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aetherraeys · 3 months ago

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evil twin ! (ii)

part 1

regulus black/barty crouch jr x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 7.0k

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus, swearing, pining!barty, fluff, mild internal conflict, secret relationship

summary: keeping two secrets at once didn't seem like a hard task. barty kept you and regulus under wraps, and the other secret? it was unravelling in him in an all-consuming way he cant avoid; and thought the penny still hadn't dropped for you. regulus saw right through him.

a/n:this is turning out more slowburn than i expected itching to write the next parts heheheh

What Barty lacked in tact and aptitude he made up for in loyalty and devotion.

Because he truly was a devoted friend, to both you and Regulus—loyal to a fault infact, even when he pretended not to be. And while he did banter that it comes at the low, low price of frequent trips to Honeydukes and occasional ego-fluffing, the truth was: he didn’t need to be bought. Not by you. Not by Regulus.

Which is why, despite discovering the two of you tangled up in Regulus’ bed with no room for misinterpretation, he didn’t say a word to anyone. He didn’t need to be told to know that the recent developments between you and Regulus were to be kept exclusively between the three of you.

The next morning was telling enough, when you silently settled into your usual place at the dining table—beside Pandora and Regulus stayed at the far end, comfortable opposite him, buttering his toast composed as ever. But he didn’t miss the way Regulus’ eyes linger on you for a moment when he tucked himself into the bench, or how they helplessly flickered to you whenever you laughed at something Evan said.

Catching on to the minute touches you granted Regulus when you left the table early, fingertips hidden under your robes as you glided past him, just barely skimming across his arm, or how you would perk up slightly whenever Regulus’ voice rung lowly through the Ancient Runes classroom—paying extra attention to his careful tone.

Barty didn’t say it, but he noticed everything.

Because Barty was good with secrets—He’d carry them like crown jewels.

He even had a small one of his own brewing.

It was a lazy sort of evening—the kind where the light filtered through the windows in hazy streaks and time didn’t seem to press down so hard. You were in the boys’ dorm, perched in your usual spot: stretched halfway across Barty’s bed, legs tangled over the edge, head propped up on a pillow you’d stolen ages ago and never returned.

He sat cross-legged beside you, flipping through some half-finished notes, though he hadn’t turned a page in at least ten minutes. Instead, he’d tilted toward you slightly, cheek resting on his fist, watching the way your fingers absentmindedly threaded through his tufts.

It wasn’t new, really. Casual touches had always been your language with Barty. You ruffled his hair when he was being smug, smacked his arm when he teased you, leaned against him when you were tired. It was natural, familiar.

But the way he was looking at you now—quietly, fondly, like you were made of something softer than the world deserved—you didn’t notice.

You rarely did.

“Regulus is going to combust when he walks in,” Barty murmured, lips quirking faintly.

You didn’t even glance up. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Because you’re you.”

Before you could answer, with a dramatic roll of your eyes, the door creaked open behind you.

Speak of the devil.

Regulus stepped in, shirt slightly damp with sweat and sleeves rolled up, hair a bit disheveled like he’d run a hand through it a few times on the way back. His bag slung low over one shoulder before he let it drop to the floor with a thud.

“Well, well,” Barty said with that unmistakable glint in his eye, “look who’s returned from war.”

Regulus didn’t rise to the bait, just shot him a look as he moved to the other side of the room, unbuttoning his cuffs with precise fingers.

Barty’s gaze slid over him with playful deliberation. “Didn’t know you glistened, Black. I feel like I should be offended no one warned me.”

Regulus ignored him, unsurprised.

But his eyes drifted, just for a second, over to where you were sprawled across the bed—completely unbothered, still playing with Barty’s hair like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

Regulus noticed. Of course he did.

The ease of your touch, the way your hand curled lazily in the soft brown curls near Barty’s temple, the way Barty leaned into it slightly—eyes half-lidded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the worst part?

The look Barty gave you, when he thought no one else was watching. Unapologetic. Unfairly fond.

It was obvious to everyone. Everyone but you.

Regulus didn’t say anything, but when Barty looked back up at him, he was met with one raised brow.

Barty smirked.

Then sighed, long and dramatic, as he shifted upright on the bed. “Honestly, Reg,” he muttered, stretching his arms above his head, “you really ought to learn how to share. I was here first, you know. She’s been my friend since—”

“Since you failed to con me into writing your essays?” you interjected, still not lifting your head.

He waved a hand. “Details.”

You groaned as Barty moved, your hand falling away from his hair with a grumble. “You were warm.” Barty gave you a faux-apologetic look.

“I know. I’m perfect. It’s a curse.”

“What’s the problem then, J?” you muttered lazily, stretching like a cat.

He only nodded his head toward Regulus.

And just like that, your whole face lit up.

Pushing yourself up in a heartbeat, a slow, sly grin crawling across your lips. “Well, well, well…” you said in a sing-song, teasing tone, hopping off the bed and padding toward Regulus, who immediately straightened up, gaze sharpening.

Unknowingly, parrotting Barty.

Your eyes flicked over him—his rumpled hair, the damp collar of his shirt, the flushed look lingering on his cheekbones. You let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock me out before you walk around looking like that?” you murmured, all candied mischief. Leaning in close, one hand brushing lightly up his arm as you rose onto your toes, lips ghosing against the his jaw on the way up, whispering into his ear.

It had immediate effect.

Regulus flushed. Like someone had set a match to the base of his throat and let it crawl up slowly toward his ears—frozen, standing there with his shirt clinging to his chest and his lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His entire expression was somewhere between awe and absolute crisis.

“Next time you want to sweat like this, I have a feeling I’ll be able to help with that.”

You pulled back, utterly delighted with yourself, smile too sweet to be innocent—before he could respond—a smug undertone to your deceiving light expression, eyes glinting like you’d just cast a spell that only he could feel. Which, to be fair—you had.

Humming quietly to yourself as you turned on your heel—grabbing your bag from beside Barty’s bed, and skipped out of the room like you’d done nothing more than offer a weather update.

Whispered straight into his bloodstream and just walked away smiling.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Regulus stayed planted where he was.

Across the room, Barty flopped backward onto his bed again with an exhausted groan, flinging an arm over his eyes. “Merlin’s balls, I need a drink.”

It was fine at first.

But morning after morning, day after day, *week after week—*it was getting harder and harder for Regulus to keep a bottle on himself. He was trying so hard to be discrete.

But he wasn’t very good at pretending.

He found himself looking for you in every corridor—eyes flicking up automatically whenever laughter echoed ahead. He lingered by doorways longer than necessary, shoulders tensing the moment your voice drifted out of a classroom.

He stuck close, sometimes without realising it. A shadow trailing behind, just out of sight but never far. At meals. In common spaces. During shared patrols. It was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

Because you didn’t seem to notice.

Or if you did, you didn’t let on.

You were maddeningly unaffected—floating through your days with your usual rhythm: charming and unbothered, joking with Evan, flicking ink stains off your notes, sharing your scarf with Dorcas in the chilly corridors, and once, falling asleep in the common room with your legs draped across Barty’s lap like it was nothing. Like Regulus wasn’t trying very hard not to combust in public.

Like you didn’t spend most evenings together in the confines of his four pillar-curtained bed, sharing lingering touches, whispers, glances—things that didn't belong to the outside world.

There were lines, invisible but firm, that neither of you crossed outside the sanctuary of shadows. A glance too long could mean a rumor. A touch too light could start a wildfire.

And it was starting to grate on him.

Hated the way he had to steel himself every time your hand brushed his in passing, hated pretending your teasing didn’t undo him thread by thread. You were so casual about it—bold, insufferably charming, the very picture of unbothered. Like you hadn’t spent the previous night tangled up in his sheets with your fingers pressed into the nape of his neck and his lips mapping out constellations against your throat.

Like you weren’t his.

And yet, in the corridors, in the classroom, in the halls where words echoed and eyes lingered—he had to keep his distance. He couldn’t give himself away.

Not yet.

He told himself it was fine. That this secrecy was necessary, that he didn’t mind. But then you'd do something—like pause beside him at the common room just to trail your fingers across his shoulder with faux-innocent mischief—or catch his gaze across the courtyard and bite back a smile, and it would wreck him.

He wanted to be next to you. Always. Not just at night. Not just behind closed curtains or locked doors.

You’d caught him in the library, quiet and golden-lit under the sparse candles, the smell of old parchment lingering in the air. He was tucked well away into one of the dark empty corner that no one else ever went near with a stack of dense tomes, hoping to distract himself with some heavy reading. Movements like still water, imperceivable—he hadn’t seen you enter, hadn’t heard your footsteps, but then—

You were just there.

Sliding into the narrow alcove beside him with that familiar glint in your eyes, a whisper of jasmine trailing after you. His breath caught before you even said a word.

Your hands found his collar first—fingers curling into the soft fabric, pulling him in as you leaned forward. He barely managed a startled noise before your mouth found his, plush and eager and so deeply familiar it punched the air from his lungs. Kissing him with a delicate vigour, like you had every right to—like you were claiming him all over again, and Merlin help him, he let you.

He gripped the edge of the table like it could anchor him, heart hammering wildly as your lips brushed down to the corner of his mouth, then along the curve of his jaw, peppering kiss after kiss like a spell cast only for him.

Breathing your name like a prayer.

“Someone could—” he whispered hoarsely, even as his hand found your waist. “Someone could see.”

Your only response was another kiss. Then another. His restraint frayed with each one, chasing your lips with his for more—

It was whiplashing the way you’d tempt and then pulled back, smile honey-sweet and cruel with mischief.

“Bye, Reggie,” you whispered, and then you were gone—vanishing around the corner with a bounce in your step, leaving Regulus flushed and dazed, chest heaving.

He blinked. Ran a hand through his hair with a sharp exhale.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking toward the exit like you might reappear.

You didn’t—Not until the evening in his dorm.

Moonlight was casting small pale ribbons of shadow across the dungeon floors, the room was quiet, just the two of you, enjoying your momentary slither of privacy with each other. Pressed against Regulus, your hands warm against the bare skin of his chest, your mouth finding his again and again like you were starving for him. Like he was the only air you needed.

