of getting to ask his questions before giving his assent for me to do as I please, though he’s usually not all that big of a part of my day, keeps to himself besides mealtimes and when he’s looking to bed me, more often as of late, our marriage barren without me giving him any children, of course I take precaution where I can, lily root has never failed me so far, though if Stephan ever found out about my unwillingness to bear his children I’d be in quite the predicament, I’ve already received more than a few slaps due to my “Infertility”.

“Just through town. The Father has some things he wants to discuss.” I hope it’s sufficient, I would rather be truthful where possible, I never had the chance to become a skillful liar, never had reason to, before now.

“The Father? What business do you have with Mr. Kennedy?” I’m sweating, hands wiped on the front of my dress doing nothing to abate the clamminess on my skin, my guilt plain, thankfully not so plain to my husband, this being one of the few occasions I’m glad he doesn’t pay me much mind.

“I assume it’s something to do with the choir, Meredith’s out of town for now, I assume he expects me to fill her role for the time being.” A convenient story, a truthful one, which happens to work very nicely in my favor.

“Sure. You’ll be back in time to make supper?” I hum an affirmative, and he waves me off, going quickly back to his writing, ignoring me once again, other than a final “Make sure you’re not “too tired” tonight”, the excuse I’ve been giving lately, claiming to be too busy to have the energy to give into being bedded, not that it works majority of the time, he does as he pleases no matter how pleading my asking him not to is. I leave him, not wanting to be a bigger bother than necessary, heading back down the hall to a man who’s more than willing to offer his time, the father waiting patiently just where I’d left him, inspecting a painting of Stephan and I hung just inside the door.

“He agreed?” I nod, making sure not to stare, taking my furs from their hook and shrugging them on, having a look at him when I’m finished, his expression serious, professional, not unusual, though we are closer now, close in a way I would have never guessed, me being the only person on the entirety of earth who has seen him in the throes of pleasure, lost to desire, the thought of his entirely different self rousing goosebumps over my arms, enticed and afraid at once.

“Let’s be off, I’ll need to arrive back with time to prepare Stephan’s supper.” He opens the door, letting me through first before closing it softly behind, the action not of any importance to him, but indescribably touching for me, something Stephan has never once done in the years I’ve known him, even while he was courting me he was selfish, luckily for him so was my father. “So, Father, what is it you… Wanted to discuss?” I’m curious, we’ve never spent time together outside of church hours, never had any reason to, which leads me to believe this has everything to do with Sunday’s confession.

“What is it about me that you enjoy?” I pull my brows together, taking his offered hand to help me down the steps, unsure why he’d ask something so forward, or where he intends to bring this discussion, the warmth of him lingering on my skin when he releases me, our pace lazy, a simple stroll, not entirely normal, but I suppose no one will gossip about Mr. Kennedy, the thought offering relative safety as we trail along, even if I’m not all that glad there are so many others out at this time of day.

“Forgive me, but why- Why do you ask?” I cast a look toward him, wary of having this conversation in public, even in the mostly empty residential block.

“I think I may have found a way to rid the both of us of our yearning… I suppose I should set the example. I find you perfect. You enrapture me with your nature, truly, you consume my mind and body with your presence, my entire being is delighted at any reminder of you, miss. I believe there is reason behind your draw, of course, God has sent you to me, and me to you, as either of our most formidable trials, lust being our greatest weakness-”

“Father, I don’t see how this is- What solution can we have for a trial from God other than to abstain?” He smiles, seeming overly giddy at my words, nodding along with them, his footsteps pausing just in front of the church’s walkway, his body turned to face mine, large in front of me, undeniably masculine, everything I would have wanted if the choice was mine to make.

“You’ve figured it out all on your own, miss. Abstaining is the only way, we must make a habit of it, that’s what I’m suggesting. Come.” He leads the way, the both of us entering the empty church, no service going on at midday on a Wednesday.

