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bucketsofmonsters · 1 year ago

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Oliver

cw: under-negotiated kink, allusions to historical homophobia, blood drinking, biting, anal sex, handjobs, unprotected sex

male vampire x male human

Word count: 6k

a/n: This is technically a prequel to Vows but can absolutely be read on its own as a oneshot, it’s the story of how Oliver came to stay with Rook

Vows Masterlist

Six hours.

Six hours he’d been sitting outside this god-forsaken gate causing as much of a ruckus as he was humanly capable of causing.

And for six hours he’d been ignored.

He’d arrived at the sprawling mansion in the evening, a reasonable hour, set on talking to the man inside.

He’d heard so many things about him. Good things, at least to Oliver. The people who’d said it hadn’t been quite as well-intentioned,

They also told tales of blood-drinking and murder but he knew exactly how bad rumors could get about people with his inclination. He was willing to forgive a lot if it gave him a kindred soul.

However, he was unsure if he could forgive six hours.

He collapsed to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest and clasping his hands under his thighs.

He’d be fine. That’s what he always told himself. It didn’t feel particularly true right now but it didn’t matter. He would tell himself that anyway.

He’d come with fairly high hopes, artificial or not. The gate had been locked with no way to signal to anyone inside that he was out here but he was a resourceful fellow.

It only took a few minutes of waiting before his patience crumbled.

It was fine. He’d just hop the fence.

As he tried to wrap his hands around the metal bars of the gate, his hand had crumpled, unable to fit in the wide gap between the bars.

He tried again on the next gap and once more, his hand was unable to pass through what looked like nothing but air.

Maybe the rumors of dark forces residing in this home weren’t so unfounded.

He refused to be deterred, grabbing a stick off the ground and jamming it through the gate. Still nothing, no way to get it through and try to pry it open.

Fine then. He took about twenty steps back, giving himself a good start, and then ran full force at the gate.

He slammed right into it, the gate not budging an inch. Oliver fared less well than the looming gate. His shoulder was sure to bruise. He just hoped that maybe it would bruise inside these walls.

He did the only thing he could think of to do. He started to shout. The yelling began with pleas to be let inside and requests for help but after the first hour of yelling, as his throat began to hoarsen, his words became a bit more vulgar.

The sun had long since set but he refused to go home, not after all this

Maybe he could annoy the people inside enough that someone would come out here and yell at him.

He could handle being rejected, but he should at least be able to plead his case first.

And maybe dart inside while they were doing so.

He just kept trying for as long as he could.

For.

Six.

Hours.

Surely even the strongest of wills would collapse in the cold night after no one had responded for so long, he couldn’t be blamed for this.

He fell to the ground, despair overtaking him. Even drawn into himself, conserving his heat as best he could, he felt so much colder than before.

He fell to his side, his cheek meeting wet dirt, leaves sticking to his face.

This was his last hope, his only real chance. He’d been delusional, thinking there was somewhere that would be safe that didn’t require him smothering himself.

He sniffled, not bothering to wipe at his nose as he wallowed on the ground.

No. He wouldn’t let it end like this. Getting up seemed like a monumental task but shouting didn’t. Shouting he could do. It was like his baseline now.

At this point, it was just vague cursing at the bastards inside more than a plea for help but shout he did.

And then the gate swung open, right into his side.

The man standing in the entryway looked sheepish, pulling the heavy gate back and away from Oliver. He looked like every cruel thing they’d said about him, with sharp, cold features, suspiciously perfectly tousled dark hair speckled with gray, and sickly pale skin. A pair of sharp fangs were revealed as he winced at the sight of Oliver being smacked with the gate.

Oliver sat up as quickly as he could, wiping at his face, trying to remove all the grime and dirt that had accumulated on his skin. He’d meant to look more appealing than this, or at least look more sane. But here he was, a grimy boy sitting in the mud after screaming his voice hoarse for six hours.

“Didn’t mean to hit you,” he said with a grimace.

“I hate you,” Oliver chimed back, his voice cracking as he spoke.

The man got even paler, if that was possible. “This may have been ill-advised.”

“You’re telling me.”

The man sighed, seeming upset over something, before kneeling down by Oliver’s side.

“Not you,” he said quietly. “You’re fine, you haven’t done anything wrong. Come on, let's get you inside.”

He sat up with a huff, in absolutely no mood to go anywhere with this man.

“You couldn’t have stopped a little sooner, could you?” His tone was light in a poorly practiced way, trying and failing to lift the mood of the conversation.