He kissed you like you were a secret he never wanted to share—fingers tangled in your hair, other hand at the small of your back, pulling you closer. He couldn’t get enough.

Didn’t want to.

And for once, there was no hiding. No room for restraint. You were curled up on his bed, tangled in his sheets, soft gasps and laughter muffled into each other’s mouths.

His lips brushed your throat, then your cheek, then your temple.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered into your skin.

��Then I’ll die with you.” smiling against him.

It was perfect. Warm. Safe.

Until the door creaked open, you both froze.

Barty.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t stumble or act surprised—just stood there in the threshold for a moment, eyes unreadable, lips twitching into something that tried to be amusement, respectfully averting his gaze as the door shut behind him with a soft click.

“Merlin,” he drawled, voice light, “I swear if I walk in on you two one more time, I’m going to start charging admission.”

You laughed, easy and unbothered, slipping off the bed as if nothing had happened. Regulus sat up slower, watching you grab your wand and stretch with that infuriatingly charming grin.

“I should head down, two rolls of parchment on the effects of Stinksap won’t write itself,” words accompanied with a heavy sigh.

You leaned over, pressed a lingering kiss to Regulus’ jaw—too long for propriety, too short for satisfaction—before slipping past Barty with a pat to his shoulder.

“See you at breakfast, Junior,” you called over your shoulder.

The dull click of the door was the last sound in the room for a while, Regulus’ fingertips ghosted over where you lips had been, resting at his jaw, eyes fixed on it for a moment too long. Then looked back at Barty as he flopped onto his bed without a word, arm flung onto his forehead like usual. But the rhythm of his thoughts was different now. Louder.

And what Regulus saw it—saw right through him.

It wasn’t irritation. Or jealousy.

Something quiet and aching and hidden—floating behind his eyes as he stared up at his ceiling aimlessly—almost unblinking, and unaware of Regulus subtle watchful eye. Then abruptly sitting up, legs swinging over the edge of his bed carrying the motion of his swivel as his feet hit the floor with a soft pad—but not once did he lift his eyes.

Even look at Regulus.

Lips pursed into a tightline, head hanging for a moment before he rose to a stand—collecting and organising some items, uncharacteristically quiet. Taking his towel and drapping it over his shoulders stalking over to the door.

“You alright, B?”

The words rung clearly through the short stillness that had veiled the room, and it had Barty stop in his tracks, hand hovering over the doorknob.

He could hear the low rustle of fabric, could feel Regulus’ eyes boring into his back, unable to mask the way his shoulders rose and fell with the sigh he let out through his nose. “Yeah, gonna go take a shower,”

With that, he slipped out of the room.

Leaving Regulus perched up on his elbows, gaze once again, lingering on the door. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he sunk back against the sheets—rolling onto his side and burying his face into the pillow you’d laid on.

Trying to push down the almost dejected expression Barty had on his face, trying to quiet his mind with the lingering scent of you.

Groaning inwardly as he failed, replying the moment Barty frozen at the door—eyes scanning over both of you, shoulders sinking faintly. He knew too well what Barty sounded like when he lied, and the words he spoke at the door were most definetely not true.

Barty had no reason to shower—he already had during his free after Lunch, but he just needed an excuse, a second to compose himself. Even as he tried to walk casually, quietly—down the stairs and through the common room, your laughter floated around the room. Hung in the air in a way that had his throat tightening.

It seemed the odds were not in his favour today.

Because as he padded wordlessly behind the sofa, ignoring the way he struggled to swallow, fighting the urge to let his eyes fall on your turned back. You clearly had a sixth sense, perking up slightly at the sounds of his footsteps, voice light and teasing.

“Where you off to, Junior?”

You still hadn’t turned, but he could already picture the sly smile on your face from your tone—and he still didn’t stop his walk, mustering up as cheery a voice he could manage.

“Drain diving, Tres. Someone needs to keep Reg’s hair at bay,” he said, without missing a beat.

It was good. Solid. The kind of line he’d use any day of the week—and as sarcastic as it was, it lacked it’s usual dramatics. He was gone before you could say anything, before you could point out the lack of energy in his voice, or how he didn’t turn to you.

The water hit too cold at first.

He let it.

Let it numb the way his stomach was twisting in knots, the way the image of your mouth on Regulus’ jaw wouldn’t stop replaying on a loop behind his eyes. He tilted his head back, let the droplets soak through his hair, tried to will it all away.

Because he saw it—every time Regulus reached for you like he couldn’t help himself, Barty saw the same yearning reflected in himself.

An ever present slight burning ache settled under his ribs, aggressive and invasive, and impossible to ignore whenever you were in the room. It wasn’t that he was envious exactly—more like he was mourning—grieving.

Barty wasn’t stupid.

He knew it wasn’t your fault.

You were the same. Completely, achingly the same.

Still laughed at all his worst jokes. Still tugged at his scarf when it was crooked. Still looped your arm through his like gravity didn’t apply to your affection. Still smiled at him with that easy, unguarded brightness that made people fall in love with you in the first place.

And it killed him.

Because you hadn’t changed.

He had.

And now every time your hand brushed his in passing, every time you leaned into his side on the common room sofa or knocked your forehead against his in mock exasperation, he felt like he was drowning in a tide no one else could see.

He’d always known you were tactile—warm, generous with your affection. With your attention. Sometimes your fingers would still find his hair. Still ruffle it with a grin. Still tug affectionately at his sleeve. And he hated that it made his breath catch. You’d always loved easily, freely, and it had never meant more than that.

He found himself reeling in silence from touches that were meant to comfort him. From the way you reached for him like he was still safe to you, like nothing had shifted.

Until it did.

Until he started wanting it to.

Because he loved you. But not just the way he was supposed to. Not just the way a best friend does.

And you didn’t know, couldn’t—he’d made sure of that.

It was late the next afternoon when you found him on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, where the grass flattened beneath old boot tracks and the air carried the smell of damp leather and wind.

You plopped down beside him with a soft sigh, pulling your legs to your chest and letting the golden haze of the sunset warm your face. Shoulders bumping his lightly, and you didn’t move away. Just tilted your head toward him, lashes fluttering as you smiled, eyes squinting at the last light.

“So,” you said, lazy and light, “if you had to choose between fighting ten Blast-Ended Skrewts or one McGonagall-sized Bowtruckle—what would it be?”

Barty scoffed. “Are you serious? The Skrewts. At least I’d die with dignity.”

You burst out laughing. Loud and bright and so carefree it made his chest twist. Turning your face toward him, sun-warmed and glowing, and he couldn’t breathe for a second. Not with how close you were. Not with how your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him like that.

Just like you always had.

He had to look away. Had to force his eyes back to the sky before they gave too much away.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, completely at ease. “You’re still my favourite person to be stupid with, you know that?”

Gods, it burned.

Because that meant everything to him. And not enough.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

And you didn’t hear the break in his voice. Of course you didn’t. Because you hadn’t changed. Because this was normal. Comfortable. The two of you, tucked into each other’s space like you belonged there.

Like he wasn’t burning alive from it.

You reached for his hand without thinking, absently fiddling with his fingers the way you always did. He froze—just for a moment—and you didn’t even notice.

But he did.

He noticed everything.

The way your thumb brushed over his knuckles. The softness in your touch. The way his heartbeat thundered at your smallest movements. And how much it hurt, knowing it was just another day to you. Just another friend to touch and lean on and love in your way.

You didn’t know what it was doing to him.

Didn’t know how he went to sleep every night wondering when it had changed for him, wondering why he couldn’t seem to undo it.

You were with Regulus now. And you looked so good together. There was a softness to him around you, a steadiness you brought out that Barty had never seen in him before. And he was happy for that. Honestly, he was.

But somewhere inside, he was still quietly grieving.

Grieving the could-have-been.

Because before Regulus, before the stolen glances and secret kisses, before the whisper of your name like prayer from someone else’s mouth—he’d let himself think that the swirling in the pits of his stomach was nothing.

And now, looking at you—one of his best friends, his light, his treasure, the person he was closest to—and knowing that nothing had to be different between you, but everything was different in him…it made him feel like he was quietly rotting from the inside out.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. Let you keep holding it.

And didn’t say a word.

The first Quidditch match of the season had finally rolled around, Hufflepuff V Slytherin.

Slytherin had, of course, won.

The match had been a brutal thing, all wind-lashed faces and thunderous roars from the stands. Hufflepuff had held their own for the first half, but once Regulus caught the Snitch, there was no denying it—the green and silver crowd had erupted.

And you, in the middle of it, had clapped with gloved hands and a too-wide grin. Not just for the House victory. Not even for Barty’s wildly impressive Bludger send-off or Evan’s smug little mid-air feint.

But because Regulus had looked up into the crowd moments after the win, and you knew he'd been looking for you.

He had asked you the night before, voice low, lips brushing your ear in the quiet of the library—

“You’ll come tomorrow, won’t you?” “I need my good luck charm,”

Your smile had been immediate.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you replied in a hushed tone.

So you came. Because he asked. And because you believed in him.

Now, you stood just outside the changing rooms, shoulder-to-shoulder with Dorcas and Pandora—hands buried in your coat pockets. Holding a chocolate frog for Barty, your usual offering of victory—it had become what of a ritual. A quiet constant. A way to be there without being seen.

The door creaked open and voices spilled into the hallway, bright and loud, energy buzzing off them in waves. Evan walked out first, hair still damp, dragging his broom behind him and already mid-laugh at something Barty had said.

And Barty—flushed, sweat-damp, beaming—was in the middle of some animated retelling of a mid-air collision, wild gestures slicing through the air like a Bludger. Regulus followed just behind them, quieter, polished, composed in that effortless way only he could manage—even after an hour in the air.

You felt the pull in your chest.