“If we are to abstain, why would we come here alone? Is that not counterproductive?” It surely seems that way, the tension settles the moment the door is closed behind us, thick and heavy, the weight of sin on my shoulders, my guilt eating me from inside out, an excruciatingly powerful deterrent, I must say.

“Temptation can only be overcome if it is present, miss. We are in no position to flee, we must face our desires and let God lead us in the way he sees fit. I intend to cure us of our illness in as quick a manner as possible, so we will need to bury ourselves in it, let the wound fester prior to healing. Sit.” I do, take a seat one the frontmost pew, watching him take a seat beside me, a small amount closer than what would be considered appropriate, though I suppose it’s necessary, being close enough to lean in but having the willpower not to. I wonder if he’s looking this well kept on purpose, to be enticing, he looks more put together than usual, and I must admit it is making me a little warm, my face heated only from being alone with him, sat close enough for him to do as he pleases, no confession window keeping me from seeing the entirety of him. “We will need to expel our desires… Have you been praying to the lord daily?” He’s sinning, the evidence is all over him, that same low, lusty quality to his gaze, the roughness of his voice, the pink dusting over his cheeks, the telltale tightness of his breeches. He seems to be trying to distract himself, keep his thoughts from wandering down the more unrighteous path, and I’m doing the same, though my mind has a tendency to wander, especially during time with the Father.

“Yes, of course, for forgiveness and guidance. I haven’t seen a difference- In the-uhm- The… Frequency of the ungodly thoughts, no matter the amount of times I plead for it.” God has been unkind to me in the past weeks, never providing any type of assistance to aid me with my problem, but I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be, it is my choice to be godly, or to give into the need burning through me, the scorching hot, pleasurable want that is nearly worth it.

“The lord works in mysterious ways, miss. We must remember this. We are to choose our own path, be worthy or risk our salvation when judgment comes.” I nod in agreement, though I can’t help but question it, God’s will, his willingness to tempt but not allow humankind to be tempted, the all-knowing man surely already knows what choice we will make, which path we will continue down. “Though it is true all sins are equivalent under the lord… As long as we are forgiven we are cleansed…” He has a hand over the front of his pants, just rested there, his expression lax, only a little pained, the suggestion clear, an offer to call off our abstinence before it’s even had the chance to begin, give into temptation and assume we will be granted forgiveness for our weakness.

“Father? You’re suggesting… We should..?” I’m not so sure, not that I’m strong enough to resist if he was to suggest we indulge again, it does seem much less consequential now that we’ve already done so once before.

“Not suggesting, merely… Well, perhaps I did suggest it. You really have ruined me, miss.” He sighs, closing his eyes and covering his face with one hand, seeming strung up, not all that willing to make either decision. “I’m all too willing to fail, only when it comes to you, all I ask is that we remain discreet, my position is based on the trust of the town, I cannot have them finding out I’m a sinner, they will lose all faith in me, I can’t have that.” I nod, unnerved he’s planning to keep this tryst going for longer than today, though I can’t say I won’t be glad to continue as we have, one sin is equal to many, penance is the only way we will be saved now.

“We cannot be found out. Stephan, he would- I’d-”

“I’m well aware, miss. I wouldn’t allow it, you will not be harmed. We will be sure to keep this under wraps, yes?” I hum, still afraid, a continued offense meaning more instances our sin could be revealed. “Good, well, I suppose reveling in temptation wasn’t the ingenious idea I thought it would be… Truthfully I’m being ungodly right now, thinking of how beautiful you were when you bore yourself to me, allowed me to pleasure you…” He’s touching me, has a hand on my knee over my skirts, his upper body turned toward me, the shift in the conversation bringing forth the familiar warm sensation, a buzzing of want settled over me, heavy and hot and unyielding.

“Father, we… Someone could come in…” He doesn’t seem to mind, his expression hazy, face near to mine, his breathing a little hoarse, excited.