“Why, was I annoying you?” he asked, still sitting in the mud. He was sure he had leaves and dirt in his hair but trying to pick them out felt less dignified than just leaving them be.

“No, you just made me lose a bet.”

Oliver scrunched up his nose. The idea that this asshole had just been sitting inside betting on how long he’d wait out here angered him beyond belief.

“Sorry I wasn’t weak-willed enough for you, I’ll only scream at you for a couple of hours next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He held out his hand to help Oliver up. “I’m Rook.”

He stood on his own, giving Rook a suspicious look. “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell strange men my name. You’ll steal my soul or something.”

“If I wanted your soul so badly, I wouldn’t have taken six hours.”

Rook had apparently decided that they’d moved past the incident enough to joke about it. Oliver disagreed.

Oliver stood across from him, arms crossed, unimpressed. All this time he’d been waiting to be let inside and now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go.

Well, he did want to. He just didn’t want to give this man the satisfaction.

“Come on in, it’s cold out here,” Rook said, not privy to Oliver’s internal struggle. He had a grand sort of voice, one that screamed he thought he was better than everyone.

Oliver wanted to attack him.

His eyebrows furrowed with a huff. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Come on, I’ll apologize inside. I can’t start groveling until I’ve rectified my mistake by letting you in.”

That sounded more like it.

“Alright, but if there’s no groveling I just might start screaming again.”

“Good, I think I might deserve it,” he said, quiet enough that Oliver was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to hear it. But he was good at hearing things, great at it even. He always thought he’d make a good spy if only he could keep his mouth shut for long enough.

Oliver followed him inside, silently cursing the gates as he walked through them.

The castle grew no less imposing as he got closer to it. The front doors were massive, looming things and Oliver decided he might honestly prefer the gates. At least with them he could see what was on the other side.

The doors swung open, despite the fact that Oliver could see no one who’d opened them. He considered congratulating Rook on the cheap magic trick but was worried he might think he was being genuine.

“I told you he’d wait,” a man's voice called as he stepped inside the doors, them swinging shut once more behind him.

Rook went to take his jacket and Oliver made sure to get as much mud on him in the process as he possibly could. He winced but allowed it to happen as mud smeared down his perfectly fitted clothes.

“How’d you know?” Rook responded, hanging the tattered, dirty jacket up with his arm fully extended, like he was half convinced it had fleas.

“I would’ve,” the man responded.

“Would’ve?” Oliver asked, turning to see an older man who looked decidedly less harsh and cold than Rook did. “So you didn’t make him wait outside for six hours.”

“He wasn’t trying to break in and cursing me out on my front lawn.”

“I only did that because you made me wait!”

“You tried to scale that fence after ten minutes.”

Okay, so maybe he should’ve waited longer before getting quite so antagonistic. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Rook ushered Oliver into a nearby room, trying to send the older man away with a hushed, “You don’t need to be here, Petyr, I can handle this.”

“No, please,” Oliver called back. “Let him stay.”

As they both shuffled in and sat, Rook in the biggest chair sitting behind the desk and Petyr in one of the smaller chairs near Oliver, he scanned the room for weapons, just in case. He took note of a nearby letter opener, angling himself so he’d be ready to reach for it if he needed to.

“So, may I have your name now?” Rook asked from behind the desk, handing some papers over to Petyr as he spoke.

Oliver tried to read the papers as they passed but couldn’t quite manage it. “You may not.”

“Alright, that’s fine. There will be time for that. Well then, why are you here?”

“I don’t know, maybe I got curious. They say lots of things about you, you know. They say people come in and they don’t come out,” Oliver lowered his voice conspiratorily as he spoke.

“And yet here you are.”

“Maybe I just don’t value my life,” he said with a shrug.

“Do you?”

“That’s none of your business,” he snapped.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Rook said, looking amused yet almost a little frightened of Oliver.

Good.

“I had a whole speech prepared you know,” he said, still scowling.

Rook leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

Oliver shifted back and forth, feeling inspected under Rook’s gaze. “Doesn’t really feel like the right time for a heartfelt speech.”

That got half a smile out of Rook, amusement shining in his eyes. “No, it doesn’t, does it? You can just pick a room, they’re mostly bedrooms and they’re almost all empty.”

“What?”

“That is what you wanted, isn’t it? To stay here?”

“But… you’re just going to let me? Don’t I have to grovel or something?”