Regulus’ eyes found you immediately. That quiet, private smile cracked through his usual composure, like the sun peeking through mist. It had your fingers twitch at your sides. Thought, just for a second, about running to him—throwing your arms around his neck, kissing him full and proud, like you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not yet. Not when everything between you still lived in the shadows.

Before the longing could settle, Barty was already on you. Half-charged and grinning, still vibrating from the rush of play, arms thrown around you without warning.

“Oi—Barty!” you laughed, half-gasping, “You’re soaked!”

He only laughed louder, pulling you into a tight, jostling hug that had you wriggling with a grimace. “Victory sweat, darling—it’s sacred.”

You rolled your eyes, but your laughter was genuine, echoing down the corridor. Subtly flicking your gaze toward Regulus in the midst of it, catching the slight stiffening in his shoulders—watching the smile he’d worn moments ago dulled at the edges. He wasn’t angry—Regulus didn’t do anger—but you knew that look.

A barely visible twitch of disappointment. A small ache he couldn’t say out loud.

Still, he said nothing. Walked quietly beside Evan as Barty slung an arm over your shoulder with little fanfare, prattling on.

“I swear this is the real reason I play.” Barty crowed, accepting the chocolate frog with the reverence of a trophy.

“Not the glory? The House Cup?” you teased, resting your head against his damp robes despite yourself.

“Nope. This,” he said, holding the chocolate frog aloft like it was a prize. “My muse. My reward. My one true love.”

An exasperated snort built in your chest, and you let your gaze wander—back to Regulus. He was a step behind, his hands shoved in his pockets, the shape of his lips pressed thin. He looked at you again and your heart tugged.

The win didn’t feel like a win to him.

Not when he had to keep his distance. His eyes lingered a moment too long on where Barty’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, the casual intimacy of it—the way your body leaned toward him like it had done a thousand times. There was nothing scandalous about it. You and Barty had always been touchy, always unguarded.

Regulus didn’t see nothing.

He saw what he wanted to be doing. And what he couldn’t.

You slowed your pace, letting Dorcas and Pandora pull ahead with Evan and Barty leading the charge in boisterous celebration. When you felt Regulus fall into step beside you, you let your hand drift close—barely brushing his knuckles.

He relaxed.

Didn’t need to look at him to feel it, the subtle melting of tension.

“You were incredible,” you said softly, glancing sideways, smile tugging at your lips. “So controlled. So cold-blooded. Honestly, it’s terrifying how attractive I find that.”

His lips twitched, eyes dancing with restrained amusement. “I missed two passes.”

“You caught the Snitch.”

��Hufflepuff’s Seeker is twelve.”

“Hufflepuff’s Seeker cried.” you added with a snort.

He tried not to smile. Failed.

You slipped your arm casually around his shoulder, light and teasing—and Regulus very nearly stopped walking. He wasn’t used to this—getting to have even a fraction of you in public. It still made his stomach twist in the best way.

You scanned the hall. No one looking. Heart fluttering.

“A win’s a win,” you whispered, leaning in close, lips ghosting against the shell of his ear before pressing a soft forbidden kiss—too quick, too daring—to the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, you were gone again, dashing up the corridor with a light giggle, calling out to Dorcas and Pandora to wait up.

He stood stunned for a moment, flushed redder than the post-match sprint had made him, hand half-raised toward where you’d been—then with a grinning groan, he shoved it through his still slightly damp hair, picking up into a jog to catch up.

Because damn it, if he couldn’t hold your hand in front of everyone yet, the least he could do was walk beside you.

Even if his lips still burned where yours had kissed him, moments like that made it worth it.

And he’d chase you anywhere if you let him.

The Slytherin common room pulsed with victory. Music thrummed low through the stone walls, enchanted vinyl humming in the corner while the fire crackled with an almost celebratory ferocity.

The air buzzed with laughter and lazy conversation, bodies tangled across couches and sprawled across plush carpets.

Someone had dragged the green velvet cushions off the window seat; a pile of them now acted as makeshift thrones in the middle of the room.

Evan and Mulciber had charmed the fire to flicker house colours. Barty was lounged across the sofa, hair still wet, cheeks flushed, talking animatedly with Dorcas about some ridiculous midair save he’d supposedly made.

Pandora was upside down on an armchair, feet kicked over the back, humming absently to herself and passing a bottle of firewhiskey to the next person without lifting her head.

You were nestled near the hearth, legs tucked to one side on the thick rug, eyes glowing in the light. Comfortable. Warm.

A half-full glass was handed to you—offered with a wink by Avery, already slurring as he tried to convince you to toast to their clean sweep victory. But you just smiled and held up a hand, shaking your head. “I’m alright.”

That was all you said. Casual. Offhand. But Regulus, seated just across from you on the low couch beside Barty, didn’t look away.

His eyes flicked toward you, narrowing just slightly.

And you could feel it, of course you could—that quiet little thread tugging between you two again, subtle as a breath. He knew your tells. The slight purse of your lips. The measured tone. You were fine—but he was still watching. Barty noticed the flicker of scrutiny in Regulus’ gaze and raised a brow, curious.

“She doesn’t drink firewhiskey,” he offered with a lazy grin, nudging Regulus with his shoulder. “Too much of a Potter. Neither of them can handle wizarding liquor.”

“Oh, sod off,” you rolled your eyes, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not that I can’t handle it—just that if I do, the night takes a turn.”

A few people snorted, but it was the way your eyes lingered—just a beat too long—on Regulus that made his throat go tight. A subtle, sly smirk danced on your lips. No one else saw it. No one else ever really did.

But he felt it, and it forced him to look away, ears tinged pink—the heat of your gaze—an unspoken thing sparking between you like flint and steel, hand curling around his glass tighter.

Dorcas let out a dramatic boo. “That’s exactly why you should drink.”

“Come on!” Evan bellowed. “What’s a party without a little chaos?”

The chants started immediately. First Dorcas, then Evan, then Wilkes and Pandora, all falling into a rhythm of exaggerated pleading.

“Drink! Drink! Drink—”

“Oh, fuck’s sake—” you groaned, laughing as Dorcas elbowed you, almost toppling you into the fireplace. “You lot are so dramatic.”

Rising to a stand, slow and measured, the room quietened slightly for a moment. And Regulus frozen, he knew that look. That wicked glint in your eye that always spelled trouble. That smirk that made his pulse stutter.

You walked toward him like you had no plan and every plan all at once. And that was the thing with you—you were unpredictable.

Devastatingly so.

Stopping just in front of him, gaze locked on his, and his breath caught.

Barty shifted beside him, watching with vague amusement, but Regulus was still, glass in hand, eyes tracking your every step like a storm was about to break.

Wordlessly, you reached down, plucking the glass of Firewhiskey out of his hands, fingers ghosting over his, and he remained still blinking—brows raised in mild surprise.

And with a swift turn on your heel, your facing the room like a performer stepping into the spotlight, and chugged.

The room erupted.

A chorus of shouts and laughter exploded around you as you tipped your head back, throat bobbing as you drained the glass with barely a wince. The firewhiskey burned—harsh, bitter, like swallowing heat—but you didn’t stop. When the last drop was gone, you lowered the glass, wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and bowed with a theatrical flourish.

Pandora let out a shriek of delight, accompanied with a war cry-esque noise erupting from Evan. But it all faded into the back, because your eyes were not on them at all.

They were on Regulus.

And the look you gave him made something in him unravel. Slow and deliberate as you leaned down—just enough to press the now-empty glass back into his palm. Touch warm and lingering against his, forcing saliva to unconsciously pool in his mouth—swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, heat rising to the tips of his ears again.

Because you looked at him like he was something worth devouring.

And Regulus, for all his control, felt undone.

There was a tingle beneath your skin now, the firewhiskey spreading quick and heady in your bloodstream, setting your nerves alight. So, naturally, you went where you felt safest—chaos be damned. There wasn’t enough space on the couch between Regulus and Barty.

But you didn’t let that stop you.

With a smug grin, you yanked a cushion halfway out from under Barty, ignoring his protest, and dropped yourself to the floor between them, legs crossed, back pressed to the couch, arms draped lazily over both their knees like you owned the space.

Barty let out a mock offended noise but didn’t move.

Regulus, however, had gone entirely still.

Your head tilted back until it rested gently against the edge of the cushion behind you—just under Regulus’ knee. You looked up at him with a lazy grin, mischief written across your features, and the firelight caught in your eyes like gold.

He looked down at you, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with a little more effort than usual.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low.

“Mmm,” tongue darting out to wet your lips as they stretched into an even wider smirk. “Getting there.”

And the tension between you buzzed, humming through the floor like a livewire, tucked beneath laughter and music and the haze of firewhiskey.

The alcohol licked like lightning down your spine, curling hot and fast through your chest until your cheeks were flushed and your limbs were loose with warmth. You weren’t drunk—not really. Just dizzy. Buzzing. Drunk on the music, the magic in the air, the heat of laughter blooming all around you.

You’d had just enough to drink for your thoughts to feel dreamy and untethered, a honeyed buzz settling into your chest and behind your eyes. Like gravity had decided to let go of you for the night. Your inhibitions drifted somewhere behind you, too far to reach back for.

You burned bright—laughter sharp and sweet in the air, cheeks warm, movements fluid. James-like, someone mumbled. Dorcas maybe. You didn’t catch it, but Regulus did. The way you were sparkling now, a little unhinged, that same Potter edge—chaotic and captivating.

The games had started at some point—card games from both worlds, charmed cups floating in midair, enchantments that made losing feel like something more than embarrassment. You and Barty had teamed up for the next round of some ridiculous Muggle game that Evan swore he remembered the rules to, though no one was really convinced he was playing it right.

You were curled up beside the couch again, cross-legged, giddy and unfocused, blinking down at the set of cards in your hand like they might start speaking if you stared hard enough.

And Barty—unapologetic as ever—had been peeking at your cards, barking out a laugh when you hissed at him.

“Oi!” you yelped, jerking your cards to your chest. “Cheater.”

Barty threw his head back with a laugh, completely unbothered. “We’re on the same team, you lunatic.”

You blinked. “Oh. Right.”

