meepetteoneonly

[meepetteoneonly]

Who asked about Andrew Wincott's leash performances? Here we go:

[meepetteoneonly]

When your group is full of weirdos

(Yes I think Astarion would smoke slims)

[meepetteoneonly]

[meepetteoneonly]

I don’t even have a cool caption for this I just wanted to draw Cazador in the Peter death pose

[meepetteoneonly]

I respect people who want Raphael to take them to fancy devil banquets, but I want to take him to McDonald’s so he can look over with an air of palpable disdain, and ask, lip curled, “what, pray tell, is a McFlurry?”

[meepetteoneonly]

Snakes and Ladders: VI.

Previous chapter: here

Also on AO3: here

Chapter summary:

Octavia needs a dress. Shadowheart has interesting history. And Astarion got himself into something far more complicated. Co-starring: Rugan and Kira.

TW:

Childhood trauma. Religion related trauma.

Note:

none

Octavia didn't like the position Astarion put her into, but she knew better than to refuse solution that presented itself. And her landlord knew better than to ask where she got the money for rent due so suddenly. However, for every problem solved, at least one more shall take its place. Specifically, the dress and that stupid charity auction. And Astarion, of course. But he wasn't a problem himself, rather a common denominator.

Octavia didn't bother going through her own wardrobe. There was nothing close to a gown, not even a decent cocktail dress she could pass off as new and pricy.  Instead, she went right off to Shadowheart when she woke up on the Saturday morning.

At this time of a day (and this day of a week), Sharess' Caress was silent and somewhat lifeless, like colouring book not coloured yet. Mixture of smoke and perfume lingered heavily in the air and carpets were covered in fresh wine stains after last night. Kira was resting at the reception desk with her paws tucked under her chest and her eyes closed. However, as Octavia came in, she flapped her ears and checked the newcomer in one long mindful wink. No human peasant shall roam her domain unnoticed and no human peasant shall enter her domain without paying the toll. 

Octavia knew the rules. She scratched Kira's cheeks and that spot behind her ears. The sphinx guardian accepted the payment with a strident purr and allowed Octavia to use the Sharess' backdoor as a shortcut. 

Sharess' Caress shared a courtyard with block of buildings where Shadowheart's flat was located. She rented a small place with windows facing the lines of galleries covered in freshly cleaned laundry, mostly rags, work dungarees and boiler suits. Although the urbanization almost erased the border between Baldur's Gate and Rivington, and Wyrm's Crossing grew rapidly within the process, it was still the less developed part of the working class neighborhood that stretched from here alongside the shore to the city harbour. 

Octavia knocked softly on Shadowheart's doors. Nothing happened at first, then a female voice mumbled something from behind. With a soft metallic click the door opened. Shadowheart appeared at the doorstep in dark silky bathrobe embroidered with oriental floral motives, surrounded by scent of orchids, roses and myrrh. It was a strange fragrance Octavia herself would not wear as it screamed brothel and monastery at the same time. Loudly too. But she admired Shadowheart for wearing it so naturally. 

"T- Tav?" Shadowheart yawned and squeezed her eyes as the daylight met her gaze. "What's- what's going on?" She yawned again.

Octavia cut to the chase: "I need dress." 

There were some unfinished glasses at the kitchen table and the air smelled of burned out scented sticks. There was pair of stockings left hanging over the divider between kitchenette and cosily furnished corner serving as the living room. 

Octavia found herself a place on mockingly luxurious divan. For this part of the city, the flat wasn't bad at all. However, shabby wooden floor and moldy corners at the ceiling were undoubtedly saying: Wyrm's Crossing.

"Don't you have any?" Shadowheart blinked.

She was annoyed, but not more than usual. It was a part of her hard-to-get number. Shadowheart always knew how to make you feel special only for her speaking to you which was most likely the skill that paid the divan Octavia was sitting on. The other was understanding. Shadowheart had the ability to become apostle of empathy by flick of a finger and the amount of people willing to pay for her shoulder to cry on was bigger than one would expect. Good for all involved, Octavia thought. However, with Tav, Shadowheart was all of that and genuinely caring too. They shared this story of a girl from problematic family who sought better life for herself in a big city.

"I don't have any that would suit some fancy gala."

"What gala?" Shadowheart asked. It was winter, the ball season. There was something happening almost every day now in Baldur's Gate with dress code flickering on the scale from business casual to white tie.

"It's some charity. They'll be auctioning a painting, if I remember correctly. City Hall organizes it."

"I see. But that is not your natural environment. How did you come to be a part of it?" Shadowheart put a kettle on a stove to make them some coffee.Then Shadowheart turned around with cheeky excitement rolling over her face: "You are going with some guy, don't you? Who has the pleasure to be you chaperon?

"Did I tell you about magistrate I work with? Astarion?" 

"Ah, this one. You told me you'd rather smack his head against the typewriter. So what changed?" She turned towards Octavia and leaned against the kitchen cabinet. "Do you have a fling? The opposites attract."

"Hell no. He was just lucky playing the rich guy when my rent was due again." Octavia shrugged her shoulders. "And I bought myself another month of roof over head instead of dress with the dough he boasted of."

"But you know you can always stay at my place?" Shadowheart asked and reached for a whistling kettle.

"Yeah. This thing is quite nice." Octavia patted the velvety fabric of the divan. "But that would be temporary solution. Once I'll pay those debts it will be fine."

"Unless you'll become homeless in the meantime."

"Sure. But what about those dress? I need something to fit in with all those Upper City folks." Octavia said. Not that the risk of her ending up on the street wasn't real. Quite the opposite as it was close to materializing at the end of each month and every time someone knocked at her door, but at least for now, it wasn't the most pressing problem she had.

Shadowheart poured themselves tho large mugs and placed a silvery cigarette box on the table. She took one out and carefully arranged it into the loop of her ornated holder. Octavia didn't join her as she was used to ones with filter.

"Don't worry, we're gonna make a proper Upper City lady out of you." She took a drag and let the smoke out slowly while her eyes traced Octavia's features. "You'll need make-up done too, you know? And hair, of course."

"I can do my hair."

"Can you? Really?" Shadowheart curled her lips with a mocking sentiment. "Well, maybe you can. For part-time waitressing in brothel or being hidden in an office whole day. But I am not letting you anywhere in my dress with that old fashioned pompadour monstrosity."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say."

- 

Shadowheart's bedroom aligned with her persona perfectly. 

It was a dusky room filled with scent of myrrh and sage that soaked into wallpapers as well as into any textile material present. The scent was especially strong next to the heavy purple curtains with few burnt spots that didn't let much of a daylight in. 

Paint in the ceiling corners was flaky. The rest o the ceiling was draped with dark fabric arranged so it resembled a tent. Intimate atmosphere of the room was enhanced with candles placed on a little cabinet under the large round mirror hanging opposite to the bed. 

The bedroom too screamed brothel and cathedral at the same time. 

Shadowheart draw the curtains apart. Light changed ambience of the room only slightly. Then she opened her wardrobe which was probably the largest piece of furniture in the room.

"I don't think you should wear black, to be honest." She mused and kept going through all the clothes. She took a quick look at every single piece that came to her hand, sometimes she rearranged it on the hanger or plucked away a thread. She had some fine things in her closet.

"It has to look expensive. It doesn't need to look good at me." Octavia said as Shadowheart seemed to be thinking way too long what dress she should rule out. 

"You ask wrong person for help, then. Try this." Shadowheart handed her lilac gown with some satin trimming in the lower part. "It's my best." She grinned. It was a marvelous gown and to her own surprise, Octavia liked it. She wasn't sure about the colour at first, but those light violet tones eventually suited her.

"So you are type for pastels, after all." Shadowheart smiled as she was looking at their reflections in the mirror.

"Yes, maybe. I am not a type for cleavage like this, though." Octavia said as she doubtfully scrunched the fabric of the neckline. "Not with Astarion." She was already disgusted by the stares  he will  be paying compliments to her with.

"Little pervert, hm? In my experience, those like him usually behave in public." 

"You're probably right. He wouldn't spoil his brilliant young magistrate persona in front of the city elite."

"Exactly. Besides, I really like this dress on you. I'm gonna lend you some necklace for that cleavage and you're good to go. What about shoes?"

"It's fine. Mine will do." Octavia sighed and stared at her own reflection. She wasn't never that girl who dreamed of fancy balls and soirées. She didn't know she could as such fun would be considered sinful in their household. She wouldn't dare dream of anything like that, not back than.  Now, were the circumstances and most importantly the company different, she would probably enjoy event with champagne and bunch of people pretending they understand wine and art. 

But there she was. Elbows deep in debts she wouldn't have if her ever so virtuous and loving father wasn't in fact, just an asshole. In a dress borrowed from a convent escapee who made her money by fucking some other assholes. Preparing herself for an evening one particular asshole will probably confuse with a date. 

Shadowheart put a heavy rhinestone necklace around Octavia's neck. "I think I am satisfied with the result. What about you?"

-

For Astarion, Saturday was a lazy day. He didn't rush anywhere, certainly not out of his bed. Since he finished his studies, he didn't need to earn his living by ingratiating himself with his wealthier classmates through verbal and physical flattery, so he enjoyed moments of morning solitude undisturbed by anyone desperate for cuddles and pillow talk. He wouldn't mind Octavia, of course. But that was different, as he found her actually attractive. Even alluring after their last little dance. 

He could still feel the triumphant tingling that exploded inside of his chest when she accepted his offer and took the cash. This enigma took longer than he would like, but in the end, the easiest solution proved to be the best one. Money. And he didn't think she was that type at first. She played it well, but not well enough. 