“I think you’ll remember I’m the one who was supposed to be groveling here.”

“I do. And yet there you are, no groveling to be seen.”

Rook laughed and Oliver had half a mind to inform him that he was, in fact, not joking, but he was a little worried he might be pushing his luck.

Rook stood and paced out of the room, looking behind him towards Oliver. “You coming?”

Oliver’s eyes darted between Petyr and Rook before deciding that he was willing to risk being alone with him and running to catch up with Rook.

“Alright, pick a room.”

“Any room?”

He nodded. “Whichever you’d like. Now, I have to go speak with someone, have fun choosing one.”

There were seemingly endless doors, a whole castle's worth of rooms to choose from. But he was uninterested in them. Instead, he went in the direction Rook had gone, ears straining to try and figure out where he’d left to.

When he approached the office from before, he heard muffled voices and decided quickly to sit on the ground and push his ear against the old wood.

Rook’s voice echoed through the door clearly enough, having already started a conversation.

“...a bit unpleasant. Bad attitude and absolutely no manners at all. And he’s not as cute as he thinks he is

Oliver scoffed quietly at the words, having half a mind to storm in there and show him just how bad his attitude could really be. He wasn’t even sure why he cared what this guy thought. In the short time he'd known him, all he’d been was rude, abrasive, and worst of all, he was apologetic about it. One second he was being an asshole and the next second he had that awful sorry look on his face that only served to make Oliver want to smack him.

Despite all of this, he leaned against the door, fuming as he eavesdropped. “Worst of all,” Rook said, “he’s nosy.” As the words left his mouth, the steady wood Oliver had been leaning on fell out from under him, leaving him exposed and tumbling to the ground.

Neither of the men seemed surprised by his sudden appearance and he couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was them putting on a show for him. He decided to believe it was most of it, for his own sanity.

“Clearly I couldn’t pick any room,” he said from his less than dignified spot on the floor.

Rook looked around at the small study. “I mean, if you want it that badly, you can sleep in here. The desk might be a bit uncomfortable but to each their own.

“I don’t want it anymore. Not after you slandered me in here.”

“Are you really trying for the moral high ground? In your position?” Rook said, looking down at him still sprawled across the floor.

Oliver jumped to his feet, brushing off his already filthy clothes.

He stormed off, set on finding somewhere to clean himself where he could get away from these assholes.

Picking a room was not nearly as exciting as Oliver had hoped. Almost every room in this place looked identical, similar layout and beds and sheets. All beautiful and expensive, but none interesting.

He found some unfortunately empty baths but with no idea how to fill them, other than asking for help, he opted instead to dump a pitcher of water over his head, hoping it got most of his grime off.

As he wandered, sopping wet and bored, he wasn’t checking the rooms anymore. Not really. Because the house had quieted down as the sun rose and Oliver had a more interesting target in mind.

He threw open door after door, revealing boring room after boring room until behind one door, he found his less-than-gracious host.

Rook looked up from where he was lying in his bed, decidedly more surprised at his sudden appearance this time, and Oliver felt himself puff up a little with pride.

“What are you doing here,” he asked as he evaluated Oliver in his doorway.

“I mean, you did say any room.”

“Have you been entering every room in this house until you found mine so you could bother me?”

Oliver averted his gaze. “No.”

“Right. Just browsing then?”

“Exactly.”

Rook chuckled and Oliver could see his fangs poking out, a reminder of how dangerous this could be. “What do you think of this one?”

He was playing mind games, that much was obvious. And Oliver would not let him win.

“I really like it. I think I’ll choose this one.”

It was a dangerous play, he knew that. Trying to aggravate him like this.

He’d keep doing it anyway.

“Right. Well, I guess I’ll have to go find another one,” Rook said, standing up from his comfortable spot on his lavish bed.

Oliver reeled back. “What?”

Rook shuffled out of bed and past him in the doorway. “Goodnight, enjoy your room.”

And then, without so much as another word, he was gone and Oliver was left stupified.

He’d taken his room, did that mean he won? It didn’t feel like he’d won. In fact, it felt very much like he’d lost that particular interaction.

He looked at the now empty room, signs of life scattered haphazardly around. The clothes he’d seen him in a few hours ago were folded neatly in a basket in the corner.

Only then did he think about what Rook had been wearing. A loose-fitting silk shirt draped across his chest, the smooth fabric laying perfectly against his skin. It looked soft. Oliver pushed the unbidden thought violently from his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking like that. That was how you lost.