On the other side of you, Regulus was watching—shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable but for the faint twitch of his lips.

And when you leaned back against the couch again, huffing dramatically about your “genius being under appreciated,” the floor just…felt wrong. Cold. Hard. Unfair, really.

So, without warning, you wormed your way up into the impossibly narrow space between Regulus and Barty on the couch, folding your legs up to your chest, half-sinking into both of them as you settled like a cat who had decided the whole world belonged to you.

Barty snorted, shifting his hip to give you just a bit more space.

Regulus, ever composed, didn’t move.

But his gaze lingered on you—soft and slow, too fond for anyone who might’ve been watching not to notice. You were humming some nonsense to yourself, tapping the edge of the card deck against your shin, and it was like the whole world had dulled for a moment, the only sharp point left being you.

The game stretched on. Someone cheated. Someone else hexed the cards. You were lost.

And by the time the game ended, your spark had dulled to a flickering glow.

Barty elbowed you when you sighed dramatically, cards falling from your grip. “You’re a sore loser.”

“Stupid game anyway*,*” you mumbled into your knees, the top of your head now resting against your arms, voice muffled and sleepy. You didn’t even react when Regulus’ hand brushed gently down the slope of your spine—once, then again. Reassuring. Instinctual.

Head lifting slightly at the contact, lips parting to murmur something incoherent, but then you slumped again, boneless.

“She’s out,” Barty chuckled, shifting slightly.

There was a pause—silent and unsure—before he glanced at Barty, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I can’t—” he started. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t finish the thought.

Couldn’t risk being the one to carry you up. Not in front of everyone. Not when they’d notice. Barty rolled his eyes, already pushing up from the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He bent down and picked you up like it was nothing, an effortless thing, your head instinctively tucking against his collarbone. You barely stirred.

No one batted an eye.

It wasn’t strange, not with you and Barty. Not anymore.

Regulus stayed behind, surrounded by friends, laughter bouncing somewhere far off as the warmth of your body left his side. He sat with the echo of your absence in the space where you’d been, hands limp in his lap, teeth clenched, a bitter ache pulsing low in his ribs.

When he finally made his way upstairs—after the room had nearly emptied, after he’d made sure no one would follow—he opened the door to his dorm quietly.

You were there.

Curled in the centre of his bed, arm tucked under your cheek, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. Barty was lounging on his own bed, one arm draped lazily over his stomach, the other supporting his head.

Regulus crossed the room without a word, sinking onto the mattress beside you, hand reaching out instinctively to brush a strand of hair from your face.

And Barty was watching, the way Regulus’ touched you with the most fragile of hands—looking at you like you were made of moonlight. Like you’d hung the stars in the sky—a fond, unguarded tenderness in his gaze. He pushed down the lump in his throat with a hard swallow, detering the dull ache in his chest with a teasing tone;

“You could at least try not to look so in love with her in front of everyone,” Barty said lazily, voice cutting through the silence with a dry chuckle.

Regulus didn’t respond at first.

Just kept staring.

His hand hovered for a moment longer over your temple, finally pulling back like it hurt to let go. Then, finally—quietly, tiredly—he turned to look at Barty.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

part (iii)

feel free to reply to be on the taglist for the next parts mwah x

719 notes · View notes

riddlemelater · 2 months ago

Text

Above Me - M.R

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

masterlist | nav | part 2

summary: It was supposed to be simple—just sex, no strings, no expectations. Mattheo didn’t do attachments, and you weren’t looking to fix him. But the lines are starting to blur, and neither of you are willing to admit it.

word count: 4.8k

warnings: unprotected p in v, smut, slight dom!mattheo, fem! reader, dirty talk, praise, use of pet names, emotional repression, fwb type relationship.

a/n: first time writing for Mattheo, and my first post here! let me know what you think. all likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! ✯

How the arrangement started didn’t matter, only that it worked. You both had something to gain. For Mattheo, it was low maintenance and high reward. You never outstayed your welcome, and he never lingered. Just a wink, a smirk, and a muttered "Same time tomorrow?" That was the deal.

It was guaranteed satisfaction without the risk of raised expectations— and even if they did catch feelings, he'd crush them the next day when he acted like they never existed.

He'd leave them tangled in his sheets and smirking by breakfast, already moving on before their names could stick. You'd seen how he operated — quick, careless, and never around long enough to deal with a morning-after attachment. He didn't want to be fixed, he just wanted someone willing.

And who was more suited for his needs than you.

Of course, no one would suspect a thing — not that he would care if they did anyway, he was practically fluent in attracting unwanted attention. But you, well you were the perfect solution to his little problem. Ever the golden girl of his little band of misfits, all soft smiles and sharper words. You were in a league of your own, far better than he deserved, and Mattheo loved defying the odds.

You suppose Mattheo had become a friend, in the loosest sense of the word. Unfortunately for you, loyalty to Pansy outweighed your indifference to him and his equally debauched friends. And as Pansy and Draco had resumed their on-again-off-again relationship— truly a mystery to all involved— you'd found yourself in his company more often than not.

With Pansy gravitating towards her blonde disaster of a boyfriend, your meals were punctuated by tales of Mattheo's latest sexual trysts. Your evenings, usually spent solely with Pansy, were now hijacked by the overwhelming stench of testosterone and crudeness.

Eventually, you ended up at the very centre of it all—behind everyone else's backs. And really, who were you to look a gift horse in the mouth?

✯ ✯ ✯

"Psst."

It took his third, maybe fourth, attempt to catch your attention. Reluctantly, you lifted your gaze from the parchment you'd been taking notes on, only to be met with his dark eyes.

You glanced past him toward the front of the room, where Professor Binnes — as lively as ever — was drifting lazily by the chalkboard. The chalk screeching faintly against the board, its dry scratch slicing through his relentless drone.

Clearly, the ghostly professor was either unaware or unbothered that half the class had taken his lecture as an opportunity to doze off, quills abandoned mid-sentence and parchment stained with ink blots where their hands had slumped. The remaining half, which was very few, were barely pretending to care about the painfully dull history of the 1289 Warlock Convention— a truly mind-numbing subject even by Binnes’ usual standards.

Mattheo kicked back in his chair at the desk in front of you, the very picture of disinterest whilst he twisted his wand between his fingers— the cool glint of his Riddle signet ring flashing each time his hand twisted in a hypnotic rhythm.

Beside him Lorenzo looked to be fast asleep, cheek squished against the back of his hand, practically drooling onto the untouched textbook in front of him. The lack of his usual elegance had you fighting back a shaky laugh. Your eyes drifted back to Mattheo, his head tilted against the back of the chair, a lazy sort of grin tugging at his lips.

"What?" you mouthed, lifting your quill in a vaguely annoyed gesture, as if to ask why he was interrupting you in the first place. But you already knew the answer, he was bored and without Enzo to entertain him, you were next in line.

Not that you were a swot. You certainly weren’t a teacher's pet either. But unlike Mattheo, you actually planned on leaving Hogwarts with something to show for it. A goal he openly mocked anytime someone dared remind him he still had exams to sit— Dark Lord’s heir or not.

Mattheo didn't reply, not with words anyway. He just grinned, clearly amused, watching you shake your head and continue writing down names and policies Binnes’ mentioned. Just because he wasn’t working didn’t mean that you had to stop. A fact you reminded yourself of firmly when flipping the pages of your textbook with extra purpose.

And that sentiment lasted… all of thirty seconds.

Before his face reappeared in your peripherals, far closer than you’d have liked, arm braced on your desk, body turned entirely to face you. Waiting with that stupid smirk on his face.

"What do you want, Mattheo?" you sighed, keeping your voice low to not disturb Binnes dulcet groans. You leaned back slightly, meeting his eyes with an unimpressed stare. He smirked in retaliation— of course he did— that same glint in his eyes you’d come to recognise all too well.

Nothing good ever followed that look.

"Why do you think I always want something, hmm?" He asked, idly toying with the corner of your parchment.

His gaze didn’t waver, and you realised almost immediately what this was about but you wouldn’t say it. If he wanted your attention then he could ask for it himself. His lips parted, like he was about to elaborate but you beat him to it.

"Because you do always want something."

Mattheo’s jaw dropped open playfully, putting a hand to his chest in feigned offence. “Harsh. I was just trying to be friendly.”

“You don’t know how to be friendly.” You retorted, shooting him a flat look.

He grinned — wider now, all teeth and trouble. Like you’d walked right into his web. And in a sense you had, falling for his pestering and giving him the satisfaction of stealing your attention, even momentarily.

“Sure I do. I think you’ll find I’m being very friendly right now. Offering you a break. A bit of stimulating conversation. Emotional support during this soul-draining lecture.”

You glanced towards the front of the classroom, where Professor Binnes was still rambling on, utterly oblivious to his wilting audience. Most had committed to sleep now, heads tucked into folded arms. You envied them.

“You. Emotional support. Right.” You scoffed dryly, turning back to your parchment and suppressing the urge to roll your eyes.

But Mattheo didn’t retreat. If anything, he leaned in closer, close enough that you caught the faint mix of smoke and amber that clung to his robes, a scent so unmistakably him.

“You busy later?” He eventually asked, voice low enough not to attract any attention.

You kept your eyes on your notes, dipping your quill into the ink pot impassively. “I will be, if you carry on talking and ruin my notes.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Not very friendly of you.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, knowing he was looking to get under your skin. Instead you hummed, underlined a random sentence in your textbook and forced a blank expression that gave nothing away. The quill scratching at your parchment a welcomed distraction from the brief silence.

“Anyway,” he pressed, still frustratingly close, “Thought you might want to come by tonight. Usual time.”

At this, your gaze finally raised from your parchment, mouth agape. “Is that what this little performance is about?”

He shrugged. “Can’t a guy check on what’s his?”

Sometimes you really couldn’t believe the gall of him. His. Heat rose in your cheeks. Part of you wished to retort sharply, to remind him nothing about you was his, but the words stuck in your throat.

“Not in the middle of class.” You said quietly, a little feeble in comparison to what you wanted to say.