He rolled on his back and stretched his arms. For a moment, he got carried away with few naughty fantasies. Her round butt exposed. Her inner tighs warm in his hands. Her moans sweet at first, but much wilder and carnal once she couldn't keep up that fake innocence. Astarion never saw Octavia exactly as innocent, rather distant. Cold. Serious. But the idea of peeling innocent assistant of all the husk only to discover a dirty little whore made his blood boil. His lower abdominals twitched. Astarion reached under the blanket and stroked his hardening cock. As he was giving up to the pleasure, the phone ranged.

"Oh God." He grumbled and sprung from the bed as it didn't seem the person on the other side will hang up. With the erection still visible under his warm bathrobe, he picked up: "For the God's sake! What's going on? Who is it?"

"Just a friend of yours, Mr. Ancunín. It looks like you know a fair deal when you see one and for that you should consider yourself lucky. Although the luck is of no use to you without good business partners."

Astarion's breath shortened. "Who- who is it?" He tilted his head and pressed the receiver against his shoulder so he could wrap himself with the bathrobe properly.

"As I said. Friend of yours. You can call me Rugan, if you'd like."

Astarion had never heard of anyone named Rugan, whether it was real name or not. It rang no bell. But he assumed the only reason behind this strange call could be the money he received for that warrant. Somehow he thought it was a one-time thing. Or he wished for it to be. 

"Well- and what- what do you want? Why are you calling me, Rugan?" He tied the bathrobe tightly.

"I'd like to meet you in person. To discuss business, of course. You've served us better than we thought you would." Rugan drawled but there was noticeable anticipation in his voice. Yet, his relaxed tone didn't calmed Astarion for a bit. The plastic receiver got all sticky in his sweaty palm.

"But- How do I know it's not a police or- I mean- I took a bribe, right?!" Astarion picked on his cuticles as he spoke. 

Rugan laughed. "That's not something you'd like to talk about on phone. You're lucky I'm, indeed, not a police. I had you for someone more cautious. But we can work on that." He said then. "So what do you say? Would you join me for a lunch today?"

"I-" Astarion froze. 

"It's not really a question, you know? One o'clock. The Singing Lute." He hung up. 

God. Astarion's thoughts whirled. He would rather go to the harbour and throw all those money into the sea now. And then jump in too. But the subtle threat in Rugan's words was giving him no choice but to see who is this friend of his.

-

The Singing Lute was anything but an establishment Astarion would like to have a lunch in. It was exactly the place that somehow didn't run out of business despite the unwelcoming atmosphere. Astarion saw the reason behind it now. When they built cargo warehouse and new Counting House near by, The Singing Lute lost it's cosy ambience and most importantly, the lovely view on the sea from the terrace. So the owner changed and no it served as a taproom for citizens that weren't used to abide law. Naturally, such clientele didn't like guests that weren't cut of the same cloth.

The barkeep jerked his head toward a corner table as Astarion stepped into the beer-stained dark of the joint. Fair haired man striking no less than a polished ruffian sat there, back against the wall,  rocking on the chair while sucking on a cigarette between his thick lips. He wore a simple henley shirt that used to be white, but faded into sort of weathered grey over the time. Over, worn leather bomber jacket that told stories Astarion preferred not to hear. Hopefully, he won't become part of them. But it was too late for that.

Astarion moved cautiously. His throat was tight and his knees barely gave him any support. He hated himself for that. He felt stupid. Idiotic, even. Why was he scared? Why did he feel like drowning? Why was his stomach heavy, dragging him into waters he didn't want to sink in. He  was a fool taking those money, issuing the warrant. Wasn't he smarter than this? 

Man in the corner smiled. A curl of smoke escaped through his teeth. "I'm glad you squeezed me into your schedule, Mr. Ancunín. Please, take a seat."

Astarion joined the man and took a closer look at him. Wrinkles cut deep into his forehead and formed a tired mask around his eyes that, however, sparked witty.

The man smirked. "You like what you see?" 

"Well- I- I don't know. Are you- are you Rugan? Did you call me this morning?"

"It depends who asks." He tapped the ash away. "But for you, Mr. Ancunín, I am Rugan. And I did call you this morning. Please to meet you." He reached for Astarion's hand.

"Pleasure… is mine." Astarion mumbled as Rugan shook his rag doll hand. "So, what is this about?"

"Straight to business, right?" Rugan laughed. "Slow down for now. Let's have a meal first."

Astarion pretended he was going through the menu and when the waiter asked, he ordered whatever he saw the first as he didn't really plan on eating it. Rugan asked for the usual, so Astarion assumed he was a regular here. He certainly looked like it and Astarion wouldn't be surprised if he smelled like it too. But despite all the contempt he had for Rugan, Astarion couldn't stop tearing his cuticles, playing with his fingers and crunch knuckles on his long jointy fingers as he was watching Rugan stuff himself with bread, sort of a sauce and splashing it with ale probably no better than sewer water. 

"You don't like it?" Rugan asked, brows arched when he noticed Astarion didn't touched his food. "Honk's cooking today. You should really give it a try." He suggested.

"Well, thank you. I- I am not hungry to be honest. I mean, I am thankful, of course. But I would just like to know what's- you know, what't the point of this." It took a lot of strength to drag all of those words out. Astarion exhaled. 

"I wanted to be polite. Network is generous. That you already know, don't you?" Rugan set a piece of bread back to the basket. "Fine. Let's talk business then."

"Network?" Astarion asks. Way too loudly for Rugan's liking. He hushed him with a subtle gesture.

"You haven't heard about us, your honour? Good." He said. "And expected. We had interests elsewhere for some time. But the air's changing now, so we take a bite before someone else will. Mephistopheles Cania, huh? Rings a bell?"

Astarion has heard the name. Cania. Few newspaper headlines popped in his mind. Charged with tax evasions. Prosecuted for frauds. Never found guilty. Founded charity every time court released him to thank God for showing him justice once again. "Yes." He said with hesitation.

"Bet it does. But you don't seem to know much about how things are in Baldur's Gate, do you? That's surprising. For a judge."

"Ah, well. It actually should be that way, when one is judge, you know? Justice's blind, right?" Astarion chuckled. "But I'm a magistrate. That-" He paused. "-is not the same thing. I deal with administrative offenses mostly. Or minor crimes. Like stealing in grocery store."

"Or not paying customs for imported booze." Rugan said. 

Astarion stiffened. 

"Why so nervous, your honour?" Rugan chortled. "We're on the same side. My proposal is simple. We pay. And we pay well. You issue whatever we need. No questions asked." 

No questions asked indeed. Not even now, as Astarion understand the proposal. He either takes it, or he buys himself a fine new pair of concrete shoes. He swallowed painfully as his throat felt like a grass in the middle of August. "Fine. W-we had a deal."

"Wise decision." Rugan smirked and took a another piece of brad to stir what was left on his plate. "I can smell the potential in this."

"Right." Astarion smiled, his eyes flickered around the place. His nose wrinkled. "Me too."

[meepetteoneonly]

Snakes and Ladders: V.

Previous chapter: here

Also on AO3: here

Chapter summary:

Octavia's rent is due again and this time, her landlord seems to be serious about it. When she thought her life cannot suck more, it does. Astarion is a prick as usual, but this time, he actually manages to push Octavia over the edge.

TW:

Poverty. Money related stress. Sexual harassment at workplace.

Note:

I have never enjoyed slow burns and now I am writing slow burn I haven't even ignited yet. Sorry guys.

Persistent and by the sound of it hasty, angry knocking stirred Octavia awake and shoved her into another lovely morning. The entrance door vibrated under the vexing pounding. Whoever it was, they were stubborn. Pretending she's not home would turn into contest in patience and unfortunately, Octavia wasn't in mood for one. Not that she had time for it anyway. She wondered who could pay her a visit this early, but she narrowed all the options down to the only one. She huffed and growled once her feet touched the cold wooden floor.

"For the Fuck's sake!" She yelled as she was wrapping herself with a bathrobe. "I'm coming!"

Yet, the knocking didn't stopped until she finally opened. As expected, it was no one else than her landlord who took over her alarm clock's shift today. Fuck.

"Tav! Good morning to you too. Quite an early bird, aren't you?"

She let out a sigh that turned into a long yawn halfway. "What the hell is going on? What are you doing? You'll wake the whole building up!" She hissed, but she knew exactly what was going on. She was due with her rent. 

"I wouldn't worry about the building, Tav. I would worry about the rent you forgot to pay." He crossed his arms, chewing on his lower lip.

"Sure." She said. "Yes. The rent. I must have forgotten. You know, the Christmas last month and-"

"And Thanksgiving before. And Halloween… Of course I know how financially burdensome it is for someone who lives alone and goes out only for work."

Or more precisely - she was due with her rent again. Octavia knew that she cannot test his nerves much longer and exploit the privilege of having quite lenient landlord forever, but there was simply fire in need of extinguishing elsewhere. Being kicked out of her flat - that would be bad. But having both of her legs broken in some side alley - that would be worse. She had her priorities. 

"Come on! I know. I'm sorry. I'm gonna pay you next week, I promise!" She pleaded, her eyes digging into the wrinkles forming on his forehead.

"Tav! We have this conversation almost every month. How is it that you are broke all the time? You do have a job, don't you?"

"I do. It's just - I am sending almost everything I earn to my parents. They are sick." She said. 

He didn't believe her. She knew he didn't and he knew she knew he didn't. But he had Octavia for a smart woman, she worked at the court after all, so he guessed she had her reasons for coming up with such a stupid lie. 

"Sure." He said with doubts in every letter. "Whatever you say. Pay day is next Wednesday. If you don't pay it all until next Thursday morning, we are done." He said unusually firmly. 

Octavia's heart throbbed. "F-fine. Morning. Next Thursday. I promise. Really." She stammered. 

The landlord nodded. "Good. Have a nice day, then." 

"It better be." Octavia murmured and waved him goodbye. 