The blankets were a mess, a dip in the mattress where Rook had been moments before

Oliver climbed in, set on sleeping in here. Anything else would be a sign of weakness, he was certain of that much.

A woody smell overtook him at first, with notes of something sweet following behind. It was a pleasant combination and as he chased the smell, he found a mug with a mahogany liquid inside.

As he got closer, taking a better sniff of the steam floating up from the mug, he noticed a sharp coppery smell undercutting the sweet, chocolatey scent.

He grabbed the warm drink, taking a sip to confirm it to himself. He winced a little as the taste of blood and chocolate filled his mouth.

He set it back down, filing the information away for later as he settled into the massive, lonely bed, feigning sleep for at least a few hours.

When he was tired of pretending he would get any rest that night, he got up once more, set on finding something to do with himself.

He settled upon what he was planning on doing the second he saw Rook, sitting peacefully at a table all alone.

His peace was swiftly broken as Oliver barrelled in, saying, “Strange drink you had in your room last night.”

Rook paled to an impossibly lighter shade than he already was and Oliver took it as a sign to keep pushing. “I’m not one for pairing blood and chocolate but maybe it’s an acquired taste.”

“I forgot that was in there,” he said quietly and Oliver almost felt bad. Almost.

“So you do drink blood?”

Rook looked at him like he was an idiot. “Did you not know? I assumed…”

“I mean, they said you killed and ate people but they said a lot of stuff. About you and me. I know better than to believe everything they say about someone. The mug of blood was pretty damning though. Regardless, you haven’t eaten me yet so things could’ve gone worse.”

“No, I don’t kill people. Eat people?” He tilted his head as he considered it. “I suppose you could call it that. You could call me a monster for it if you wanted to, but they don’t tend to mind.”

He said it with a crooked smile, head resting on his hand like he was trying to look casual, but it was too stilted. There was a tension throughout him, a sense of worry behind the dangerous flirtation he was attempting.

“Are you coming onto me?” he asked incredulously and Rook’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his chest.

And then his head dropped to the table in front of him, a look of despair passing over him.

“I swear I’m good at this,” he said as he lifted his head, his hair shifting from an intentionally fluffed mess to a true disaster, pieces sticking straight up awkwardly, held in place by whatever product he put in it. “I can flirt with most people, or at least figure out when they’re not interested, but god, you’re impossible.”

“I am not.”

“You are!” he said with a laugh. “I haven’t been able to have one decent interaction with you. Every time I try you ruin it.”

“I ruin it?” Oliver gasped, outraged. “Excuse you, I have done nothing wrong. You left me out in the cold, you insulted me, you keep playing these weird games.”

Rook looked at him sheepishly. “I swear I meant it in a fun way. Always in a fun way.”

“Well, I’m not having fun.”

Rook cocked his head to the side, looking Oliver up and down. “Aren’t you? One second I agree and I decide to stop but you keep pushing me right back into them. You’re furious when I play and indignant when I stop. What’s left for me to do?”

“Well, maybe you’re not playing right.”

“And how do you want to play,” Rook asked, his voice low as he leaned towards Oliver.

No. Not that. It was too real when he did that.

He turned heel and ran. Through the hallways, feet moving faster than his racing mind.

He didn’t know if he was running to get away or to be chased. He doubted Rook did either.

He went back to his room. Rook’s room. Someone’s room. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Unfortunately, once he reached Rook’s room, he was alone with his thoughts, his least favorite place to be.

Dozens of feelings washed over him in the silence, almost all of them unwanted. The anger he was fine with, the doubt acceptable. His want he could take or leave. The fondness that washed over him, the anxiety, those were unacceptable.

A knock at the door pulled him from his mind and if it weren’t for the familiar voice that followed, he might have appreciated the distraction.

“Can I come in?” Rook called.

“I mean, it’s your room. Or… hold on, is that a vampire thing? I’ve heard that’s a vampire thing. If it’s a vampire thing then no, you’re forbidden from ever entering.”

Rook seemed lost. “It’s not a vampire thing. So I can come in?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“Right.” He stepped cautiously through the door. “I’m here to apologize.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. It was a trap. It had to be. “No, you’re not.”

Rook held his hands up in surrender. “I am. I think I have handled this poorly. So, I’m sorry, and I’m here to say it’s in your hands now.”

“What?”

“I won’t push any longer. If you want anything to happen, to start anything, you must do it yourself. I’m done.”