“See, love, that's where you're wrong.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying to keep up the mask of indifference, but your lip twitched just slightly. You cursed yourself for it, but it was already too late. He noticed of course, he always noticed.

Mattheo leaned back at last, victory written all over his face. “I’ll take that as a yes."

Immediately you wanted to say no, to cut him dead and laugh him off. Deny him the satisfaction of being right, but as you deliberated he could already see it in your eyes.

"I'll see you later, darling,” he said resolutely, and with that he turned back around, not waiting for your response. You could practically see the smugness radiating from him as he rested his chin on folded arms and fell still. Meanwhile, you tried not to stare daggers into the back of his head, or let your gaze linger on his dark curls too long.

✯ ✯ ✯

It was past midnight when you slipped through the dungeon entrance, an old quidditch jumper thrown over your clothes to guard against the castle's evening chill. The halls were quiet, eerie almost, but that didn't calm your racing pulse as you padded through the corridors, footsteps echoing off the stone floors.

You knew the route like the back of your hand. Left at the suit of armour, down the hallway where the sconces flickered more than glowed. A familiar path to his secret little hideaway— one of many, you'd learned. Merlin forbid Mattheo Riddle ever be predictable.

Your hand pushed one of the doors on the left open, the hardly used hinges creaking as they worked, revealing an old classroom that wasn't in use much anymore, forgotten and dusty until Mattheo had stumbled upon it — or so he said anyway.

He was there already, sprawled out across a transfigured leather couch, legs stretched out like he owned the place. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned just enough that his collarbone peaked out from behind the crisp white material, and his sleeves were pushed carelessly up to his elbows. He looked relaxed, carefree almost. Like he hadn't interrupted your entire evening because of something so trivial as he was bored.

"You're late." He said, not looking at you as he flicked his wand lazily toward a cluster of objects on the desk beside him. An ink pot, a feather quill, and what looked suspiciously like one of your hair ties hovered in the air, slowly orbiting each other like planets. His wand spun idly between his fingers as if there was barely a thought behind the magic.

"I wasn't aware you were timing me," you replied, shutting the door behind you with a gentle push. "You asked. I showed up. Don't push your luck."

At that he finally looked up, smirking at your deadpan expression. "You know, most people are a bit happier to see me."

You scoffed. Typical Mattheo arrogance. "Keep dreaming, Riddle."

He didn't reply. Instead, he flicked his wand and let the objects fall one by one— the ink pot thudded against the armrest, the quill floated down to the floor, and your hair tie was caught lazily between his forefinger and his thumb. He flicked it aside with a grin, watching your lips part, every inch of him smug and lethargic. Then, he patted the spot beside him on the couch like he was coaxing a dog to jump up beside him.

You stayed rooted to the spot. In half a mind to turn around and walk straight back to bed. But you didn't move an inch despite yourself.

"I don't bite," he said, lips twitching with amusement like he could see the conflict in your eyes, "...unless you ask nicely."

"I'm fine here, thanks." Your eyes rolled.

"Suit yourself then," he shrugged, leaning his head back against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. "Rough day?"

You blinked. Since when did he care how your day was? You studied him for a moment, the sharpness of his jaw softened by the flames that danced in the small fireplace. He didn't open his eyes.

"Just... long." you admitted after a pause, voice quieter than you meant it to be. Still a little startled by his sudden interest in how you day had been.

He hummed in response, a mix of acknowledgement and a noncommittal invitation to say more. But he didn't push, just let the silence settle, surprisingly comfortable despite the tension.

After a moment, and an intense inner debate, you crossed the classroom and dropped onto the couch beside him, making sure to leave just enough room between you. He cracked one eye open and smirked slyly.

"Change of heart, love?"

"Oh, shut up." you hissed but there was no malice in your words, leaning back into the leather and letting the plush cushions absorb you. Your own eyes fluttering shut and exhaling a deep sigh.

You both sat there in the thick quiet, the flames painting restless shadows across the stone. Neither one of you spoke and you weren't sure who was more stubborn, him for not breaking the silence, or you for refusing to ask what he was thinking.

It was always like this between you. Charged, flirty, messy— but when all the noise fell away, all that remained was this gnawing stillness. The kind that burrowed into your stomach, sickening even to think about.

Eventually, he exhaled sounding both sharp and tired. “You know, you don’t have to keep showing up.”

You didn’t look at him, eyes still firmly shut. “Is that your way of uninviting me?”

You couldn't see him but you could picture the expression on his face, and when he scoffed you knew there was no real bite to it. None of the usual malice or teasing. "I'm just saying... if you're expecting anything— anything more. Then don't."

It was your turn to scoff, peeling your eyes open and turning your head slowly to face him, his eyes meeting yours instantly. "I'm not."

“Good,” he said in a flat tone. He turned his head away again, but the silence that followed didn’t feel easy this time. It pressed in from all sides, too loud, too sharp. You didn’t know what you hated more—that he meant it, or that you did too.

"Good." you reiterated with a slight nod of the head, letting the silence burn for a moment longer.

You leaned in first, perhaps it was out of spite but more likely because you were tired of talking. He met you halfway, mouth crashing against yours in that now-familiar kind of desperation. His lips were bruising, and so were yours, like it was a silent competition where both of you were trying to win something.

His hands quickly found their place, one skirting up to grasp the side of your jaw whilst the other settled at the curve of your knee, dragging your body closer to his. His tongue darted out, licking a stripe across your bottom lip, demanding entry and you opened to him without hesitation.

Mattheo hummed approvingly, sinking himself backwards till his head hit the armrest once more, pulling you down with him till you were straddling his hips. You panted softly, pulling away from his lips for just a second whilst dragging your core against his jeans hazy and slow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly with the buttons of his shirt, pulling till the fabric parted, bearing him to your hungry gaze. He let out a hiss at the feeling of your nails dragging across his abdomen slowly, teasing him.

Still, his mouth was glued to yours, tongue lapping eagerly against your own, another unspoken fight for dominance. His hips bucked impatiently against you, drawing a moan from your lips that had him smirking into the kiss.

Your hands roamed instinctively, mapping the taut lines of his chest like you'd done a dozen times before — only this time it felt different, sharper somehow. Like each brush of his skin was dragging something raw from you.

He pulled back just enough to speak, breath ghosting over your slightly swollen lips. "Still not expecting anything?" he murmured, voice rough and teasing.

You exhaled a sharp laugh, leaning forward and mouthing at the curve of his jaw, dragging your teeth across his skin, down his throat until you found that spot that drove him insane, and sunk your teeth into it. Hard. With a low groan he tilted his head back, his fingers tightening at your hips as he cursed.

"Didn't think so." he breathed with a dry laugh, groaning once more as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to the tender skin.

You would've laughed if you weren't so focused, heart beating quickly and a familiar ache building between your thighs. Your teeth nipped at his collarbones, hands sliding down to the waistband of his jeans, fingers dipping just low enough to hear the satisfying sound of his breath catching.

He bucked his hips up once more, more desperate this time, and you relished the power you had over him, watching him lose that razor-sharp composure he always wore. It might've been intimate if it was with anyone else, but Mattheo Riddle didn't do intimacy, this meant nothing.

"Insufferable," he mumbled, dragging his lips down the side of your throat teasingly. "Fucking— impossible."

"And yet," you whispered lowly, voice dangerous and sultry, "You keep letting me in."

His breath hitched. Another low groan. And there it was again— that flicker of something just beneath the surface, something dangerous. Vulnerable. Real. You felt it like a thread between your bodies, pulled taut and impossible to ignore.

But before either of you acknowledged it, his mouth was on yours again, swallowing any words that might've slipped out in the heat of the moment. It was frantic, less like kissing and more like trying to consume each other. Like he was trying to erase whatever had just threatened to bubble to the surface.

His mouth moved feverishly against yours, all tongue and teeth, until suddenly he pulled back, panting. Your breath caught, lips swollen, eyes blinking open in confusion. Staring up at him with furrowed brows.

Mattheo's gaze was heavy, dark and lustful. His hands tightened against your hips, but he didn't move, he just stared like he was trying to figure out whether to devour you now or drag it out till you were begging.

"You done showing off, princess?" he asked in a low voice, rough with arousal but edged in something cooler. More dangerous.

You blinked, tilting your head innocently. "What?"

He chuckled, slow and wicked. "Acting like you're in charge. Cute, really. But you and I both know how this ends."

You didn't get the chance to argue back. One moment you were straddling him, the next he was pushing himself upright, shifting you easily onto your back against the couch, and looming over you. All in one fluid motion.

You let out a noise as he pushed a palm against your chest. Not harsh, but just enough to remind you he could pin you against the leather if he wanted to. And Merlin, judging by the look in his eyes, he wanted to.

His head dipped down again, kissing up your throat. "Open your legs for me," he murmured against your throat, tongue dragging across your pulse point. "That's it. Atta girl."

The praise fell effortlessly from his lips as you moved beneath him, sending a shiver straight through you intensifying the ache between your thighs. He noticed, of course, and his grin widened.

"Always so good for me," he continued mockingly, sliding his hand beneath the fabric of your jumper, the tips of his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. "Always act like you don't need this, like I don't own every fucking inch of you."

Your moan cut him off as his fingers slipped a little lower, dipping under your skirt and teasing the edge of your underwear. He chuckled darkly like that sound alone confirmed everything he already knew.

"That's what I thought, princess."

He kissed you again, but slower this time. Lethargic, almost. Like he wanted to savour the control he had over you. His fingers curled under the fabric of your clothes like he had all the time in the world. Like he was the only thing that mattered.

And if the way your body was reacting to him now was anything to go by, he was.

Your world narrowed to the weight of his body pressed on top of you, the heat of his hands, the drag of his lips across your hot skin. Mattheo’s teeth scraped just below your jawline and paused there as if marking the spot for later. His hand splayed out across your stomach. Fingers moving in slow, taunting circles, not quite giving you what you wanted.

“You know what I like about you?” He spoke, words slurred into your skin as he peeled away at the layers covering you. “You’re always trying so hard to pretend you’re above this… above me.”