She closed the door gently and waited few moments, listening to receding footsteps in the hall. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. If it happened - if she didn't pay the rent at time, Shadowheart would probably let her sleep on her couch again, but that would be only temporary solution. Moreover, solution that would not solve anything at all. 

"Fuck!" She slammed her fist against the door. The old wood creaked and her scarf fell off the poorly attached peg near by. What a morning, she thought as she took the scarf into her shaking hands and hung it back. What a fucking morning.

- 

As Octavia was rushing towards the court building, she was already late. She spent the whole morning frantically walking around her little flat, looking for the bra she forgot she threw into laundry, keys that played hide-n-seek with her and her empty purse. It was simply one of those mornings when the whole world was against her and once she made it to the office, she became certain the rest of the day won't get any better. Astarion's self-righteous grin made her sure of it.

"Good morning, darling." He said, so certain and full of himself again. 

Over the past few days, Astarion was suspiciously quiet - well, less talkative - and kept his distance. Octavia would have almost thought he finally acknowledged her boundaries or may have even given up, but he was just about to prove her hopes false.

She raised her chin a little in response. But her subtle smile wasn't enough of gratitude for his interest it seemed. 

"Ah, silent treatment again I see. And I haven't even had a chance to do anything I would deserve it for. A simple 'Hi' wouldn't hurt you, don't you think?"

Octavia dropped her bag next to her desk and let all her weight fall into the chair. "Hi." She said, maintaining eye contact. 

"Oh, that's better, darling." Astarion chuckled. However, there wasn't a single emotion in her voice, definitely not the one he would like, or muscle movement in her face. Not even a hint of sympathy he craved so much. But he had a plan already. A nice, simple plan how to get under her skin. Or clothes, at least. 

"So - you look like you had quite a rough morning." He started anew. "Anything happened? Black cat crossed your way, perhaps?"

"I overslept." She put bluntly and reached for a folder overflowing with papers. At this point, Octavia was simply tired of his shit and with each letter said, Astarion was closer and closer to get his face smacked or balls kicked just as Mrs. Hanford from the filing office suggested. A wise woman indeed. But without money, certainty of the roof over head and any reasonable idea what to do with her life, Octavia couldn't afford the luxury of putting this creep in his place. So she dig into the work instead.

-

Time felt to be passing too fast. When afternoon came, Octavia had the impression she has done nothing. She sorted out the post, organized few files and started a new draft, but her attention kept jumping to her due rent. When she had to put new paper into her typewriter again, she was ready to pack it in for today. Her fingers slipped away from the keyboard, aching for a cigarette. Silence filled with unrelieved anger replaced her mechanical tapping. Slipping away earlier would be nice, but Astarion was still occupied with work and although he might not care for her leaving earlier, he would certainly give her some slimy compliment to go. So she sat behind her desk, smoking and stuck between options. 

Astarion has noticed Octavia was not herself today and it somewhat fascinated him. He wondered what it took to throw her of balance this much, because she was actually expressing emotions.  What a special occasion to wear forehead wrinkles, Astarion thought. She was glowering at her desk, her eyes cracking it to splinters. It seemed that the cigarette didn't help much as her shoulders were tensed as a strings. He decided to play them.

"It would scare me if I met you with this face in the middle of the night, you know? What's bothering you, darling?" He asked, observing her with his chin tucked in his palms as he was leaning over a thick case-law collection. 

"That's none of your business, Astarion." She said, her words followed with explicitly irritated exhale. Then she threw the butt away and silently lit herself another one. She should't have been thinking about it - she should have just left regardless any flirtatious bullshit he would have wave her good bye with.

"Come on, Octavia. We are friends here, are we not? A little court family, right?" He chuckled. "You can tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

Family. Octavia smirked. Last time any family cared about her was when her sister needed a life saving and quite a pricy surgery so it could be avoided to institutionalize her. It wasn't avoided in the end. Octavia still remembered silent scream for help in her pale eyes when she was forced to an ambulance. It is the best for her. It will be easier for all of us. 

Her hand froze halfway from her mouth. "You know what, Astarion?" She said with new, anger driven confidence. "You are bothering me. Among all other things, you are bothering me the most." 

"What?! Oh please, enlighten me, how specifically I bother you, Octavia?" He spat, as he slapped the book closed and crossed his arms.

She kept staring an him in silence. It was almost as if the burning tip of her cigarette was piercing the veil of his ever so smooth and charming persona that agitated her so badly. "All of these… shenanigans of yours. Can't you just find someone else for them?"

"Shenanigans? Excuse me? Wh- what shenanigans? Octavia, dear, I am merely trying to be your friend, to help you, you see? And  yet, all you do is spitting on my hand!"

"Friendship? Help?" Octavia raised her voice. "Since when do friendship or help equal to staring at my goddamn ass all the fucking time!?"

For a moment, Astarion was left breathless. In a dim light of his lamp, he resembled a wax figurine slowly coming to life, startled by the situation it woke up to. Utter disbelief that set in his face made him look comical, dumb even. Octavia wondered what shaken him more - her words themselves or that she managed to cripple his wit. Either way, she savored the moment. 

"Ah- are- aren't you a little… hysterical?" He said as he found his footing again. "I mean, you are clearly unwell."

Cigarette in her hand reached its end, but she kept holding it. "Hysterical? Are you serious?" She lowered her voice.

"Yes. One may say… that. B- but maybe - maybe you are just overworked."

She threw the cigarette away. "I'm done for today. I'm going home."

"Wait! Wait a minute!" Astarion blurted as she swiftly got up to take her coat. 

He quickly stepped between her and coat hanger and gently grabbed her shoulder. "I think, that you are overworked. You took no time off during Holidays and there you have it. So what about going to that City Hall auction with me?"

Octavia took a step back, brushing his hand off. "No, thank you." 

"Why not? You can't be all work no fun all the time! You- you just saw where it led to!" He got in her way again as she tried to go around him. 

"Because I don't want to. I don't want to go anywhere with you. I don't have anything to wear. Can you just-"

Astarion smiled. There she is. Ever so serious Octavia had nothing to wear. Poor girl. Fortunately, he had just recently obtained considerable sum of cash that may helped with such a insurmountable problem.

"-get off my way?" Octavia finally slipped around him, only for him to take her scarf away from her. "Give it back." She growled.

As she tried to snatch the scarf, Astarion caught her hand. "You are going to accompany me to the Auction. And you are going to wear something nice." He said and pressed a pack of banknotes into her palm. 

[meepetteoneonly]

This gives the Fatal Interview vibes and I think this fanfic doesn't get the attention it deserves. Go, read it. Now!

Raphael having the time of his life on a Mediterranean holiday. All of this was prompted by ONE quote from the game where Raphael says "adieu" to the player even though French/France does not exist in Faerun. So the only logical explanation is our little princeling would use Dimension Doors to go across universes of course! You can get some of these as prints here!

Click on the images for clearer detail!

Edit:

For anyone wondering where he says "adieu", it's when you tell him to leave during his Shar temple scene. He says to you, "As you wish. [...] Until then... adieu." and then bows goodbye.

[meepetteoneonly]

Delicious.

Under a Dark Star

"Resist all you can, pup. It will only make your inevitable surrender all the sweeter."

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x AFAB Tav/Reader

Summary: Foolhardy and desperate to prove yourself to the Jedi Council, you face the Sith lord Astarion Ancunín to bring him to justice. But can you resist the power of the Dark Side, or will you submit?

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Second Person POV, Crossover, Star Wars, Sith Astarion, Mind Games, BDSM, Orgasm Denial, Multiple Orgasms, Seduction to the Dark Side, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Force Choking, Fingerfucking, Cunnilingus, PIV Sex

Warnings: Non-Con, Extremely Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content

Author's Note: This monster of a one-shot was inspired by this yummy art of Astarion as a Sith by the talented CapriFawn. A Star Wars version of Ascended Astarion seducing Tav to the Dark Side was too good to resist!

* * *

“Come to stop me, Jedi dog?”

The Sith’s voice, like dark silk, drifts toward you from where he stands at the ship’s helm, sounding bored, despite the contempt of his words, and seemingly unconcerned with your presence. He doesn't turn.

“Face me.” You level the thrumming cobalt blade of your lightsaber at his back.

With a bored sigh, he finally turns. His black hood is pulled low, obscuring his face. All you can make out is a pale jaw and a thin smirk. You hold your stance, ready to strike.

“Oh.” He sounds almost disappointed. “Not even a full Knight? They must really be desperate to send a half-trained padawan to take me. And all alone, too. Where’s your master, pup?”

AO3

Fic Master List

[meepetteoneonly]

houndtooth [19]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 9.5k words cw: violence. 18+ mdni

you're separated.

You awaken on a gasp — not quite a scream, but the ghost of one, caught in your throat like a hare in a spring trap. 

Whatever you were dreaming of left your hair sticking to the back of your neck, beads of sweat cooling along your hairline, cold on your top lip; but the memory of it slips away the moment your eyes spring open and you stare at the crack in your bedroom door. 

You can hear the echoes of the voices, though, lingering after your nightmare as a ringing in your ears. Dear Mia, Dear Mia, it sings, 

What have you done?

You hear beeping, then, faint little chirps from behind you — the quiet but pointed alarm of a digital watch, singing out in four-beat bursts. Perhaps that was what you had been hearing. 

The mattress sinks and bounces beneath you, the tired grunt of a man quick to follow. You freeze — disoriented and sleepy, you scramble for some recollection of who might be lying in the bed next to you, who would rise while it’s still pitch dark, who you hear pressing the button of his watch with a quiet click, and the alarm stops dead. 

Your memory slithers to you, as you roll onto your back, and you see the mammoth silhouette of the man sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you. Hardly lit by the moonlight breaking through the open blinds, you see his shoulders rise with a beleaguered breath, and he sinks forward as though rubbing his eyes with his palms. 