Oliver felt his face fall and Rook watched him in quiet amusement. “Come now,” he said, moving to rest his hand on Oliver’s back and then seemly remembering what he’d just said and pulling away. “Is this not what you wanted?”

Oliver narrowed his eyes again. It was another game. Declaring that he’d play no more games with him was in itself a game. It was untenable. It was indefensible. It was a shocking relief.

“Right,” Oliver said, scoffing. “I’m sure.”

“I mean it. I’m afraid I prioritized my fun over you feeling safe here. It’s in your hands now.”

Oliver stared, baffled, as Rook gave him a patient smile, stood up, and walked towards the door. His own bedroom door, one he’d given up to Oliver on a whim.

“Wait,” he called, and Rook stopped, his hand inches away from the door handle.

“Yes?”

“You drink blood.”

The confused look he’d gotten the last time he’d discussed this was nothing compared to the look of befuddlement and concern that crossed his face this time.

“We had this conversation not moments ago, surely you can’t have forgotten already.”

Oliver scowled at him and Rook at least had the good sense to try and hide the smile the look pulled from him. “Who’s blood?”

“Petyr and Beatris’s mostly. You’ll meet her soon. Animals when I need some extra.”

“Do you want to drink mine?” Oliver asked, trying his best to look disinterested.

“What are you asking?”

“I said,” he responded, raising his voice before Rook raised a hand to stop him.

“No, what are you really asking.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Not everyone speaks in riddles.”

A huff of laughter escaped Rook. “No, they most certainly don’t. You do, though.”

He decided to ignore that comment. “Does it hurt?”

“That’s not what you want to ask.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I want to ask, just answer the question.”

“I don’t think I will. Do you want it to hurt?”

Oliver smiled. “Just a little.”

Rook paced over towards the bed, leaning down over him.

“I can do that,” he said, his voice low.

It would take a lot more than that to shut Oliver up.

“How often do you need to drink?”

“Couple times a week. Do you always ask this many questions?”

“No. How often do you take from them?”

“As often as they’d like me to. Within reason. Sometimes you humans get greedy. Someone has to look out for you.

Rook pushed forward again, moving to crawl over him before Oliver pulled back, hissing out a quiet, “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, concern overwriting everything else. “What? Are you alright?”

Oliver spoke softly, a horrible twinge of vulnerability present in his voice. “Is this really okay? Because the flirting is all well and good but sometimes… You’re just not going to freak out after, right? They always freak out after.”

Rook reached out, cupping his face in his hands and it took everything he had not to pull away, like the affection burned him. “You know you’re not the first man I’ve slept with, right?”

Oliver scoffed, his bravado falling back into place. “Right, of course. Silly of me to ask.”

“Stop that, listen to me. You came here for a reason. They were right about me, I am a monster, but I take care of my own. No matter what. Besides, who would I be to judge you?”

Oliver laughed a sad little laugh. “Yeah, you’re right, you’re a real freak. Unlike me.”

“Be careful not to insult me too hard, what would that say about you?” Rook gave his hand a gentle squeeze but his words were still playful. Oliver appreciated it. Too much affection and he was afraid he might make a run for it again.

“I’d rather have bad taste in men than whatever you’ve got going on.”

Rook rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to make me angry?”

“Yes.”

It came out much breathier than Oliver had meant it to but it certainly got Rook’s attention.

“Which first?” The words were tense and Oliver could feel his ego inflate at how he was clearly affecting the man.

Oliver tilted his head, at first in consideration and then to expose his neck. “Come on, show me just how much of a freak you are.”

Rook took his time, his hands rising to thread through Oliver’s hair and pull his head back as he moved beside him.

Impatience began to well up in Oliver’s chest as Rook pressed a gentle kiss into his pulse point before burying his nose into his neck, still no sign of those fangs that Oliver couldn’t help but eye when he spoke.

An impatient whine got him nothing other than a quick laugh, squirming as it pushed a puff of cold air against his neck.

Rook held him in place as he shifted, not letting him move from the position he’d put Oliver in.

And then, with no warning, he felt the sharp pain of two fangs piercing his skin.

They were gone almost as soon as they had come, leaving two seeping holes in his neck. He relaxed as Rook lapped at them, the teasing long gone. All of Rook’s attention was now firmly directed on the warm liquid flowing out of him.

It left him almost pleasantly numb, the feeling of his warmth leaving him and flooding into the other man almost calming.