You let out a shaky breath and his lips curved against your collarbones, listening to your needy whimpers as his fingers stroked closer and closer to where you craved his touch most.

“But then you come crawling back every time, don’t you?” He added, his voice tinged in faux sweetness that made your stomach flip. “So fucking needy for it… even if you won’t admit it.”

His hand finally breached your underwear, skimming over the wet fabric of your panties with a maddeningly light touch. The pads of his fingers swiped across the dampness that had gathered, and he knew he had you then. Light touches that were just enough to make your hips rock against his fingers, your pupils blown wide with lust.

“Look at that,” he cooed, smirking at your trembling lips. Smugly basking in the gasp that came from somewhere deep in your throat as his fingers pressed light circles around your clit.

At the same time he leaned down and pressed his lips to your throat, kissing and nipping the skin as he went. His nose brushed against the hollow of your neck, and you knew he could feel your pulse— fast and erratic— which only made him chuckle against your skin.

“Please,” you whispered hoarsely, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut. It was maddening how easily he could get you like this. How simple it was to have you trembling and greedy for him.

A wrecked-sounding curse tore from his throat at your plea, his hand curling under your thigh and tugging it around his waist so he could settle between your legs, pressing his still-clothed, hardening cock flush against you. Then he rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, dragging a broken moan from you.

“Begging already?” He smirked, pressing his forehead to yours his chest heaving. You knew he was savouring this, enjoying how you crumbled from a few swipes of his fingers.

“Mattheo…” you moaned impatiently, meeting his darkened eyes as another string of plea’s left your lips.

That was all it took to convince him. Sitting back quickly, his hands worked at his belt to free his cock from its constraints. The sight of him before you, all needy and desperate, had you whining. Eyes fixed on the bead of pre-come already gathering at the tip as he stroked himself eagerly, hissing at the feeling.

“Merlin you look perfect like this… so wrecked for me.” He muttered, tugging your panties down your legs with little care for where they landed. You could only gasp in anticipation, watching his face as he guided his cock towards your aching cunt.

You hissed as he rocked his hips forward in one sharp motion, your walls pushing against him as he pressed forward. Groaning as he sunk deeper into you, his eyes fluttering shut as you adjusted to the stretch.

“Fuck, look at you— taking me so well.” He praised leaning down to press a messy kiss against your lips. You clenched around him, feeling the pain receding.

Mattheo groaned softly as he pulled out then thrust into your cunt once more, sending ripples of pleasure through your body and coaxing another moan to tumble from your mouth. Slowly he found his pace, hips rutting in a lazy rhythm against yours.

Sighing softly he fucked into you, his face buried into the crook of your neck, sucking bruises onto the skin you’d have to hide tomorrow. His steady pace made you see stars already, but you needed more. He made you insatiable.

“That all you got, Riddle?” You choked out when his hips stuttered for a beat, temporarily losing his rhythm. And you regretted it immediately.

“Oh,” he retorted, breath hot against your ear, “Is this not good enough for you, Princess?” He mocked, punctuating his words with a hard thrust, pleased with himself when you whined at the sudden change of pace.

His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, and then his hips snapped forward, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. His grip tightened and he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Another sharp thrust had your back arching off the couch, a strangled sound catching in your throat. He didn’t give you a moment to recover—his rhythm turned punishing, relentless, like he was trying to make a point with every motion.

“That better?” he growled, eyes flicking down to watch the way you writhed beneath him, the knot in your stomach building. “That what you wanted, sweetheart? For me to remind you who you belong to?”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of begging. But your body betrayed you—hips tilting up into his, quiet gasps slipping from your lips. He chuckled low in his chest, satisfied that he was the only person who could see you like this.

“Thought so,” he breathed, releasing your wrists so his hands could trail down your sides, slow and deliberate. His large hands brushing across the curve of your hips. “All that attitude, and now look at you…” he tutted. He caught your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. His gaze burned into yours, full of heat and something hungrier underneath. All his attention focused on watching you shatter beneath him, and you did. Hard.

Eventually, the frantic rhythm slowed. Mattheo's breath was hot against your bare shoulder, his chest heaving with exertion as he dragged his lips across the side of your neck one final time and came with a near-animalistic growl.

Neither of you spoke. Panting, he collapsed on top of you, sweaty and spent. The only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire that had burnt down to embers, and the rush of blood in your ears.

You stared up at the ceiling, a hand resting in his damp curls, your chest still rising and falling in shallow waves. Mattheo hadn't moved, hadn't said a word— just lay there with his face buried against your neck like he didn't want to face the aftermath.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, and you knew you should say something. That you should shove him off and make a joke, brush it off with a biting remark that made him smirk like usual. Make it easier for yourself.

"Mattheo," you said softly, not a question or a plea. Just his name. He shifted at that, enough to pull back and glance down at you. In his fucked-out haze, his eyes were softer— less shielded. Like there was something fragile in his face, buried beneath all the sharp edges and scars.

Then his jaw clenched and he pushed himself up without ceremony, pulling out of you like his body suddenly weighed too much. He didn't look at you as he reached for his discarded shirt and pulled it on with jerky, irritated movements.

The silence was thick between you, loud and obtrusive. You sat up, wincing slightly, and began gathering your clothes. The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air and his back was to you— deliberately. You could feel it in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his posture, like he was holding back.

As you made your way toward the door, you glanced back once. He was leaning against the mantel now, head bowed, cigarette perched between his swollen lips, gaze fixed on the dying embers in the grate. He didn't look at you.

You knew you had to leave. The tension was suffocating, and the silence between you had stretched too thin. Your chest tightened, but you forced the words out before you could lose your nerve.

"I'm not here to fix you," you said quietly, barely loud enough over the crackle, and for a moment you didn't think he'd heard you. He didn't flinch, but something in his posture shifted— just a flicker, then it was gone.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he murmured, the words rough and worn at the edges like they cost him something to say. And somehow, that hurt worse.

The smoke curled around him like armor as you reached for the handle and walked out into the darkness, leaving the door open long enough for the silence to follow you out.

©️riddlemelater 2025.

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fanfic #hogwarts era #toxic but tender #my writing #draco x pansy #lorenzo berkshire mentioned

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cherryredstarz · 3 months ago

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HI!! This is my first time sending a request, but I just LOVE YOUR FICS! So I would like to ask if I could ask for sylus and mc playfighting and then things get a little spicy. Or you could just do them play fighting if your not comfortable writing the other idea! HAVE A GREAT DAY/NIGHT💓💓

A/n: OF COURSE I LOVE THIS ❤️❤️

Cw: NSFW, oral (fem receiving), Sylus x afab reader, fluff, pussy pronouns, SYLUS IS AN AFTERCARE KING

Wrestle 🥀

It’s a lazy afternoon in the N109 Zone. Rain is pouring outside in the heated haze of midsummer heat, and you’re lounging on Sylus’s couch as the air conditioner blasts cool air throughout his home. Fortunately, you had your own stash of clothes at his house (albeit Sylus would neither confirm nor deny he’s had a second wardrobe prepared for you for a long while). A thin red tank top and a soft black skirt would do—nothing else.

Surprisingly, it’s Sylus’s lack of clothes that intrigues you today; typically rain or shine, Onychinus’s leader is in some sort of suit, long sleeved button down, or thick sweater no matter the temperature inside or outside. Today, he is wearing nothing but his underwear. And even better, it’s the pair of pink ‘joke’ boxers you bought for him with your face on both the crotch and the booty cheeks as a prank.

“Nice pair of undies you got there.” You lean your head off the couch, almost hanging upside down. Somehow, you’re still sweaty enough that there’s a slight sweat mark on the couch cushion.

“They’re beautiful, are they not? They truely encompass my Kitten’s artistic vision and thoughtfulness.” Sylus grins leisurely, like a Cheshire Cat. You stick out your tongue at him, making him laugh.

“Come ‘ere.” You whine, holding your arms open to cuddle.

Sylus smiled before coming over and nearly dives onto your lap.

“Oof—HEY! BIGBACK!” You yell, flicking his forehead gently before kissing his cheek.

“Just love my girl.” He purrs, nuzzling his face in between your breasts. You gently begin to rub his back, working out the knots and tension in his muscles, making him groan.

After thirty minutes of laying like this, you get a devious idea. You roll on top of him, making Sylus grumble. “What are you doing, Sweetie?”

“Nothing.” You tilt your head innocently, before pinning his muscular forearms above his head.

“Oh, so this is how we’re playing today, aren’t we?” He purrs. Before you know it, you’ve both rolled over onto the floor, and he’s above you, pinning you down.

“SYLUS!” You squeal, and giggles and gasps for air begin to escape your throat as he tickled your sides.

“N-Not fair!” You whine between giggles.

“Didn’t you ask for this, Kitten?” He grinned, letting out a small grunt when you wack a pillow at his side.

“I DID NO SUCH THING!” You laugh before rolling on top of him, gently smacking his chest with a pillow. Sylus takes the pillow and tosses it away, just out of your reach as if to taunt you.

Before you know it, your roughhousing with Sylus has gotten you into quite the position—Sylus, with his face between your thighs, your back against the leather couch.

“Well. Isn’t this quite the predicament, hm, Kitten?” Sylus slyly placed a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh. He continues almost lazily with his ministrations, placing kiss after methodical kiss to the beautiful fat plush of your skin.

“S-Sy..” you mumble, almost embarrassed. You know he can see your panties from where he’s at, and with the tiny red lacy ones you have on, you might as well have forgone underwear all together.

His kisses continue up to your core, kissing over your clothed mound. You gasp when you feel him languidly licking the wet spot on your panties.

“Someone was a little to excited earlier, wasn’t she?” Sylus practically rumbled against your cunt, making you whine.

“Stop teasing!” You beg,

He lets out a soft noise of acknowledgement, before gently pulling the bottom of your panties to the side. Then he’s feasting to his hearts content—lapping at every juice easing out of your sweet pussy, licking at your delicate folds, and around your clit, making you absolutely writhe. “Sy!” You moan, grinding your hips against his face.