He’s dressed, you notice. Fully. Jersey and trousers on, black balaclava fixed over his head. You don’t remember him putting on his clothes, nor him lying down next to you in your bed. On your bed, evidently, seeing the blankets tucked up under the cushions, wrinkled and pitted where his weight had rumpled them. 

“Simon,” you whisper. 

His head turns to the side to acknowledge you, but he doesn’t swivel to look at you. “Go back to sleep,” he says. 

“What time is it?” 

He looks down at his watch. “Three forty-six.” 

“It’s still the middle of the night,” you breathe, near a moan. 

“It is,” he says, pushing himself to stand, and you prop yourself up on your elbow to watch him. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

“You had an alarm set,” you remark pointedly, concern on your tongue. 

“I needed to get up,” he answers dully, and he walks to the end of the bed — he bends over, fiddling with something on the floor, and you are quick to determine he is putting on his boots. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Your next question is immediate, louder than a whisper. 

“Mia—”

You shoot upright, sitting pin-straight with your eyes wide and your jaw tight. “What,” you chirp. “Where are you going?” 

He stands at the foot of the bed, facing you, rubbing his jaw with a stiff hand. With a sigh he lumbers around the bed towards you, and you swivel on your bottom until your legs hang off the edge of the mattress. Your eyes cleave fast to him as he stands in front of you, and your stomach sinks. Even in the dark you can see the expression in his eyes, a crease between his brows that does not augur well. 

“I have to—”

“Are you leaving?” You bite, feeling a quiver in your bottom lip that you bite down on to settle. 

“Nor for long,” he answers. 

Your fury spikes like an electric shock and it makes your hairs prickle up like the barbs of a porcupine. You bolt out of bed, slightly wobbly, bones still heavy with sleep.

“You’re fucking leaving?” You spit, incredulous, there’s a tremble in your voice you fail to swallow. 

“I have a job to do,” he grits, potent reluctance between his teeth — in the darkness he looks down at you, you feel his breathing on your forehead. 

On impulse you lunge forward, shoving him hard with both hands on his chest, and he tips backwards before rocking forward again. Unruffled by your anger, but your pride is not hurt, because you don’t seek to overpower him. Your rage has only one outlet — him, both the cause and the receptacle, and you have no option but to take it out on him.

“Fuck you,” you whimper, an attempt at a hiss that fizzled before it even reached your tongue, and you shove him again with a grunt. “Fuck you and fuck your job.” 

“I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours,” he says through gritted teeth as he stands steadfast against your aggression, divots pulling in his temples when he clenches his jaw. 

“Bullshit,” you bark, reeling back your hand to smack him, “you’re leaving me here to die—”

He intercepts your slap with a snatch of your wrist, no longer enabling you as he did under your last fusillade. Instead he wrangles you as you attempt to smack him again with your free hand, you give him no choice but to wrestle you until you tumble back onto the mattress — he pins your arms above your head, wrists cuffed together by a single hand, and he tears off his mask with the other. 

“I’m not letting you die, Mia,” he disputes forcefully, teeth gritting, voice dripping in sincerity. He props himself up with a fist, and the mattress sinks under the weight of him. You can’t quite make out his features in the shadow, but his black eyes are somehow lambent in the dark. 

“You’re a liar,” you cry, rheumy with tears. “You’re a fucking liar. You said — you said you weren’t going anywhere.” 

“I know,” he grunts remorsefully. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“If you were sorry you wouldn’t leave me here,” you protest in a whine, kept still by the leviathan thighs that bestride you. 

His head hangs from his shoulders as he lets loose a pained sigh, keeping your hands rigidly in his. “I don’t have a choice,” he insists, and you scowl through your tears. 

“You promised,” you sob. “You promised you wouldn’t abandon me.” 

His stare carves you out until your head feels hollow. “And I won’t.” 

You sniff; anger quick to wilt, an evanescent flame, swiftly smothered by a wet blanket of sobering fear. Your next words emerge as whimpers. “Then where are you going?” 

“We think the missiles are stored in that factory,” he explains. “I have to go and look for them.” 

“So it’s my fault?” You object, “I got you something important and now you’re leaving?” 

“I’ll only be gone a few hours,” he urges. “Then I’m coming back, and I’m getting you out, okay?” 

You sob, feeling a warm tear trickle down your temple and into your hair. “Why can’t you get me out now?” 

“I — we can’t. We can’t yet,” he says remorsefully, “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry because you know what’s going to happen,” you whine, voice breaking between words. “You know what’ll happen if you’re not here.”

He lets out a ragged breath, then, and it makes your ribs tighten. His grip of your wrists softens until he reluctantly releases you, pushing himself off the bed before standing upright. You shift to sit on the edge of the bed as he walks with heavy feet away from you, and you sniff, wiping your wet cheek with the heel of your palm. 

“What are you doing,” you whimper. 

He leans over to pick something up — his tactical vest, you can hardly make it out in the darkness. You hear the pop of a buckle and the zip of a strap. He returns, then, with something in each hand, and crouches down in front of you. Head level with yours, he reaches to switch on the lamp beside the bed.

He bites down on nothing as he looks at you, amber-brown eyes sullen, his pupils that had been blown wide in the dark now constrict in the creamy yellow light of the linen lampshade. 

“Here,” he says bluntly, holding out something for you to take — a handheld radio. Rugged, black, a stubby antenna as thick as your finger pokes out of the top of it. 

You take it from him gingerly, and he switches it on for you with a twist of a knob. 

“Keep it on channel thirteen,” he instructs, throat tight, he pushes your thumb into the button on the side with his. “Press this to talk. Let go to listen.”

You nod, drawing a weak breath. 

“I might not always be able to answer you,” he explains stiffly, “but I’ll always be able to hear you.” 

You blink up at him, lashes wet, too much and yet nothing to say. 

Next thing he hands you is a pistol. 

Bigger, longer than your Beretta. Heavier, too. Cold metal in your palm when he lays it there carefully, letting your fingers wrap around the grip before he lets go of it. 

Your eyes jump around his face, scour his features, though you’re not sure what you’re searching for. Flummoxed, perhaps, that he trusts you enough to hand you a gun, while he crouches directly in front of you. Inches from you. Not long since you would have fantasised about holding the mouth of that gun under his chin and pulling the trigger. 

“Don’t need me to tell you how to use it, do you.”

You shake your head. 

“It’s got fifteen rounds in it,” he says, voice dull and quiet, as if reluctant to speak at all. “If — if you use it, make sure you keep count.” 

“I’m not going to be able to fight them off,” you dispute, holding the grip tighter than you intended, fingertip brushing the curl of the trigger on instinct. “Even with this.” 

“You won’t need to,” he says. “Makarov won’t even be in the country anymore.” 

Your brows knit together, and you rest your two gifts on your lap. “How do you know?” 

“Last intel we got on his location was at a Konni airbase by the border,” he says frankly. “He’ll be on a plane back to Moscow by now.” 

You anxiously chew on the inside of your cheek. “You’re guessing.”

“He thinks we’re heading there,” he insists. “He wants us, not you.” 

“I hope you’re right,” you mumble weakly. 

He settles a big hand on your shoulder, cupping it firmly, a graze of his thumb on your collarbone. 

“I’ll be back,” he stresses. “Promise.” 

You swallow a pacifying breath, deep enough to make your diaphragm ache, and wrench your eyes shut. You want to believe him. He sounds to you as honest as he has been since he found you, as candid in this as everything else he has said. Perhaps you’re in denial, blinded by the residual rose-coloured stupor that fucking him has left you in.

Though you can’t bring yourself to trust him completely, you believe him, because you need it to be true. 

You need it to be true. 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding as if that might make it so. 

He looks down at his watch, and your heart sinks. 

“When are you going?” 

He clenches his jaw. “Helo’s picking me up in ten.” 

Ten minutes. Hardly enough time to come to terms with it at all — still dizzy with sleep, hardly conscious enough to be confident you aren’t still dreaming. You can’t yet wrap your head around it. Ten minutes and you’ll be completely alone. You swallow a sob at the thought.

“Can’t you take me with you?” 

He squeezes your shoulder as if it might comfort you, but shakes his head. “It’ll be active combat,” he replies frankly. “Much safer here.” 

“Not if—”

A sharp beeping emerges from his pocket, cutting you off, and you bite your tongue. He pulls out a rugged black phone and answers the incoming call, close enough to you that you can make out some of the words from the person over the line.

“Rise n’ shine, LT. How copy?” 

You recognise the accent — the Scotsman. Your lip curls as you remember him. 

“Solid,” Simon replies brusquely, hand sinking down your arm, warm where it settles against the skin above your elbow. 

“We’re six minutes out. Dropping down over the lawn out the back.” 

“Copy that.” 

With that he ends the call. Shoves the phone back in his pocket, and his hand peels from you. He looks away with a remorseful furrow in his brow as he pushes himself to stand. Reality douses you cold as ice; it runs down the back of your neck, makes your skin bristle and your throat close. 

He rubs the back of his head with a white-knuckled hand as he looks at his watch again, then slides the zipper of his fleece closer to his throat. Pulls his balaclava over his head, skull-paint facing outward, and the sight makes your tongue dry. His eyes turn beady and narrow through the hole in it. Seems to procrastinate his departure with a stretch of his neck, shaking out his shoulders, cracking the knuckles of his fists.  

“You’ll be alright,” he mutters, but it doesn’t convince you. An assurance for his own peace of mind more than yours. “I’ll be back soon.” 

“Okay,” you murmur, eyes hitched on the pistol in your grip. With a cautious breath you slip off the bed, toes burrowing into the carpet as you find your balance. 

“You should keep sleeping,” he says stiffly, pulling open the door to the hallway, glancing at you over his shoulder. 