More than the pain, he began to feel cold. A numbness spread to the tips of his fingers as Rook pulled away from his neck. He flexed his fingers as they suddenly became fascinating to him, feeling cold and foreign to his woozy mind.

He hadn’t even realized Rook had left until a bandage was being attached to his neck.

Immediately his attention shifted to the other man. He was wearing altogether too many clothes, Oliver decided. They both were.

He moved up to pull at Rook’s shirt, unbuttoning the first few buttons and beginning to impatiently tug it down his shoulders.

Rook watched him, amusement shining in his eyes. He made no move to help Oliver’s attempt to undress them.

“You did so well. You know, my favorite part,” Rook said, in that low voice that irritated Oliver endlessly, “is always the trust.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Can you just shut up,” he said as he crashed their lips together, promptly silencing Rook.

He finished tugging off Rook’s shirt as they kissed, a familiar hint of copper invading his mouth as they did.

He had to pry Rook’s arms away from his face in order to do so. They rose right back up moments after, his hands threaded into Oliver’s hair, holding him close. Even as the kiss ended he kept their faces pressed together, noses touching, a hint of a smile on his face.

He pressed a kiss onto the tip of his nose and Oliver fought the urge to roll his eyes and the urge to smile simultaneously.

And then Rook pulled away from him and instead of whining, like he so desperately wanted to, he took the opportunity to undress, making quick work of his clothes.

When he turned back, Rook had a bottle of some sort of oil in his hands and Oliver snorted. “Someone came prepared.”

“It was my room,” he said as he tugged Oliver closer. “Now, any preferences?”

He looked up at Oliver expectantly and he quickly answered, “If you don’t fuck me soon, I’m going to bite you.”

Rook laughed as he coated his fingers in the oil. “I think we should leave the biting to me.”

As if.

He pushed Oliver onto his back, looming over him as he sunk one finger inside of him.

Oliver sighed. He needed more but he loved it, the feeling of being filled for the first time after being empty.

That contentedness did not last. Barely a minute passed before Oliver was whining for a second finger, one Rook gave him easily, slowly pushing inside him.

He smiled down at Oliver, a sickeningly sweet look on his face. “You’re so eager,” he said, and if Oliver wasn’t certain it would slow down this already devastatingly slow process, he would’ve said something rude.

Instead, he opted to ask, “Can you hurry up?”

“I’m not done,” he said.

Oliver pouted. “Come on. It’s no fun if it doesn’t hurt a little.”

Rook rolled his eyes but gave in, lining up with Oliver’s hole and slowly, torturously slowly, began to push in.

He was slick with oil and thick and just too slow. It was going to drive Oliver crazy.

So he took matters into his own hands. His legs wrapped around Rook’s hips, locking around them and pulling them flush with him, sighing as he was filled completely.

Rook's hand rose to his jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye. “You are an impatient little thing, aren’t you,” he said as he rocked slowly back and forth.

He was too careful with him. Oliver didn’t want careful.

So instead he pulled him close, Rook’s cold chest lowering to rest against Oliver’s.

And then, with this newfound closeness, Oliver bit him, his teeth digging into his shoulder.

Rook hissed and snapped his hip again, twice as hard as before. “You little bastard.”

He pulled out and before Oliver had the chance to whine and complain and make him regret leaving, he was being spun around and pushed face-first into the mattress, Rook’s cock sliding inside him once again.

He began to calm as Rook's pace got harsher. He was much more docile when he was getting what he wanted.

Part of him worried he might be drooling, his dick getting just a little friction against the sheets with every sharp thrust.

Rook’s hands were gripping his hips, almost hard enough to bruise. He could feel the man’s lost control and couldn’t help but grin, letting out soft moans at every punishing thrust.

Rook groaned out, “Fuck, I’m gonna…” He was too far gone to finish his sentence and Oliver basked in it.

Oliver lifted his hips up to meet his thrusts as best he could and while it may not have been the best effort he’d ever put forth, the sight alone seemed to be enough to push Rook over the edge, burying himself deep inside Oliver as he came.

He winced a little as he pulled out, clearly sensitive, and Oliver laughed.

“You’re so bad at this,” he drawled, his brain still left fuzzy. “I didn’t even come. Selfish man.”

Rook chuckled as he sat back against the headboard, pulling Oliver’s back flush with his chest, arms wrapping around him. He pressed a kiss to his neck, right on top of the bandage, and lazily wrapped his hand around Oliver’s dick.