“Don’t be worried, miss, I must admit I had lustful intentions, I turned the lock, in the case we weren’t well equipped to resist… Seems my hunch wasn’t far off, unless you aren’t as fully depraved as me… Tell me, do you wish to indulge?” He speaks softly, kind, his face a breath from mine, his hand pausing its upward travels to await my answer, this man who has no need to be so gentlemanly giving me the kind of choice I’ve yearned for nearly the entirety of my life as if it’s something so common.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned, and I will do so again.” I sign the cross, praying my repentance will be enough, watching him sign his own, not at all concealing his lustful gaze, the holy signal dampened by his hand running a little further up my leg, my skin already sickly hot, the both of us anticipating it, steeling ourselves with heavy breaths.

“The father is just, he will cleanse and forgive the faithful of their sins…” He presses his lips to mine, soft and slow, the beginning of depravity, the sealing of our shared sin, the sweetest sin I’ve ever committed, the only one I’d give up everything to commit again and again. “This is it… The start of our descent… The most beautiful madness I could ever conceive of… The most evil perfection there is, my all consuming want, you.” He’s not rushed, it’s not in his nature, he’s calm, collected, his lips rough against mine, as well as his palm, cupped gently to my jaw, holding me to him, his skin hot against me, a reminder of sin, the heat a sort of omen of where we’re headed, a prelude to the heat of damnation we’re settling ourselves into. “I wish I could explain… The things I feel for you… The power you have over me… The carnal, painful need simmering inside…” He’s easing me back, slow, laying me back on my elbows, leaning over me to keep our lips connected, his hand trailing down from my jaw, ghosting over the curve of my waist, the gentle touch completely unfamiliar, his softness entirely enrapturing, his honest words spoken into kisses with a passion and fervor I could never begin to explain. “The sweet embrace of sin… Is all too enticing while you’re the one offering it… Miss, I have a confession.” He stops, pulling back to look down on me, his face and lips both flushed, nearly as flushed as mine feel, the both of us breathing heavy as he rests above me, his expression earnest and pained, distraught at his yearning.

“What is it, father?” He doesn’t tell me, rather sits up, pulling me along once he’s stood, lifting me right up out of the pew to rest across his arms, carrying me up the steps before pausing, just looking at me, still distraught, swallowing in a nervous manner as he looks down on me.

“My heart has always been full of God.” He sets me down, right on the altar, smoothing my skirts before sinking down, rested on his knees in front of me, staring up at me with that same expression, utterly terrified of what I’ve done to him, his hand moving to sign the cross before letting it rest over his thigh. “I’ve never had the room for anything further than the lord… Never felt inclined to make any, but you- You’ve shoved your way inside, clawed through a lifetime of God’s will and made your own home in my heart. The thought of- I’m appalled by it, the precedence you’ve assumed… Miss, you’ve consumed me, reached inside and tore my heart and taken it for yourself… Though… I find I don’t mind, and if it makes me ungodly then so be it- because I’m- I won’t apologize for being smitten with someone so utterly perfect- This is a mistake I would make time and time again, because it isn’t- Loving is never a mistake.” Love. I’m not sure I can say I’ve ever loved anyone, surely not Stephan, even if I do tell him so, the closest I’ve ever come to love is probably whatever warmth I have for the man before me, though I couldn’t admit it, loving him would be the worst possible offense, a far more real version of whatever we’re doing here, a crime for which there is no punishment other than the wrath of god.