“I won’t be able to,” you refuse, setting your gun and radio down on your chest of drawers, to grab your plush floral bathrobe from its hook on the back of your door and pull your arms through the sleeves. 

He lets out a displeased huff, knit of his mask distending as he exhales. Says nothing more as he turns to leave through your bedroom door. With no other recourse, you follow him, taking your tools with you. Better to see him off than sit alone in the darkness of your bedroom, regardless of how foully your stomach churns at the thought of watching him leave. 

You can hear the thunder of the helicopter from outside before you even make it down the stairs; the building all but shakes with it, towering glass windows quaking in their fastenings in the roar of the blades, only louder as Simon slides open the back door and lumbers out over the patio. 

The grass of your lawn ripples beneath the black helicopter that lowers from the sky — only visible by virtue of the large spotlights that beam out from the open door on the side of the aircraft. You might have shivered in the icy air of the predawn but you find yourself numb to it; your skin doesn’t burn hot nor does it prickle up in the cold. You stop at the edge of the patio, toes dipping into the dew; watching as Simon’s form, reduced to a silhouette in the glow of the floodlights, continues towards the helicopter. 

As if he had felt you halt, he stops in his tracks and turns to look at you. 

He approaches you, and his firm hands fix to either side of your neck, grip of your shoulders almost too tight to be a comfort — and yet, confoundingly, it is. 

“You’ll be fine, yeah?” He yells over the bellow of the helicopter behind him. 

You can only nod, jaw wired shut by the terror that speaking aloud will jinx his promise into a lie. 

A hooked finger settles beneath your chin, a short brush of his knuckle against your skin, and it’s gone again as he steps backwards. “Back soon.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

He turns around then, and you watch as he hops up into the wide open door of the helicopter, disappearing into the dark belly within. You spot the Scotsman, leaning out and spectating you with an enormous rifle in hand. Expression indeterminable as you squint at him. 

He gives you a wave. You don’t return it. 

He slides shut the heavy door and the helicopter quickly ascends, floodlights going dark, and soon the entire aircraft deliquesces into the blackness of the sky. 

You’re alone.

“Fuck was that about?” Soap belts as he slides shut the metal door, and it seals itself with a thud. 

Ghost drops into one of the empty fold-out seats as the helicopter begins its ascent. SAS issued gear sits next to it, brought especially for him; a relief, because he didn’t trust the Russian-made kevlar of the uniform he had stolen from your sentry. 

He doesn’t answer the Sergeant as he pulls on the thick jacket of his uniform and buckles himself into the tacvest, checking the pockets contain everything he requested — a dual-band radio, a fresh handgun, and a multitude of back-up magazines. Helmet goes on next, cumbersome thing, he clicks it shut under his chin and adjusts the strap to tighten it into place. 

“Oi,” Johnny repeats, sitting next to him and nudging him with an impatient elbow. “Talkin’ to ye.” 

“What,” Ghost spits, picking up the M4 rifle propped up beside him and flipping it to inspect it.

“You n’ princess thick as thieves now, eh?” 

Ghost doesn’t often find the Sergeant grating, but he deeply resents being questioned by the boy. Perhaps a vestige of his internalised authority over him — more likely, though, it’s due simply to the fact he doesn’t know how to answer him. Doesn’t know what he’s willing to share. It’s his own fault for putting a hand on you in sight of his brother-in-arms, but he didn’t fucking think about that, did he? 

In truth, he hasn’t been thinking much at all. Acting on impulse like a poorly trained animal. It’s sobering as he glances at his bemused sergeant, who smirks in a burgeoning understanding of what Ghost might have been doing with the prisoner-of-war he was tasked with handling. 

“Och, Christ, you fucked her, didn’ye?” 

He might have been able to justify it all to himself while he was on his island of solitude, but there’s no justifying it to an audience. He says nothing as he releases the magazine from his rifle to check it; not ignorant to the fact his lack of response is an affirmation in itself — but nothing he could say now would convince the sergeant otherwise. 

“Can’t believe you, mate,” Johnny scoffs, shaking his head, more amused than disapproving. “Leave it to you to find cunny in a war.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Ghost growls, shoving the clip back into his gun more aggressively than necessary. “Leave it.” 

“Besom didn’t mourn ‘er husband for long, eh?” He chortles. “How was it, then? Pussy pretty as a picture?” 

Ghost exhales in roiling frustration, it rises hot up the back of his neck and makes his temples throb. Worsened by the fact that yes, it was that pretty, and now he sees you when he blinks, and his knuckles turn white. 

“S’alright, LT, happens to the best of us.” 

Ghost finally shoots him a violent glower that turns him stiff. “I said, leave it.” 

Observant boy, this one, because his expression softens from lecherous amusement to a sincere frown, a realisation visibly dawning on him. Brow quirked as though curious, lips in a line as he thinks of what to say, because staying silent is not a skill he possesses. 

“What’s happened, eh?” He asks earnestly.  

Ghost’s head lands against the metal wall of the aircraft as he slumps back in his seat with a huff. A confession sits heavy in his stomach but he’s not willing to utter it yet. He doesn’t need to, evidently. Johnny has always been able to read him like a book. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose before wiping his hand down his face in some effort to release the tension.

“It’s a fuckin’ mess,” he grumbles. 

“What is.” 

“All of it. Should never’ve brought her here.” 

“Mh,” Johnny hums as though thinking aloud. “Y’can always send ‘er back. I’m sure she’s got a mountain of hubby’s money waiting for her.”

“She doesn’t,” Ghost retorts. “She’s not one o’ them.” 

“What d’ye mean.” 

Ghost grunts out a sigh. “She’s cut from the same bloody cloth as us, Johnny. She doesn’t belong here. She told me that from the start. But I didn’t fuckin’ believe her.” 

The Sergeant falls quiet for a beat, eyes pointed vacantly ahead as he chews on nothing. Seems he is no longer reluctant to believe it, now that his superior has confirmed what he must have hoped wasn’t true. Ghost wonders if the same smoggy guilt is soaking in, churning in the pits of the sergeant like it does himself. 

“Bad intel?” Johnny asks solemnly. 

“No,” Ghost murmurs. “Only intel was that Zakhaev was married. It was my call to take her. I made a bad call.” 

Johnny releases a long and ragged sigh. “S’not your fault, mate,” he says, and Ghost snorts cynically. “Sides, if she was Zakhaev’s jailbird then you’ve done her a favour.” 

“Not if I can’t get her out of this fuckin’ country.” 

“We can make it up to ‘er, eh? Johnny assures him with a pat on the knee. “We’ll get ‘er home.”

“Easier said than done,” he says. “Cap’n wants her dead.”  

“Mh, he’s a right prick but he’ll come around with a push,” Johnny argues.  

“He’d better,” Ghost says derisively. “I’ll have to figure out somethin’ else if he doesn’t.” 

Johnny blows out a surprised whistle at that. “What, like smugglin’ her out yerself?” 

Ghost shrugs. 

“Christ, this girl must be somethin’ special, then, eh?” Johnny jeers. “Special enough to make Lieutenant Riley go against direct orders!” 

“Fuck’s sake, nothing to do with that,” Ghost spits, but it sounds unconvincing aloud, even to himself. “Just a man of my word. I told her I’d get her out. So I’m getting her out.” 

Johnny nods in pacified understanding, and goes quiet for a moment, bouncing his knee. Ghost can feel that he’s simply waiting for the next appropriate moment to speak, trying his hardest to swallow the questions that must be knocking against his teeth. He can smell it on him, the desperation to know more, that vicious curiosity. Had Ghost not scolded him, he’d be spewing his salacious questions — asking what she smelt like, tasted like, what noises she made, what expression she wore when he pushed in. Did she cry? Did she smile? Did she come? What face did she make when she did? 

Ghost realises quickly he’s simply using the hypothetical questions to reminisce, and he wrenches his eyes shut with a terse sigh. Johnny takes that as the cue to keep talking. 

“What’d she tell you?” He asks earnestly, and Ghost finds himself surprised that the question wasn’t as lude as he had expected. 

“Huh?” 

“Y’said she’s cut from the same cloth as us, didn’ye?” Johnny continues. “What’d she say to convince you?” 

“Said she was from Nottingham,” Ghost replies flatly, yet unwilling to elaborate. 

“S’that it?” Johnny presses. “Y’were hell-bent, she must’ve given you more than that to change yer mind.”

There’s plenty Ghost could tell him. 

Both the things you had said to him, and the things he had discovered himself — in your belongings, in your manner of speaking, in the glimpses of your past he had caught in the darker hollows of your eyes. 

That you were once a homebody. Easily bored, judging by the half-finished books you left dotted around your home. A creature of familiar comfort. That you preferred British tobacco. Preferred gin to vodka. That you once painted your nails brighter and sparklier colours than the oligarch-red your husband must have preferred. 

That you were once a stripper. That you likely lost your friend, Phoebe, judging by the forlorn expression that wracked you upon her mention. That you had been homeless in a foreign country. That your addiction to opioids kept you that way. That you prostituted yourself for places to sleep. That you only agreed to marry an animal like Zakhaev because you had exhausted every other option.  

Wouldn’t be fair to you if he were to share any of that. 

“She did,” is all he says. 

Johnny groans in disappointment. “Y’really not gonna tell me?” 

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Ghost grumbles. “She got us what we needed. I’m holding up my end of the bargain.” 

Johnny relents, and gives him a conciliatory pat on the knee. “S’alright. I’ll talk to the Cap,” he says sincerely. “He likes me better, anyway.” 

Ghost snorts. 

“He’ll change his mind,” Johnny reassures him. “She’ll be home in no time, eh? Bet you’ll run into her at the pub in a year and she’ll have forgotten all about it.” 

The sentiment is as endearing as it is inconceivable. 