His hand, still slick from before, felt incredible against Oliver. He couldn’t help but wish he was still being filled, the cum slowly dripping onto him onto the now ruined sheets a reminder of how empty he felt.

But Rook was in no rush and his steady, sure movements brought Oliver closer and closer.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been this gentle with him. He wasn’t sure if anyone had ever been. It brought this horrible, queasy feeling to his stomach.

As Rook pushed on, pumping Oliver with one hand while rubbing reassuring circles into his chest with the other, it all became too much. He bucked his hips up into Rook’s hand, letting out a whine that sounded pathetic, even to him. He threw his head back, cum spilling out of him and dripping down, over Rook’s hand and onto his sheets. Someone’s sheets. He still wasn’t sure.

“Who’s room even is this?” he slurred out and he snuggled back into Rook’s embrace, uncaring as to the mess they found themselves in.

He laughed. “Maybe we can share it.”

Oliver huffed as Rook’s clean hand rose to play with his hair, his mind beginning to drift off at the gentle touch. “I’m sure we can come up with some sort of arrangement.”

#terato #vampire #vampire x human #monster x human #vampire oc #vampire boyfriend #vampire bf #vows #I love their dynamic #Rook desperately wants people to think he’s a weird fucked up guy #Oliver is actually a weird fucked up guy and he does it Effortlessly #For the record it takes Oliver weeks to even tell Rook his name #It drives Rook crazy and Oliver thinks its hilarious #The Viv prequel will also come someday #Judging by how long this one took me I make no promises on when though

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batsplat · 4 months ago

Note

casey also talks about sepang 2015 what do you think of that

oh in that podcast? uh... lemme listen again...

yeah idk it's not really anything new I'd say? he's said basically all the same stuff in more interesting and extensive ways elsewhere. I think casey inevitably has a very 'well feuding is bad and helps nobody' point of view, has expressed that before in the past, does it here again, and he's also drawn a parallel between himself and marc on several occasions. which... well, of course there's similarities in terms of public discourse or whatever, but the parallel really falls apart whenever casey argues the feuds cost valentino. like, I do think it's sometimes important to just. keep in mind. it's interesting that casey draws this comparison in his mind but that doesn't necessarily means he's right about this. I'm not sure how you'd argue that starting a feud with casey cost valentino anything competitively? you can argue it didn't help him I guess, and then we can have a debate about the ins and outs of the 2008 season. we can also have an argument that in a hypothetical world where casey isn't ill in 2009, valentino doesn't break his leg and casey isn't on a piece of junk in 2010, and valentino isn't on a piece of junk in 2011-12, then actually maybe valentino sparking open animosity with casey COULD have cost him. but we don't know that! didn't happen! I wish we could have found out, but we never got the chance! as it stands, the tally on this is pretty straightforward: casey won the title when things were reasonably civil between them in 2007, and valentino took control of the following season at the exact moment he worsened the relationship between the pair of them in 2008. obviously, it's all more complicated than that and casey would of course argue laguna didn't negatively affect his subsequent performances... but it certainly didn't help them. like, at the very worst valentino escalating tensions in 2008 is a complete net neutral. after 2009, them being bitchy to each other every other tuesday was completely competitively irrelevant beyond maybe affecting how they approached occasionally fighting for a podium position. hey, maybe casey used that feud to fire himself up through sheer spite throughout the later stages of his career, but that doesn't actually support his anti-feud stance - it's basically the exact same thing as what valentino does. they're both quite similar in that regard! always so hungry to prove a point, to show how someone else is wrong. kinda half the point with this feuding business is to get yourself going, get yourself motivated, yeah. he straight up openly admits to using yamaha's repeat rejection of him as a way of giving himself motivation, and at the end of the day that's really not all that different?

anyway, what else does casey say... oh yeah, that him and the other aliens were already kinda prepared for this and had learned vale's tricks. that valentino had only been able to get into the minds of the previous generation. welllllll *wiggles hand* sure, I mean, he did clearly have to change his approach... he couldn't just use the exact same playbook to get to them, either on-track or off-track. but that's why he did change up the playbook... again, whether you want to believe valentino won his final two titles 'in the head' rather than just through pure pace kinda depends on how you assess the evidence, but it is at the very least a debate. and, y'know, it's always worth remembering that valentino's most important mind games with casey didn't happen in a press conference... it was on the track. and the on-track stuff really is just embedded in how valentino approaches winning. speaking of aliens, this is what dani and jorge have said:

like, valentino's entire approach to his riding, even to the way he's setting his bike up, is deliberately about directly fucking with you... he's not actually always trying to be faster than you as much as he's trying to give himself the tools to make your life miserable, to pressure you into mistakes, etc etc... and again, especially with casey (if anything because he was so mentally sturdy), the off-track stuff was really just window dressing. (I know they bicker a lot after 2009 but it's just so fundamentally irrelevant to actual on-track competition.) so you can be aware of those tricks, but it also doesn't necessarily help you when someone's being nasty to you on-track in a way you just fully do not enjoy. which is what it was like for casey! for casey, a lot of this comes back to the truly unpleasant context of how he was perceived by the public, how he was treated as mentally weak or 'broken' or whatever partly because he had the misfortune of coming up against a bloke who had the reputation for breaking rivals. I think it's quite natural to end up with a bit of a hardliner 'actually I've never been mentally affected by a result in my life' stance - and of course casey is a lot tougher than a lot of people give him credit for. that being said. sometimes your rivals affect you, shit happens, it's part of the game. it's fundamentally a nice idea to think that valentino's tactics weren't just morally wrong but also ineffective, which is kind of the appeal of this narrative, right? you want to believe you're above that, you want to believe you were adequately prepared and wise to valentino's tactic. it's unsurprising and understandable that casey does tend to tell the story that way, but again it's *wiggles hand* also hard to describe it as completely factual

uh. what else. oh I'm thrilled casey does canonically know valentino and marc were friends, he has said he wasn't following motogp too much during that time period so you couldn't be sure of that. does this mean anything? does it tell you anything? well, no, but it's just a pleasing thought to me. I like that. oh also 'provoking particularly aggressive riders isn't a good idea' is kinda a funny take from casey? like, he of all people would hate the idea of being cowed by someone's reputation like that... casey's right that provoking fast riders can potentially be dangerous, but y'know I do think that's probably not news to anyone almost nine years later. um. that's all I've got I think

#i will say idm getting asks like this AT ALL but i do hope that's not like. the only bit of the podcast people are paying attention to #my thing with sepang 2015 takes is that like... when's the last time anyone has said anything genuinely interesting about that event #which yes big words from the feud blogger... but in fairness a lot of the sepang 2015 stuff is from old notes. that's my excuse idc #but that's kinda the thing... i feel like i haven't really had a new original thought about the whole drama for three plus years #u do kinda run out. basically the takes say more about the person saying them than about the actual event at this point #which. yeah. casey's comments on sepang '15 are primarily interesting in what they tell you about how he feels towards valentino #mind u he's actually quite nice about valentino in this one? casey call him let's finally organise that dinner #heretic tag #//#brr brr #batsplat responds #oh casey does go on another spiel against riders who win at all costs. ships that passed in the night of feuds i always say #also he gets the age he enters the premier class at wrong. i held myself back in the last post from pointing this out for tonal reasons #but if people want my podcast hot takes. i do simply have to mention it. just to set the record straight here #'they battle for podium places after 2009' genuinely. twice. like the alien era giveth but a lot of the time it really does just taketh #somewhat ironically casey wins the duel when he's on the shitty ducati and vale wins the duel when he's on the even shittier ducati #whatever that tells you idk #casey was always promising the laguna rematch would've gone differently and I love that conceptually but also we just don't know #he was like next time I WON'T play nice and it's like?? omg what does that look like. casey what were you cooking #for ethical reasons it's probably fine but for character arc reasons it's objectively ass that casey ended up being able to do all his -#- racing in a way he was entirely comfortable with for his second title in 2011. like it's just a complete waste of a year #you have this whole thing building for four years and then 2010 comes along and it's like. well that's enough narrative intrigue now! <3 #also casey/jorge are fundamentally too interesting as individuals to have had such an obscenely boring on-track rivalry and yet here we are #it KILLS me because if you rearranged it and made valentino's dogshit ducati years like. 2009 or something #and do a straight title fight between jorge and casey THEN I genuinely think it would've been way more interesting #the problem with valentino is that he is fundamentally the WORST imaginable character you could invent to be casey's foil #literally everything about valentino could have been designed to be a casey-specific nightmare #but unfortunately that also makes him objectively the most interesting rival casey could have gotten #like morally it's on the edge. but narratively? literally could not have gotten a better villain in casey's story #constantly dancing on this faustian line of having to imitate valentino to beat him while trying not to lose yourself... juicy

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