“Father, we- You-”

“Just let me say it, I will bear my sins to you, you need not return my sentiment, I merely cannot keep the feeling festering inside any longer, feel free to ignore my ramblings, I am nothing but a godless madman, prepared to worship at your altar… Your body is the only temple I need, the only thing important enough to tear me from God, so allow me this, give me the freedom to speak my truth, divulge my sins to both you and the lord.” He’s touching me, staring at me with his head turned to the side, lips pressed to the skin of my inner ankle, lifted with a soft touch, the look in his eyes making me sickly, something so beautiful I can’t stand it, a care I’ve never seen, love. “I relinquish myself to you, completely, miss, from now until forever, I am yours, entirely. I will worship you, offer you all that I can in means of companionship and affection, though you need not do the same, I simply just cannot deny myself the simple pleasure of offering up my love, all of which belongs to you… Solely.” He’s making his way up, smoothly kissing up the inside of my thigh, looking up at me from his place on the floor, entirely enamored, his hand pushing slowly up on my skirts as he moves.

“Father..? I don’t- You can’t- You can’t say these things in God’s place…” He pauses his kissing, turning to look at me straight on, my skirts hiked up over my knee, my skin burning hot and clammy, worried what God will think of us now, two devoted disciples worshiping the other rather than our creator, indulging in an ungodly love.

“What I feel for you is not my doing, miss. I have fought against it long enough, I cannot convince my heart to feel for you any differently than I do. God knows this, knows I truly have tried my absolute hardest to quell my affections but I’m- This isn’t a decision I get to make, I’d continue loving you if I kept quiet. Just- Let me give myself to you, while we’re alone, the only time I can love you without looking your husband in the face… Let me love you before I face my guilt.” He looks near tears, voice soft and pleading, his hands coming palms together before he presses them to the wood between my legs, forehead to his thumbs, face hidden in my skirts. “Please, miss, forgive me, I did not intend to divulge my most gruesome secret, I only saw it fit to not hide it from you any longer- If you do not wish to continue-”

“I would- I mean… You may continue…” He lifts his head, lifts it and smiles, soft and affectionate, sickeningly so, his devotion pouring through his gaze, through his touch, his hands warm and rough on the skin of my opposite leg, fingers easing up on my skirts as he looks at me, his hand bringing my ankle to his lips, his eyes peering at me sideways as he lays slow kisses to my skin, slicking it with sinful saliva, his sin so overwhelming he’s lost in it, looking at me in a way that suggests nothing else on God’s earth matters as long as him and I are here, like this, indulging in something so terrible, but nothing of the sort, something so passionate it could only be god’s will.

“You’ve changed me… Molded me into something new… Laid the me before you to bed… Given me a new purpose… Pleasing you… My lord, you’re so beautiful I could do absolutely nothing other than gaze at you for the remainder of my days…” He’s made it up to my knee, my skirts hiked to my lap, his hands on the outsides of my legs, running up as he stands, pushing up further on my clothes before trailing his fingers up and over them, up from my hips to the lacing at my stomach, his eyes on mine as he pulls the knot, slow, his words quiet, the both of us too hot, too much feeling between us, too much to simply speak, the need burning low, humming beneath my skin. “I’ll say this, miss, you’ve made me human in a way I’ve never been… Shown me with your touch and care that I am to be cared for as I care for others…” He’s working my dress up, gently getting it up and over my head before smoothing my hair, not showing any interest in the skin he’s just exposed, instead continuing to stare into my face, conveying his truth through his gaze, his hands smoothing at the sides of my hair, the softness making me nearly emotional, a kind of fussing I’ve never received nor knew I’d wanted, all until now, until him. “You are my test, not of my willpower, but of how much of my love I can give away. I will not stop loving you, miss, I will love you until the day I die and after, I will claw my way out from beneath my grave and return to you, that is my penance, the one thing I can do to show that this is not a physical want, but an insatiable yearning to be one, a craving to be yours and to have you as mine, make a home for you inside my heart which cannot be sullied by fear or insecurity, a safe haven filled with all the warmth I have for you…” He kisses me, hands on the sides of my face, my body all but bare but without attention, this kind of lust without hurry, not about the physical pleasure as much as indulging in the warmth between us.