Ghost tells himself he wants what’s best for you. So, for your sake, he’ll make sure that once you’re free you’ll never have to see him again. 

You stand with your toes in the damp grass until you can no longer hear the helicopter echoing across the sky. 

You’re adrift. 

Unsure where to go, what to do with yourself, how to feel. Only when the dry cold of the dawn begins to percolate into the flesh beneath your skin do you retreat indoors; a slow lumber across the cement patio, sliding the door shut behind you. 

The interior of the house is dark and potently quiet, so silent that all you can hear is the shuddering of your heartbeat deep in your ears, hard and slow. You move on autopilot towards the kitchen, mindlessly following the same routine you used to when your husband was alive and he left you alone in this very estate. 

Those were once your brief moments of freedom, freedom from surveillance or the expectation of servitude — you don’t feel free, now. Just the opposite. You can hardly breathe under the restraint of fear; it’s suffocating, paralysing, the pressure around your chest as tight and hard as chains. 

Still, you follow your routine. A transient distraction as you fill up the Bialetti coffee maker with espresso and water, igniting the stove and setting it down to boil. Such a habit that you can do it in the dark, kitchen only illuminated by moonlight and the flashing images of what you had done in it not a few hours earlier.

You stare vacantly at the island as you wait for your coffee. 

The solitude is sobering. What the fuck were you thinking? Whispers of regret permeate the memory as you relive it, but they’re not loud enough to soil it. The feeling of the biting cold of the raw marble on your skin. Of the abrasion of his stubble on the inside of your thighs. Of his gristle between your teeth. 

You jump when loud static crackles out from your radio. 

Jolting to where you had left it on the counter, you snatch it, holding it close to your face. Follows a beat of quiet, until it crackles again, and a voice finally breaks through the white noise. 

“Mia,” he grunts, voice quiet and hoarse, broken up by the poor signal. “Mia, you hear me?”

You press the talk button. “Yeah,” you squeak, flustered by relief that the radio works as intended. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” he says. “Just makin’ sure it’s working.” 

“Okay,” you reply. 

You hear the radio hiss a few times in the subsequent pause, as if he had pressed the button more than once but said nothing. After a moment, he closes the tight conversation; “Alright, out.” 

You find bizarre comfort in the echoes of his voice, in the knowledge that you can still reach him. That if you call for him he’ll hear you. 

Your thumb grazes the talk button, but despite the impulse you don’t let yourself press it. 

When your coffee whistles ready, you pour yourself a mug and wander aimlessly about the dark mansion. 

You tiptoe through the dining room, chairs askew and empty glasses littering the mahogany surface of the table, the dull air still reeking of villainy and cigar smoke. Through the sitting room, sofas and loungers still indented by the asses of the pigs that had sat in them. Through the foyer, where it is hard to breathe, because you can still feel Vladimir standing on the other side of the front door. 

It’s more than an hour before you finally feel your feet on the ground. Maybe you just needed the caffeine to speed your heart up. Maybe it was the oxycontin that returned sensation to your skin. 

Whatever the case, your drive returns with the incipient sun. The sky is still a murky black, bar the ghost of blue at the eastern horizon, fading through the trees. No longer floating absently from room to room, ensuring every door is locked and window is closed; you begin hunting in earnest. 

For what, you’re not yet sure. 

Anything, really. Any vestige of your husband, any crumbs of his conspiracies that he might have left where you never thought to look. 

You want to feel useful. 

You imagine Simon dropping down from his weapon-bedecked aircraft, enormous gun in tow, fighting for his life and the lives of his men — while you potter about your gargantuan estate, sipping coffee, in your too-big t-shirt and ultra-soft nightgown. 

There must be something, you think, tugging open every single drawer in the house — every cabinet, every chest, every console table. Digging through coat closets, pockets, under the shoes in the wardrobe. He must have left things behind, right under your nose — safely hidden, because you never looked for them. 

You find bullshit. No better word to describe it — years of nothing, dust, paper, old watches and blank notebooks. Some receipts with many zeros, old engraved lighters, pill packets, loose keys of varying sizes that look too small for doors and too big for padlocks. 

That changes when you check Victor’s office. 

You’re uncertain why you left it for last. A relic of your obedience, perhaps, residual compliance with the expectation that you not involve yourself with his work. He hardly ever used it, dipped in and out of the bureau for minutes at a time on the rare occasion he came with you to the summer house. Still, it was an unspoken rule, one you had always mindlessly adhered to — stay out of his business. 

That’s why you dither at the door handle. It’s why you hold your breath when you step into the room, where the air is stagnant and warm against your skin. 

When you finally inhale, you can smell him. Not a scent you can name — not his cologne, or his aftershave, or the leather polish of his shoes. Just, him. The lingering redolence of his skin, of his hair, of his presence alone. Uncontaminated by your perfume, the one room in the house you never ventured. 

It makes your chest feel tight. A reminder that he’s dead, but isn’t gone. That he haunts you. You wonder how he’d react if he knew what you did in his kitchen. If he knew you fucked the man that killed him. 

Only as you approach his ebony desk, do you notice a drawer already ajar. Victor would never have left it that way, meticulous as he was. It’s immediately clear to you that someone else has already combed through it. Simon. 

If he didn’t find anything in those drawers, there was likely nothing of use in them — especially given that Simon, unlike you, knew what he was looking for. It strikes you, then, that there won’t be a drawer in the entire house that he wouldn’t have already checked. Anywhere obvious would have been scoured clean. 

Unlike Simon, though, you knew your husband.

You knew he was a pathologically secretive man. Paranoid. Liked to keep things in atypical places. Places you wouldn’t stumble upon by accident while innocently searching for something unrelated. Shoeboxes, suitcases, bathroom cupboards. 

And as your eyes catch it, through the glass of his curio cabinet — cigar boxes. 

The rosewood humidor is tucked near the back, under a carved granite bookend and a stack of nondescript books. As you sweep clear the assortment of items and pull it out of the closet, it’s light in your hands. You notice, as you place the box on the desk, a small golden keyhole under the lid; and with a skip of your heart you spin into an investigative fervour. Maybe you’ll find something important. Maybe you can be useful. Maybe you can help. 

Those keys, you think, as you fly back down the stairs to re-check the same drawers — one of them must unlock it. You collect all of the keys you had come across and hold them in a fist, running back into the office and immediately tipping the small pile onto the desk. 

You look closely at the keyhole — expecting it to appear as vintage as the box, a lolly-pop shaped hole that some iron skeleton key would fit in. It’s not that at all. It looks to you like a modern addition despite the antiquity of the humidor, as though Victor had a new lock installed in the old box; a miniature zig-zag shaped hole in a fixing of sharp-edged brass. 

You shuffle through the keys and try them one by one — and the third glides in snugly, pops the lock loose with a twist. 

The interior, lined with blood-red velvet, is devoid of any cigars. Instead you find a single envelope, blank, save for the Комус watermark printed faintly across the white paper. You tear it open without hesitation, and whatever was inside it flies out and lands on the carpet — you scurry to grab it, and in your palm sits a black USB drive. 

“No fucking way,” you whisper aloud, alone, but you don’t yet reach for your radio to tell Simon. There’s more you can find. 

You know that Victor has a laptop stored in the desk, but you’ll never be able to unlock it — his passwords were always tens of characters long, and if it isn’t protected by password, it would have a fingerprint scanner. You’re too frightened to try, anyway — that it will set off some alarm and alert his compatriots to your meddling.

Instead, you take the USB to your old laptop in your bedroom. You never used it for much beyond shopping, and it’s out of battery when you open it — it doesn’t take long to start up once you plug it into your charger, though, and you shove the thumb drive into the port the second the screen blinks alight. 

The folder for the drive pops up after a moment of thinking, the characteristic Windows ding blurts out once the drive is recognised.

Fucking gibberish. 

You’re not a programmer, or a hacker, or anything close to the kind of expert that has the knowledge to comprehend what you’re looking at. Tens if not hundreds of files with blank paper icons, all originating from the same date, all only a few kilobytes in size. Random Cyrillic characters, sequences of letters and numbers in no distinguishable order — Д1г4Щл62Х4вЮ.json,  з2П71тЯ55Ъе1б.json, Б91ч3р02ДпР7у.json. 

When you sort by filetype, three unique files appear at the top of the list. 1101.sh, 1201.sh, 1301.sh.

You double click the first one, 1101.sh — up pops a prompt, ‘Select an app to open this .sh file’. Notepad is the first on the list of suggested apps, so with no other recourse, you click it. 

You frown at the note that opens. 

The first line reads;  #!/bin/bash, and you’re already certain you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. The script, evidently, contains instructions in both Russian and English. Process, execute, if, then, JSON — English. Node, file, arm, delay — Russian. The only thing you can glean from the code, reliant entirely on context clues, is the purpose of the file — script, commands to run a process of some kind or other.  

That guess is enough to make your stomach feel heavy. As far as you were aware, Victor was not a particularly computer-savvy man. His expertise lay in business and the ever-prospering economy of warfare. It’s evident enough that such a drive, stashed in an envelope and locked out of reach, does not herald anything innocent. Not a side project of your husband, some hobby software engineering that he might have picked up. 

No, you’re reading a weapon. 

You press the talk button on your radio. 

Squatting behind thicket, peering through his reflex sight, Ghost aligns the sharp red dot of his scope with the forehead of a Konni soldier. 

He’s not stupid enough to fire yet. Not while he and the rest of his team have surprise on their side, concealed by the blue darkness of dawn, and tucked behind a tall wire fence. If Johnny had his way, they’d have thrown live grenades through every window to smoke the Russians out and then shot them all down on their escape. Ghost can admit the temptation is sweet — but the payload is more important than the soldiers that guard it. Can’t risk explosions near a missile. 