Sylus could die a happy and fulfilled man between these gorgeous thighs of yours. He can feel the way your little hole flutters around his tongue, as if trying to drag his tongue deeper as he tongue-fucks you.

His slight stubble (he hasn’t shaved in a few days) scratches against your thighs in a comfortable way. You nearly scream when he flattens his tongue, gliding up and down your pussy lips before narrowing to a point to focus on your neglected clit.

“M’ gonna cum Sy—m’ gonna cum—” you cry, before spasming around his face, making him groan in delight, as he feverishly licked around your cunt, determined to intake all of your sweet nectar. He takes care of you through your orgasm, his hands gently wresting on the plump of your thighs to hold them apart.

Your man looks up at you, those crimson eyes looking all hazy, his face is practically covered in your wetness; he looks pretty damn satisfied. He placed three soft, wet kisses to both your thighs and fluttering pussy.

“Such a good girl, huh?” Sylus carefully (and begrudgingly) removes himself from between your legs, heading towards the bathroom. He comes back, his face clean, licking his lips, with a warm wet washcloth, clean panties, and one of his shirts. He kneels between your closed legs.

“Come on, Kitten. Spread them for me.” He murmurs softly.

“But Syy! She’s sensitive!” You cry.

“She’ll feel better in a minute, okay Sweetie?” He promises. Hesitantly, you spread your thighs apart again, revealing the sticky mess on your skin. With gentle, practiced hands, he wipes away the stickiness on your skin and cunt, before pulling off your panties and dressing you in a fresh pair. Lastly, he helps you put on his shirt, before carefully lifting you up and sitting on the couch, before sitting you on his lap.

“My strong girl, huh?” He murmurs softly, kissing your neck gently. You mumble out an incoherent response, but Sylus takes it as a yes.

“Yeah, that’s right, Sweetie. My strong girl.”

#fluff #love and deepspace sylus #romance #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #smut #zayne love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #love and deep space #lads mc #lads x reader #lnds #lnds caleb

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bearambles · 11 months ago

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Okok little request if ur up for it. Just Hamzah x reader (gn if mentioned) where they have a smoke sesh together in his new apartment but reader gets too comfortable and accidentally falls asleep on Hamzah with the cats.

Just pure fluff lmaoo I just can't get the thought out of my head I need to grip his shirt like a child he just looks so comfy :')

Also idc what format it can be headcanon or a small fic, whatever u feel!!

close to you 🎀 (hamzah)

words: 1.1k

warnings: use of weed, making out, fluff, established relationship

note: hi lovelies!! im so sorry for the lack of posts recently - im on vacation and ive had no time or motivation. on the ride home though, im gonna try to catch up to requests!! and im thinking abt writing smut again 🤭

“do you wanna smoke?”

hamzahs head turns from looking at the ceiling to looking at you. he looks almost nervous, his eyes darting across your face like he did the first time he kissed you. you smile at the thought and sit up on his bed.

he’d invited you over to see his new apartment (finally). you’d ended up in his room playing with his new cats, blue and red, who seemed to take a liking to you. blue sits in your lap now, and you scratch behind her ears as you speak.

“like, a blunt?”

he stays laying down, red lying on his chest. he pets her and laughs softly.

“nah, i have a pen. but it’s the same idea.”

he raises an eyebrow, “you have smoked before, right?”

you blush, your face heating up. you look down to the kitty in your lap, and bring both legs up so they’re crossed.

“duh. just like. once or twice in high school, though. and…” you trail off.

“and?” he asks, picking up red in his arms and sitting up next to you.

“i don’t think i did it right. like, i didn’t really feel anything.” you admit

“oh okay. that’s okay. i mean like- if you don’t wanna-“

“no, i do.” you say quickly, “i just - like you’ll have to teach me i guess. that sounds stupid. but the first time was like, a bong and i totally didn’t inhale shit.”

he laughs, and the sound makes you crack a smile, even after embarrassing yourself. he’s wearing his camo hoodie, and his curls are just the perfect amount of messy. one falls into his eyes and he blushes it away with his palm.

“that’s okay, i can show you. though, i don’t know how great a teacher i’ll be.”

he places red in your lap next to blue and gets up from the bed, going to dig through his drawers for his pen. you watch the way he moves, the way his sweatshirt rides up and shows a bit of his back. the way his pants fit. you look away when you catch yourself being a creep.

he finds it and goes to sit in front of you this time, near the end of the bed. he’s closer now, his legs matching yours in a sort of lazy criss-cross. he observes the device in his hands for a second before bringing it to his lips and inhaling.

when he releases the smoke, he tilts his head up and you stare at his neck. the smoke leaves his lips slowly and quickly disappears. he looks back to you and holds it out for you to take.

“it’s gonna die soon so we can just finish it today.” he says as you grab the pen from his hand, “unless you like, go crazy after a few hits.”

you roll your eyes and look at the pen in your hand, before lifting it to your mouth. you look to him for confirmation and he nods, so you deeply inhale like you saw him do.

“okay, now inhale again, and you’ll feel it in the back of your throat.”

you do as he says and feel it - it sort of burns. after a moment you puff out your cheeks and then release the smoke, slow at first. that is until you cough, and the rest comes out.

he laughs and takes the pen from your hand.

“you okay?”

you nod, but keep coughing for a moment. sitting up, you reach your hand out again, wiggling your fingers to ask for the pen back. he raises an eyebrow at you.

“you want it again already.” you nod. “alright, but be careful, for real. don’t do too much just to impress me.”

you give him a look.

“i’m not, i swear. just, lemme try again okay?”

he hands you the pen and you take another hit, this one burning less. you feel it in your head, and you smile as you let out the smoke into his face. he waves his hand to get it away, but he’s laughing.

“thatta girl, hey, you feel good?”

“i feel great.” you say, going in to kiss him. he kisses back and leans forward, wrapping his hands around your waist. you uncross your legs and sit up on your knees.

his mouth is soft and you moan into it as he moves his hands down to the back of your legs, lifting you onto his waist. from there he moves back so he’s up against the bedframe with you in his lap.

it’s like that for the next hour - slow kisses and the pen passed between you two. neither of you suggest anything more despite your closeness (and hamzahs obvious hard-on). there’s a soft sort of feel to the moment.

“i wanna try something.” he says eventually, taking the device from your fingers and moving it to his mouth.

you look at him with curiosity and lean back slightly to watch. he pushes the smoke around in his mouth a bit before taking your face in both of his hands and pulling you close. you open your mouth to kiss him, but he stays just an inch away, and while your lips are parted, blows the smoke into your open mouth.

inhaling it, you smile against his mouth and properly kiss him. you can feel his grin forming too. he deepens the kiss and his hold on your waist tightens.

when he pulls away, his eyes dance across your face and his mouth rests in a lazy smile.

“what?” you ask, regarding his staring problem

“just so…so fuckin pretty.”

you bite your lip to hide your grin and shake your head. your hair is a mess after all that’s happened and your makeup is smeared. still, hamzah seems mesmerized.

you bury your head in his neck for him to hold you. his hoodie smells like the smoke and a bit of his cologne. you breathe in and out repeatedly, smelling him. he smells so good, so safe.

slowly you slump down to lay on his chest. on instinct, his hand reaches to play with your hair, pushing it out of your face.

it’s funny, hamzah never seemed handsy before this. you never considered him someone who likes physical touch - not with friends or even family, mostly. but with you it’s different. he didn’t expect it either, but as soon as he felt your soft skin on his, he never wanted it any other way.

the motion of him stroking your hair makes you sleepy and eventually your eyes drift closed. you sleep for hours - if you had any actual plans for the day you would wake up stressed and anxious. instead, you wake up and see his head above yours, resting against his pillow.

he’s fallen asleep too.

i hope you enjoyed! requests are open! >_<

#hamzahthefantastic #hamzah x reader #hamzah imagines #hamzah x y/n #hamzahsmut #slushy noobz #hamzah fic #hamzahthefantastic smut #muffin-berry #hamzahxreader #hamzah smut #hamzah the fantastic #hamzah fluff #hamzah angst

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pinkaditty · 3 months ago

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pink ur latest haku fic!!!!!! god perv haku who indulges himself is SO GOOD ive read it at least five times now soaking in every single detail you left in & tossing myself into the sun!!!!!! thank u for the food 🙏🏻🙏🏻

reading it 5 times over, soaking up all the details, and proceeding 2 yeet urself in2 the sun bc of my fic is quite literally one of the most memorable compliments ive received i think. thank you.

i want u 2 know that reading ur tags MADE MY DAY!!!!!!!! huge thank u 2 u 4 noticing the bit about the callus!!!!!!!!!! the way i did actual research on where calluses would appear on your hands after using the flute 4 so long... apparently they mostly appear on your pointer or thumb. however, i considered that haku's left handed and has probably been practicing since he was a kid. i assumed he didn't know how to hold it at first, so i wouldn't be surprised if there were still some rough parts on his left fingertips from holding it incorrectly.

anyway ur tags and this ask have pleased me so much ive decided 2 write a blurb from haku's pov this won't be long at all BUT i hope u enjoy regardless.

Victim (Haku's POV blurb; NOT part 2)

came 2 me on a whim everybody enjoy im too lazy 2 make this official. MINORS DNI!!!!!!!!!

The moment you close the door to the bathroom, Haku's already on his feet, moving towards the door.

He tries to control his breathing as he leans against the door, brushing his fingers over the doorknob as he listens for running water. He bites his lip as his dick twitches in his pants for the nth time that day, trying to keep up his composure.

Following you inside and not resisting your insistence was a bad idea. He'd known that once the door closed behind him. The door sounded like an ominous thud, and he couldn't help but feel as though he'd fallen into a trap of sorts, even if it was one you'd unwittingly set for him. He assumed it was unwitting, at least. Your flustered reactions and casual behavior gave him the impression that you were none the wiser to his deeper desires. He couldn't let you suspect his desires any more than you already had without risking being found out. Now that he's got it, he'd do anything to keep that "favorite ghoul" status. The things you'd let him get away with, as your favorite, opened up a world of possibilities, especially pertaining to you.