“Father… I must be… Off soon…” He hums, leaving one last lingering kiss on my lips before returning to his knees, hands pulling on my undergarments, leaving me fully bare, his clothing still fully intact, the clerical clothing still as crisp as ever, all of him smooth, enticing.

“Soon then, until then… Bless me Lord, and these thy gifts, which I am about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He leans in, kissing up the inside of my knee as he eases my legs wider, trailing fingertips up the opposite side, his eyes peering up at me in his affectionate manner, his beauty laid out below me, utter perfection at my disposal. “I will do all that I can to please you, be free to speak any wishes you may have, I’m more than happy to oblige… I would be satisfied only to satisfy you…” He presses a thumb to my hole, or rather the wetness there, slipping it up to press to the pleasurable spot I’m not sure what to call, rubbing up and down, watching my face, seeming pleased at my expression, tightened with the feeling he’s offering, his breath fanning over my privates making me tense against him. “This is God’s will… It must be, otherwise he would never have allowed me this information, the secret to unraveling you until you’re puddled, so well worked you’ll never need anything else… God wishes me happiness, and that happiness lies where I’m able to show you my care… Where I can give you at least a fraction of what you deserve, miss. I’m curious… Let me…” He tastes me, softly, licking up and sending a pleasurable jolt through me. He groans, sounding pleased with his findings, moving to close his lips where his thumb has left, light suction there a whole lot more intense than the pressure beforehand, my light gasp getting him to continue, the image of him between my thighs entirely sinful, beautiful in the way of Lucifer, led astray, an angel who’s done wrong, cast down into my arms, well, between trembling thighs. “Yes… My lord this is… You’re incredible… The most perfect body and soul, truly the image of God…” He moves back to using his thumb, watching me with his pretty blue eyes, his lips skimming over the skin of my thigh, my wetness shining on his lips evidence of our actions. “This must be heaven on earth… Alone with only you… Nothing veiled any longer… Only my love for you laid out for God to see, whether he strike me down or grant me forgiveness I will not regret this, I could never bring myself to regret you.” The pressure is building, my hand mussing his hair, legs closed on either side of him, his thumb moving against me, the tightness making me breathless, unbearably hot, damnation so close it’s pressing into me, making me sick with fever. “You’re nearly there, miss, you’re afraid- Don’t be, worry on judgment day, for now only focus yourself on me, let me worship you, give you pleasure, mark you with my hands and body, leave traces of you all over me, ruin myself with your touch, plunge deeper and deeper into the depravity I’ve fought for so long I can’t remember the first time I sinned in your name.” He pauses his ramblings to watch me, head thrown back as I orgasm, intense pleasure along with the familiar searing heat washing over me, sweet words coaxing me down even as I pull on his hair.

“Father, father- We must hurry, come up.” He listens, standing to his whole height, still towering even as I’m sat up on the altar, his body slotted between my legs as he captures my lips, the taste of me on his lips somehow enticing, a reminder of what he’s done for me, of his depravity, of our willingness to deny God.

“Would you like to continue?” I nod, using a hand to pull him back to my lips, my other hand fumbling with his breeches, his hands taking over in a silent display of care.

“Would you… I’d like to… Please you.” I press a hand to his chest, backing him up enough to sink to the floor between him and the altar, his manhood bare to me, his clothes still mostly in place other than the undone clasp of his breeches.