Delta team are stationed at the south side of the expansive factory. A precise blueprint of the building’s layout would have been helpful, but they’re not exactly long on intel. Captain had told him to get a grip, when he asked — you’ve gone in blind more than anyone, Lieutenant. Not wrong. He didn’t have the floorplan of your castle when he stormed it. It’s a degree of risk he is typically inured to taking. He’s no longer so willing to accept such hazard. 

The stakes are higher. There’s somebody relying on him to return. 

Regardless, from what he can see, the brutalist cement buildings are connected by a network of corridors. All old cinderblocks with stodgy water stains smearing down from the top of every wall. Enormous metal units taller than the buildings themselves protrude from the middle of the compound, connected by pipes, surrounded by towering exhaust vents that pump clouds of steam into the navy sky. The entire factory is clamorous, strident with the thumping and creaking of machinery. 

The soldier in his sights is a few hundred yards away, leaning over the rusty railing of a fire escape, several storeys high. He puffs away at a cigarette, and it makes Ghost’s mouth water. Christ, what he’d do for one of your Benson and Hedges about now. 

He grits his teeth. He can’t be thinking of you.

When the solider turns around, he directs his team to advance with a silent gesture of his hand, and crouched low he moves forward along the fence. Keeps close to it as they approach an unmanned gate, and he pushes it only far enough open to allow his body to fit through the gap. The steel hinges moan with their exertion, but by virtue of the turbulent noises of the factory, their approach is inaudible to the sparse soldiers that guard it. His men follow closely behind him. 

“What’s the play, LT?” Johnny asks, minutely louder than a whisper, but clearly audible thanks to the headsets built into their helmets. 

“Workin’ on it,” Ghost replies. 

“There aren’t many of ‘em.” 

“Don’t know that. Could be more inside,” he replies sternly. “We’ll go in quiet. And we’ll stay quiet for as long as possible. Copy?”

A whispered choir of copies come through his headset, and he gestures for his men to follow. He crosses an expanse of asphalt to approach the closest wall of the factory, a single-door entrance within sight. 

“Delta-2, Bravo-7, how copy?” 

“Solid, Bravo. What’s the COA?”

“We’re breaching a ground-level door on the east side. You lot got an entry?” 

“Got eyes on an open service door,” the other Lieutenant returns. “Quiet, though, in’t it?” 

Ghost lets out an inadvertent sigh through a tight jaw. “It is.” 

“I don’t like it.” 

“Me neither.” 

There’s a beat before the Delta team leader answers. “We’re heading in. Over.” 

No use pissing around any longer, then. He approaches the door on his right, rifle raised and ready, night-vision sharp and inspecting for any movement. 

None. 

Worse, the door is unlocked. He pushes it open with a twist of the knob, and as though his invasion is welcomed, he ventures inside.  

There’s a weight in the pit of his stomach as he stalks down the pitch dark corridor. Leaden and metallic, the churning of doubt. 

Something isn’t right. He can feel it. Taste it in the air. He glances back at his sergeant, who wears a similar expression to himself. Visible despite the green glow of his eyes through his scotopic goggles. Lips tight. Jaw hard. 

Then, his radio crackles. 

He waits, alert, for a check-in from Delta — but that’s not who he hears over the line. 

“Simon — can you hear me? Can you talk?”

You. 

He had set up his dual-band radio on the bird over — so, thankfully, nobody else on his team can hear you except him. He holds a finger up to Johnny, as he presses the secondary button on his radio. 

“Not a good time,” is all he says, as low as possible, and fortunately the Sergeant is quick to pick up on who he is speaking to. Doesn’t make him any less curious, as he steps closer, as if he might be able to hear you through Ghost’s headset. Johnny gestures for the men to move around him and stand ready. 

“I found a USB drive in Victor’s office,” you say hurriedly, all but blurting it, as if making sure you say the words fast enough before he cuts you off. “I think it’s important.” 

He halts. “What’ve you got?” 

“Well — god, it’s hard to explain. There are a bunch of script files. Um, three with dot-SH and, like, a million with dot-JSON.” 

“Can you—”

“The SH ones are called 1101, 1201… I think they’re dates,” you explain tensely. “Simon — if they’re dates, the 11th is today.” 

He’s impressed by your intuition. Grateful for your urgency. “What’s in the files, can you open them?” 

“I opened some of them in, um, in notepad. I can’t really — it’s all code, so I can’t understand much of it, but, there’s things like… ‘process data’, ‘standby’... ‘arm’. It says ‘arm’ as a command.”

Ghost glances at his Sergeant. Mumbles shit under his breath as you elaborate. 

“I also opened some of the JSON ones — they have lines of code that say node ID, then position, then… just, rows of letters and numbers.” 

“Read one of the lines to me,” Ghost demands urgently. 

“MP underscore 223, colon… 41, 38, 78, N, then, 21, 97, 35, W.” 

“That’s fucking coordinates,” he says, directly to his Sergeant as if he’s privy to the conversation, not holding the talk button on his radio. 

“Fuck’s going on, LT,” Johnny grumbles uneasily, rifle at the ready.

He pushes the talk button. “How many lines like that are there, Mia.” 

“I’m still scrolling,” you reply, worry poignant even across the shoddy signal. “There’s like, fifty of these files. I think MP is short for position — Russian for position. Do you think they’re coordinates?” 

Clever girl. He almost tells you so over the radio. Fucking clever girl. 

“Ghost, fuck’s sake, what is—”

“She’s found a drive,” Ghost explains rigidly. “Sounds like it’s got executables on it. And a long fucking list of coordinates.” 

“So — what,” Johnny thinks aloud, “active homing? Strike coordinates?” 

“There are only three missiles,” Ghost answers, tight-jawed. 

Johnny stands straight, as if sharing the same thought. “Y’reckon there’s no missiles?” 

“I don’t know,” Ghost grits, “fuck. I don’t know. There’s no way the intel was that far off.” 

The Sergeant lets out a pent breath. “Princess could be lying.” 

“She’s not.” 

“She could be, LT,” he insists. “I know y’like her now, n’all, but—”

“She read me the fucking code, Sergeant.”

“You still there?” Comes your nervous voice through the radio.  

Ghost unconsciously tightens his grip on his rifle, swallowing the frustration that threatens to erupt from him. He replies immediately. “Yeah, m’here.” 

“I looked up those numbers on this, this coordinates search thing I found on Yandex — I think it’s in Barcelona. There’s one in Geneva, Prague, New York, Warsaw… there’s hundreds of these, Simon.” 

“Shit,” he curses through teeth, before glaring at his Sergeant, as the realisation shudders through him like a high-voltage current. “The missiles are a fucking red herring.” 

“Jesus,” Johnny mumbles, relenting, a defensive posture; he finally believes him. “Should we call the Captain?”

As Ghost considers his answer, he radios the squad on the other side of the compound. “Delta-7, you copy?” 

“Bravo — this shit isn’t right. There’s fuckin’ nobody here. It’s like they’ve already up and left.” 

“Copy, we’re—”

Cut off in a heartbeat by a thunderous boom — a violent explosion from elsewhere in the factory that shakes the very concrete he stands on, shedding rubble from the walls where they meet the ceiling. He and his men immediately drop low to the ground, shouting and coughing in the dust that floats loose from the crumbling cement. 

“Fuck!” Johnny roars, panicked, head spinning on his shoulders as he looks for the best direction to head. 

“—fucking ambush!” Comes a shout through the radio, “contact in South wing! We’re — Christ, we’re fucked.” 

“We gotta help them!” yells the Weapons Sergeant, hungry to hurry towards the source of the explosion but held in place by a lack of command. 

Ghost nods stiffly. “Alright,” he growls. “We’ll stay interior. Weapons free. Move!”

No use in maintaining stealth, now, while peals of gunfire thunder through the thick walls of the building. He holds his rifle high and against his chin, finger stroking the trigger and itching to tug it — he storms down the labyrinthine corridor, following the bellows of the firefight by ear. 

Before he is swallowed by the jaws of close-quarters combat, he takes a fraught moment to radio you. 

“Mia—” He barks into his headset, as he approaches a corner — his words get caught, reluctant to make their way out, as he battles for the right thing to tell you. Something that won’t terrify you with the possibility he won’t make it back as he promised he would. 

“Keep safe, I’m—”

“Simon?” You yelp, holding the radio so close to your mouth that your lips brush the black plastic, gripping it so tight that your hands begin to shake. “Simon?”

The dead silence that follows is thick and suffocating as smoke. You choke on it, heaving panicked breaths as you wait for anything — the sound of his voice, the din of whatever chaos he has been caught in, even just the crackle of static — any proof that he has tried to reach you. 

There’s nothing. 

You feel yourself sinking into the floor. Ribs closing shut like a jaw trap. Nausea swells in your belly, sweat beads sticky in your palms and along your hairline, an ache in your chest where your heart skips beats like it’s arresting. 

You heard the gunshots in those final seconds. The uncharacteristic alarm in his voice. An urgency you had never heard in him. 

All you can do is jump to the worst possible outcome. 

That he’s dead. 

That his promise has been made null and void because he got shot before he could fulfill it. 

That, as a corollary, you’re dead too. 

You know neither his superior nor his subordinates will come to retrieve you. That he was your only advocate, the only person who had earnestly assured your vindication — and he has been shot down in combat and is never coming back for you. You’re trapped in your cavernous summer house with nothing but the ghost of your husband flooding your chest and the weight of your inescapable fate on your shoulders. 

You can’t breathe under it. Chest too tight to suck down any air, you can only sip at it, hyperventilating to the point of vertigo. You burn under it. Skin burning so hot it leaks sweat, sweltering in the heat of the overworked organs that thump and writhe within you.

“Simon,” you plead into the radio, releasing the talk button too early, just in case you inadvertently talk over him while he’s trying to reach you. You move thoughtlessly out of the bedroom, nightgown shedded to cool yourself down, your handgun in one fist and radio in the other. “Simon — please — fuck!”