“You’d really… You’d-” I grip him, softly, his whole body jolting as I run my hand up the length, looking up at him as I close my lips over him, the taste barely familiar, salty. “That’s… Lord help me, I’m hellbound…” He lets me do as I please, just pets the side of my hair as I sink down, gagging before I expect to, pulling back with watery eyes before taking him back in, my hands on clothed thighs, his expression worried, mouth gaping, the flush spread up to his ears and down his chest. “This is… Truly-ah- Lord, forgive me, forgive us, we will-hah- we will sin again and again, accept our-our penance and our pleas for forgiveness and-nnh cleanse us of our wrong doings-” He leans over me, one hand planted on the altar, the other gripped to my hair, leading me along, his head hanging, eyes closed tight, mouth opened in the pleasure I’m offering. “Nearly- I’ll never-Ah- I’ve never- Felt anything like this. So beautiful-hah- Heavenly- Your mouth is just as perfect as-Nnh! Perfect-Miss-!” He pulls me away, reaching out and pulling me up, taking care to wipe away the mess on my lips before easing me back onto the altar, his body against me, the heat terrible, dizzying, my body laid out below god, head over the edge of the altar, jesus christ staring down at me from his place against the wall, his body strung up to make up for me, for my lust, the greed to want more than what I’ve gotten, the sickness inside of me, whatever sickness has led me here, the father’s manhood pressing inside, my eyes on the son, his on me, the guilt making me sick, the distraction of the man above me not able to do anything to abate the burning heat settled over us, marking us as sinners.

“Forgive me, father in- in heaven, I will- I am a child of sin… I pray you will invite me- to paradise, forgive me for the-ah-the wrong I’ve done.” He lets me take care of my prayer, stays seated inside while I do, waiting, my eyes coming to his once I’m finished, both of us too unwilling to give up on whatever disgusting kind of pleasure this is to properly show appreciation to the lord.

“Miss… We really… Are you truly willing to- delve into the depths of depravity, accept and wear this sin as yours-Ours?” I really shouldn’t, I should high tail it out of this forsaken church and never speak to him again, but I truly can’t bring myself to deny him, or myself, something so searing hot, something so correct, perfectly incredible, his skin against mine the only thing I’ve ever truly longed for, enjoyed.

“Yes, I accept my sin and my penance, I need this, father, you.” He swallows, seeming distraught at my confession, at my willingness to be ruined, to sin alongside him.

“Then so be it.” He moves, slowly, drawing himself back and slowly forward, leaning over me and gazing down, one hand beside my ribs, the other gripped to my hip. “My God… I- You’re so-ah- beautiful… So- Tempting-! Miss, this is my love, this- This is the most of me I can-Nnh- Offer-! Being one with you- seated deep inside- this- this is the most-ah- Feels so- so good…” He’s lost, eyes nearly closed, opened for the sole purpose of gazing into me, his hips hitting the backs of my thighs, the sound echoing through the empty pews, his hand pulling me, coaxing me in to meet him, thumb stretched across to rub that spot, the both of us panting like dogs, feverish from our wrongdoing, burning with evil, a lovely sort. “Even if- If everyone found us ungodly- I wouldn’t- I’d kiss ungodly skin, live in an-ah- ungodly home, sink deep into an-hah- an- ungodly woman- Give into depravity, worship the opposite-Hnn- the-ah- of what I’ve sworn to, give myself over to the devil-” He’s laid out over me, head between my breasts as he works against me, both of us sweating, my hands in his hair and gripped to the side of the altar, my head tipped right side down, gaze on the son of God, my legs trembling, all of it too much, the devotion, the sin, the weight of him, the heat passed between us, all of it wretched, painfully precious. “You’ve corrupted me, miss, made me born new, born to-ah- love you, to satisfy this sinful need, to sink into the burning heat and-hah- and make my home there… God- You’re- You-Hnn- This is the only heaven I need, buried inside the- the woman of my dreams, our bodies and souls-ah- as one, two sinners lost in- in the- the- other-! Hah-The- feel of your skin is the most enticing touch I’ve ever-Nnh- The taste of your lips, your warmth, your sacrifice, ours, our shared sin…” He’s speaking into my skin, breath hot between my ribs, the heat of him nearly painful, his hand bouncing me against him, his manhood pressed deep with every thrust of his hips, my thighs tight and shaking around him, the high nearly there, Jesus staring down on us, reminding me of my guilt, the man waiting in my home, a man who could never even come close to making me feel like this, warm and overwhelmed and weightless and satiated all at once. He’s nearly finished, teeth gnashed and eyes screwed shut, forehead pressed to my skin, his thumb moving desperately against me.

“If the lord won’t forgive us for having this- I don’t wish for his- His forgiveness, I’d choose this a-ah- million times over- This- Emotion and pleasure like I’ve never felt, the touch of a woman who-Hnn- Woman who I’ve bared my soul to- Laid my heart out at your feet and you’ve taken it and-My Lord-! And me, placed your sweet lips on mine and given me all I’ve ever longed for. Let me return a- a piece of the pleasure you’ve given me- give you one more unforgettable high, one more today and a million more the following. Yes, God, yes- Miss, let me have it, Let me-Hnnn-!” I do, back arched up off the altar, the feeling entirely too much, wave after wave of heat and haze over me, both his hands on my waist to pull me in, his pace messy and quick, his noises whiny, huffed out against me, a final prayer in hopes of getting away with this. “Holy Mary, Mother of-Oh God, pray for us sinners, now and at- at the- the hour of our-Hah- our death-!” He leaves me empty, the high fading off as he empties, warmth laid all over my stomach, my eyes forward, toward Jesus, the loss of pleasure bringing a grief for who I was, a god loving and pure woman, now ruined, sinful and wretched, undeserving of God’s love, though that was the choice I made, the decision between the lord and my desire. “I love you, miss, purely and ceaselessly and infinitely, I will love you.” I believe I chose correctly, I suppose only time will tell, though I can’t help but find this love much more unconditional, the soft touch following the scene, gentle, rough hands easing me up to seated, a handkerchief cleaning the mess on my stomach, my hair smoothed sweetly, the closing of his prayer whispered against the skin of my forehead following a lingering kiss . “Amen.”

“Amen."

[halloworhorecrux]

You're telling me that after Potter and Malfoy executed a perfect save in the ROR they just never do it again.

Flying, one of the things the two love with the same fever ( the only thing they love more is annoying each other) does not become a habit.

Draco is never mentioned apparating. I firmly believe he was never able to take his test so hence he cannot travel in this form. Sure Harry can do it illegally he just tries to not break to many laws after the war. He had a rap sheet that Hermione showed him of all his indiscretions because she wanted to remind him that he wasn't above the law.

Harry is horrible with Floo networks, and Draco weary of them now that he can be ambushed when using the public floor (some people get hex happy with they see the Malfoy hair)

The Night Bus, are you joking. The one and only time Draco used it with Harry was a disaster. It would have been fine if Draco hadn't refused to sit on the unsanitary seats and made Harry sit down first with Draco on top. Only well let's just say the position made Harry a little too happy, and that made Draco shove Harry into the side of the bus. The heathen). This caused Harry's magic to go haywire and blast the window panes to bits and Draco to almost flop to the floor. Draco almost murdered Harry if his precious suit had been wrinkled or stained. The three hungover wixen awoke to the ruckus and decided to shoot now and not ask questions at all. This turned into Harry casting a protego so strong everyone was flatted to the walls of the bus. Ernie, the bus driver, ran into a building for the first time in Knight bus history. Needless to say, they were not allowed within 100 meters of the bus forevermore. The "forevermore" was stated very clearly and repeatedly to the pair.

So how do they travel for their day to day life. Broomsticks. Harry's favorite thing is have the blonde curl against his back.

It's on Harry's 22nd birthday that Draco will present Harry with a motorbike like Sirius. There is tears and heartbreak with the knowledge that old and new can coexist together.

All this to say, my favorite thing to imagine is Harry and Draco riding a broom together because they were meant to fly together

[sauriansolutions]

Based on a conversation I was having with @askbloatedbellyblog re: Cater belly kink!

For background, we'd been discussing how Cater canonically dislikes sweets, and I introduced my headcanon that he secretly gorges on savory snacks when in private.

Self indulgent silliness below the rm~

Extremely "😳" thought: 

Imagine... 