Your vision narrows to a pinpoint, blurry, spinning, and before you realise it you’ve made your way out through the front door, standing in the centre of the frosty driveway as if you might see his helicopter on its return already. Legs as wobbly and frail as a newborn calf. Head as heavy as lead.  

The cold air is something of a relief, at least — finally filling your febrile lungs with enough air to return your vision to you. You gulp on it, blinking in the lavender light of the dawn as your eyes adjust to the twilight. 

It’s his job, you remind yourself. 

He has probably been in so many gunfights that he wouldn’t be able to count them. You think of all of those bodies littered around your mansion in Russia — all of them were armed, well trained, and purposefully stationed to combat men like him — and even they could not stand against him. He’s a veteran, you tell yourself. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He can’t be talking to you while fighting a war, can he? 

You resolve to stop trying to radio him. A near impossible task, as you brush the talk button with a jittery finger, so desperate for the consolation of his voice that you feel faint. 

But if he is alive — which he is, you assure yourself — then he’ll be deep in combat. Hiding behind corners, ducking away from gunfire, shooting down a scope, making commands of his soldiers. If you keep pestering him you’ll only be distracting him. You need him focussed on his own survival. 

You remain outside for long enough that you begin to shiver, simmering down in the icy morning air, self-soothing with slow breaths and long blinks. You repeat to yourself like a mantra; 

I’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. He’ll be—

Your breath catches when you hear a rumble in the distance. 

Frozen, you listen. 

The rumble of an engine. Of many. 

Faint, at first, hardly echoing through the trees, dull enough that it might have been the sound of the swelling storm at the horizon — but soon, they get louder. Closer. You hear the gravel crumbling under heavy tires. The roar of the vehicles as they change gears in their haste. 

Your blood turns to water.

It floods to your feet. Your legs almost buckle underneath you. 

“No, no, nononono—” you whimper, so dizzy with terror that you nearly trip over your own feet as you sprint back towards the front door. 

You know those engines. The brontine of a convoy, one that only brings fear and agony with it. 

Infinitely worse, now — because they must know what you are. Must have discovered that you have betrayed them. You cry in horror as you tear open the front door and slam it shut behind you, making sure it locks, as if that would keep them at bay. You can still hear the vehicles through the glass, and it won’t be long until they can see you through the windows, so you scurry around for somewhere to hide. 

“Simon, they’re coming back,” you sob desperately into the radio, as if he could help you. As if he could drop everything and hop back on a helicopter, and be there to save you in less than a minute. 

The futility of it only brings you closer to implosion. You can’t breathe. 

“They’re here,” you bawl, pointlessly, as you drop to the floor in the sitting room, and scuttle under the narrow gap beneath the sofa. You tuck your knees in, holding the radio against your lips. Whispering, squeaking in your fear. “They’re not in Moscow — Simon — they’re still here.” 

The engines stop. You hear the opening of car doors and the slams of them closing. The crunching of shoes on the driveway. Your heart stops. 

You expect to hear a deafening bang as the door is kicked down; but you don’t. You hear the faint beeps of the numbers being entered into the code lock, the two-tone ring of a correct key, the click of the door unlocking. 

‘Прочесать здание. Найти флешку.” Sweep the building. Find the drive. 

That voice turns you to ice. 

Vladimir.

He knew the code to get in. Entered it so dexterously that it must have been by heart. 

You hear the thuds of boots immediately storming out from the foyer. The echo of them storming up the stairs. Down the hallway. Into the very sitting room you hide in. You can see them right in front of you, rugged black boots, laces tied tightly. They hurry past, you hear the murmurings of the soldiers as they comb through the room; clear. Clear. Clear. 

“Ты прячешься от меня, Миа?” Are you hiding from me, Mia? He calls, sadistic pride so rich in his voice that you can imagine it dripping from his chin. He’s greasy with it. Oozing victory. 

You keep your breath in your lungs, now depleted of enough oxygen that your heart begins to hunger for it — but you’re not yet willing to exhale. You don’t want him to hear you. 

“What are you so afraid of, girl?”

He addresses you entirely in Russian. Has he known of your fluency the entire time? 

“You’re even cleverer than I thought you were.”

You release the air in your chest before your vision goes black, as slowly as physically possible, quivering on its way out. Squeeze shut your eyes like you might turn this all into a dream. 

You hear the call of another man from upstairs; “Found the drive. She opened it.”

“She did?” Vladimir laughs incredulously. “No problem. We’ll find out if she tampered with it. Go to the basement. Unlock the server room.” 

Server room? Basement? You feel yourself disintegrating with every beat of your heart. You’ve never heard of a fucking server room, let alone of a basement in the house you had spent the last five years in. 

You feel as if you were set up to fail. That you had lost from the start. Your tears make a faint patter when they land on the slate underneath you and again you hold your breath. 

“Victor didn’t give you enough credit,” he croons, and you hear his shoes on the floor as he strolls down the hallway. “He was as stupid as he was blind. Couldn’t see the turncoat right in front of him.” 

He encroaches on the sitting room. Taunts you with every step. 

“You’re as glad of his death as I am, aren’t you?” He continues, chuckling. “He thought you were a vacuous whore. I knew from the day he brought you back with him that you had him fooled.” 

His attempts to flatter you make your stomach churn. Your throat stings with the bile that rises up your gullet. You start to feel dizzy, again, as you cling to that breath like letting it go will be the death of you. 

“I could always tell you were a smart girl, Mia,” he says, and you can see his shiny leather shoes in the archway through the gap under the sofa. “Smart enough to appease those British bastards. I’m sure they wouldn’t have been kind to you. Not as kind as I have been.” 

He knew. It shouts from the pits of you, reverberating in your hollow skull like a gunshot in a cave. He knew. The whole time, he knew. 

“You’ve been perfect,” he goads. “Exactly as I hoped. Even turned Simon fucking Riley to some pathetic personal escort! That one I did not expect. There really is something special about you, isn’t there?”

He stops. His legs within arms reach, if you were to stick your hand out from beneath the couch. Your vision begins to fade, sparkling at the edges, as you resist the forceful urge to swallow another breath. 

In vain. Because your radio crackles. The static of Simon trying to reach you. “—you—”

You hold down the talk button to cut him off, but it’s too late. 

“Come on now, Mia,” Vladimir grunts, crouching beside the couch. “I’ve got something to show you.” 

There’s a claw around your ankle, then, and your body is pulled out from under the couch like an old blanket — you kick, scratching at the tiles underneath you as if you could crawl out of his grip. 

It is futile. 

All you can do is scream. 

[meepetteoneonly]

Definitely my saviour is the one that hates me. But we can pillow talk about society and how it works. I would see his point and we both end up the bad guys. Bwahahahah.

Choose Your Non-Con Archetype

and here I am, back with my non-con series! Please see the previous post here: the infamous non-con fantasy aka Why Am I So Fucked Up?

Today we talk about 5 men you'll meet in non-con fantasy!

The Saviour

Is he a bad guy? No, he's a gentleman. He is a savior. He knows how to treat a lady. He doesn't expect anything in return. Okay, maybe just a little something, but he won't insist. If he does, you can just say no. Did you really just say "no"?

Associated sex tropes: forced cunnilingus, grooming, coercion, missionary

The Yandere

Is he a bad guy? No, he's just down bad for you. It's love, baby. Love is tough. Love is ruthless. Ever heard that? No? Well, that's your reality now. Nobody will ever love you the way he does. If somebody dares to, they'll be buried ten feet under.

Associated sex tropes: kidnapping, rope play, breeding, baby trapping, mating press

The One That Hates You (But Wants You More)

Is he a bad guy? No, you know who the bad guy is? You are. He never would have done something like that until you came along. A man can only be pushed so far, and you pushed him much further. You are insufferable. Insufferably sexy. Fuck you.

Associated sex tropes: hate sex, gaslighting, clothes ripping, slapping, sex against the wall

The Slavemaster

Is he a bad guy? No, you know who's the bad guy here? The world he lives in. It's just the way society works, the way things are. There are the haves and the have-nots, the top dogs and people like.... you.

Associated sex tropes: collaring, slavery, forced servitude, service blowjobs

The Brute

Is he a bad guy? Yeah you know what, yes, he is the bad guy. And you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, you've answered the wrong call so you are all mine now.

Associated sex tropes: Knife play, handcuffs, doggy style, fear play

[meepetteoneonly]

Voss tryna get that Hammer

[meepetteoneonly]

Instead of revealing he's a devil right away, Raphael pretends to be a noble at first or something. I just wanted an excuse to play dress up with him tbh.

[meepetteoneonly]

Having thoughts about Raphael's mother.

He never knew her, she died when he was born. But she was probably invoked all the time to hurt him. Devils telling him how he's so much like her. He'd deny it forever, promise he's nothing like her, swear he has more in common with his father. But it's a lie. And as he ages, he starts to realize it. Every new fact he learns about her proves it. He gets his love of music from her, something his father has never cared for. His creativity, his spirit, comes from her. His father has never been proud of him, not a moment in his life but she would have been. She would have loved his art, his music, his writings, all things his father considered worthless. If his father had been anyone else, he might have had a wonderful relationship with his mother. He might have been her protege.

But he wasn't.

His father was the archdevil Mephistopheles.

So his mother was nothing. All she was, none of it mattered.

And he doesn't mourn her. Because he never knew her. Because she never mattered. Because she was nothing.

But in another world, she could have been his everything.

[meepetteoneonly]

Local Durge's juicy behind VIOLENTLY MAULED by thirsty vampire BF.

Based on this cute gif!

[meepetteoneonly]

No thoughts, only Raphael.

[meepetteoneonly]

Single Mages are dying to meet you!