Cater has just wolfed down a huge order of loaded nachos, and is basking in the afterglow of his clandestine feast, when Riddle calls an impromptu meeting. 

Cater scrambles to clean all the tortilla crumbs and queso off his uniform and his face. Then he realizes... he's eaten so much, he can barely get his pants buckled. 

Struggling frantically, Cater stuffs himself into his clothes anyway, praying to the Great Seven that his Housewarden won't notice anything's off. 

He arrives, and... ugh, it's as he dreaded. 

Cater tries--he really tries!--to stand stiffly, still, at attention like all the others. Meanwhile, Riddle goes on and on about homework completion rates or whatever.

But. Cater's clothes are too tight. Especially his waistband. He starts shifting from foot to foot, completely stuffed full of nachos, and starting to really regret it. He feels so bloated, greasy, uncomfortable. 

Just when Cater feels like he can't stand it anymore, somebody accidentally bumps into him and he lets out this ridiculously loud mega-burp, right when Riddle's back is turned. 

Riddle whips around, face scarlet in affront. "Who did that?!" he demands to know.

Silence. 

Riddle sniffs the air, then begins to positively grind his teeth in anger. 

"And why, pray tell, does it suddenly smell like jalapenos and chili peppers in here?!"

Cater breaks out in cold sweat. On one hand... that belch just alleviated so much pressure. Yes. He really needed that! Miraculously, his pants feel like they fit now! 

On the other hand, Riddle is going to find him out, and then probably remove his head from hia body, and not even in the metaphorical sense! 

Riddle marches up and down the aisle while all stand in line at attention, drill-sergeant style, giving each "soldier" a suspicious look, and a once-over with narrowed eyes. 

Cater is about to have a panic attack right there and then, when.

Unexpectedly, Trey steps forward with a hand raised and an embarrassed smirk. 

"Sorry Riddle, that was me."

"Trey??" Riddle and several others--Cater included--gasp.

"Ahh, yeah," Trey laughs and sheepishly rubs his stomach. "See, I've been experimenting with some sweet-and-spicy recipes lately. And, uhh, the results have been a little, volatile."

Riddle draws himself up, glares at his vice prefect, then snaps, 

"Well, alright... I suppose I can excuse your indiscretion just this once! But, no more of this 'experimenting' within the Heartslabyul walls without my explicit say-so, understand?"

"Of course, Housewarden," Trey replies with a slight bow, as a few others chuckle in relief now that the tension is dispersed.

After the meeting is over, Cater runs to Trey, feeling near-collapse with gratitude. 

"Trey-Trey, omg, you're the man!" Cater grips his friend by the shoulders and shakes him, a little insistent. "Why'd you cover for me like that, though?"

Trey just gives his classic cockeyed smirk, and starts laughing quietly. 

"Cay-kun, did you realize you have queso on your chin?"

To Cater's mortification, Trey uses his handkerchief to wipe his face. 

"Hey, it's ok," Trey assures his friend in an undertone. "You're allowed to like whatever kind of food you like. Please don't feel like you need to subsist on cherry pies and sweet tea, just because you're in Heartslabyul."

"Ughh, duuude," Cater laughs, trying to play off the genuine gratitude he feels but doesn't quite know what to do with. "I know you're right, but... Housewarden Rosehearts is kind of a handful, isn't he? How do you deal with him so easily?"

At this, Trey's smug grin becomes "knowing," and, wry, he shakes his head. 

"Let's just say... I've known Riddle for quite a long time now. And in that time, I've learned the best ways to keep him appeased."

"Like how?" Cater asks. 

"Well, for example..." Trey leans in, like he's divulging a deep secret. "After today, I'm going to have to make sure I have plenty of chili-cornbread and jalapeno-honey muffins for him to sample."

"In fact, if you happen to have the time, would you care to drop by the Heartslabyul kitchen and perhaps help me bake some?"