If only you had any idea how viscerally he'd craved you. How he longed to drag his tongue across the back of your neck, replacing the memory of a lavender curse with the sticky, inescapable feeling of being wanted. How he longed to trace the outline of your body and sink his fingers into your plush skin, mapping every external inch of you with his hands. How he longed to sink his cock inside of you, carefully stimulating you with each stroke, promising each time he bruised your insides that he would give you time. More time to enjoy life, more time to make memories, more time to spend with him.

He would crack that curse, but until then, he wanted to indulge himself in you as much as possible. Learning about you could help, or at least, that was the excuse he used to help justify his behavior. He doesn't know what started it, but he knows that a small interest and desire to help you feel comfortable transformed all too quickly into an obsessive love. He couldn't help but envy all the time you would spend with other ghouls, especially ones who were too friendly and flirty like he was. Rui was already a potential rival, having been cursed and being able to relate to you in ways Haku found himself lacking. On one hand, he wanted to find more excuses to spend time with you, but on the other hand, he's pulled around this campus quite frequently under the guise of "favors" and doesn't want to make you uncomfortable in case he does something questionable. He was a pervert, and he knew that. He was regrettably unhinged, and he knew that, too. Being alone with you was a risk in and of itself. But he'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of it, at least a little. Curse the lustful nature of the demon he'd made a pact with and soon devoured. It was like he just couldn't stop.

The sound of rushing water shook him from his daze. You'd finally started your shower. He rests his hand fully on the doorknob, waiting for a sign that you'd stepped under the water. When he hears the curtain pull back, and no other noise, he almost rejoices internally. If the curtain was open, like he assumed, he'd have a full, unobstructed view of you, in all your glory.

He uses one hand to carefully turn the doorknob, ensuring it doesn't creak and alert you of his presence. His other hand snakes down his body, undoing his belt and pulling his cock out. This was risky, and probably way over the line, but he was far too emboldened by his new title as "favorite ghoul" to even care. He cracks the door open, sighs in relief when it doesn't creak, and peeks inside, already stroking himself out of anticipation.

There you are, flinching underneath the cold water of the shower, rubbing your hands along your arms. He was already salivating at the thought of your naked body, but seeing it is an entirely different beast. He muffles his heavy breathing by biting down on his lip again, moving his hand faster over his aching cock. He wishes he could step inside and join you, finally yielding to the truth behind the jokes he makes all the time. How he'd touch you, how he'd caress you, how he'd let his hands travel all over with wild abandon, stimulating any soft and sensitive points he could find. He imagines leaving bruises on your neck from harsh sucking, a way to let everyone know that you had a favorite. He swallows his gathering saliva, trying to get ahold of his senses, but it was hardly any use. His cock jumps in his hand as he strokes himself faster, letting his mind run wild with imagination. All the things he could do with you, for you, to you... They swim in his head like taunting treasures, an opportunity that was so close, yet still so far away. He watches as you begin to bathe, finally under warm water again. God, if he could, he'd happily clean every inch of you with his tongue. If only you'd let him. His yearning must have reached enormous depths to think something of that caliber and not recoil at his own yearning, but he didn't care. If anything, the thought of exploring your body with his tongue riles him up further. He sinks his teeth further into his bottom lip, turning them a cherry red. His toes curl in his shoes and his vision starts to swim. He's getting close. His grip on the doorknob strengthens, using it as a shallow attempt to ground himself. He strokes himself quicker, clenching his jaw. His eyes are still on you as you bathe, blissfully unaware of his invasion of your privacy. It's when you turn towards the door again, unknowingly giving him another perfect glance of you in your purest form, that he finally bursts. He doesn't stop stroking, riding it out, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. His body jerks forward repeatedly, and he leans into the door to keep himself from falling, steadily gazing at you.

He hardly has time to register that he's just left a puddle of a mess on your bathroom floor when you glance towards the door, making eye contact with him for a split second. He closes the door quicker than he thought possible, panic spreading through his veins. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, louder than the pattering rain or the rushing water from the bathroom. Shit. This could be a fatal mistake if you'd at all registered what he'd done. He lets go of the doorknob and stuffs himself back in his pants, trying to appear as innocent as one could be in a situation such as this. When he hears no further noise except the water running and indications you'd gone back to bathing, he sighs with relief. Maybe you hadn't noticed. He carefully slinks away from the door, hoping you won't hear his footsteps.

Now that he has the room to himself, it's tempting to touch everything in sight with the hand he just jacked off with as a means of remotely laying claim. Unfortunately, he has a separate mission. He does, however, let his palm trail against your pillows, if only for a moment.

As he does, he slowly walks over to the far corner of your bed, spotting the hamper full of clothes you'd tucked away in a panic earlier. His tongue flicks against his lips absentmindedly, and he approaches the basket, quietly rifling through your clothes with slight urgency. He finds the freshest pair of panties he can, and without any hesitation, presses them to his face, inhaling deeply. When he exhales, a low groan follows. The blood would be rushing straight to his dick if he hadn't just spent it while peeping at you in the shower.

He finds the gusset of your panties and presses his tongue against it, lapping up the remnants of your essence. He chews at the fabric between his teeth, trying to draw out any flavor that had seeped into the fabric. He's broken out of his stupor when the running water stops, indicating that you stepped out of the shower. He jumps, shoving the pair he has into his pockets. He grabs a few other inconspicuous pairs before quickly and quietly dashing to the other side of the room. He picks up his blazer and hurriedly puts it on as though getting ready to leave when he hears the bathroom door open. He looks over, internally sighing with relief. When he notices you staring a bit too hard at the floor where he'd left a mess, he calls out to you.

"Hey," he starts, adjusting his blazer, hoping to whatever gods were listening that he didn't look like he was out of his mind.

When he finally leaves, waving at you, he thinks of the promise he made to not do anything strange while you're in the shower. He can't suppress the smile that curls his lips.

Snakes don't keep promises, after all.

ok this is INSANE bc i managed 2 write this in one sitting LMFAOOOOO??? literally sat here kicking my feet at this ask and proceeded 2 spit this out within a few hours.

also lin if u run out of tag space again feel free 2 comment or submit another ask i would love 2 read everything u have 2 say abt this

anyways part 2 coming soon AFTER i finish a similar subaru fic that has me writhing in my sleep. debated using the taglist bc i don't wanna bother y'all but idk... i hope u guys enjoy this.

taglist: @cupcakesmoothie @aayakashii @sunskosh @despairingy-obsessed @glamorousspoon @mmy-meow

also tagging @diluxama and @ghoulspaw (diluxama had been asking 4 a haku pov and ghoulspaw just happened 2 reblog the og post while i was writing this amen)

want 2 join the tkdb taglist? let me know!

#minors dni #tkdb #tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker x reader #tdb #tokyo debunker mc #tkdb smut #haku kusanagi x mc #tokyo debunker haku #tokyo debunker haku kusanagi #haku kusanagi #haku kusanagi x reader #haku kusanagi x reader smut #haku kusanagi x mc smut

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goldfades · 6 months ago

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could you write a fic with joe burrow where reader is a ballet dancer? i’m one myself and thought it would be cute to read 🎀🤍like maybe reader is getting ready for class and joe is all lovey dovey and infatuated with her skills or something along those lines😆🤍

this took such a long time cause i genuinely didn't know anything about ballerinas but i finally finished it! i hope you enjoy!

you’re standing in front of the mirror, tugging your hair into a sleek bun with a precision that feels second nature by now. the elastic snaps against your wrist, the rhythm of muscle memory guiding your fingers. the early morning light spills through the window, casting a pale pinkish glow on the hardwood floor of your apartment. your bag, stuffed with pointe shoes and an assortment of worn leotards, sits slumped against the door like a patient, silent companion.

you don’t hear him at first—too lost in the ritual of tying up your hair and mentally walking through the combinations you’ll be rehearsing later. plié, tendu, jeté. the words are as familiar as your own name. but then there’s the unmistakable creak of a floorboard, and you catch his reflection in the mirror, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

“how is it possible,” joe says, voice still gravelly with sleep, “that you look this graceful even when you’re just standing there?”

he’s in sweats, hair a mess, arms folded across his chest as he watches you like you’re some sort of masterpiece in motion. and maybe to him, you are. his lips twitch into that soft, lopsided smile—the one that never fails to disarm you, even after all this time.

you roll your eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “you’re bias.”

“nope.” he steps further into the room, bare feet quiet against the wood. “just observant.”

you let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you finish securing the last stubborn strand of hair into place. joe has this way of making every little thing you do feel like an event worth documenting, like he’s quietly cataloging moments to replay in his mind later. it’s sweet, if not a little overwhelming at times.

“shouldn’t you be at practice or something?” you ask, reaching for your bag. you don’t turn to look at him, not yet but you can feel the warmth of his gaze like a second skin.

“shouldn’t you be at class?” he counters, stepping closer. his hands find your waist, gentle but deliberate and he spins you around to face him. you barely have time to protest before he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. “i’ve got time before meetings. figured i’d spend it wisely.”

“wisely, hm?” you tease, raising an eyebrow. but there’s no real bite to it, especially when his thumbs start tracing lazy circles against your hips. it’s maddening how easily he can undo you with the simplest of gestures.

he nods, his expression softening. “yep. watching you do what you do best is a pretty solid use of my morning.”

you blink up at him, momentarily disarmed. “joe, i’m literally just putting on shoes right now.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, tilting his head like he’s considering something profound. “you make everything look... i don’t know. effortless. like you were made for it.”

heat blooms in your cheeks and you glance down at your feet in an attempt to compose yourself. his words always seem to hit a little too close to your heart, peeling back layers you’re not always sure you’re ready to expose. but joe has a way of doing that—of making you feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

“stop,” you mumble, though your voice lacks conviction.

“not a chance.” his voice is low now, teasing but tender and you feel his fingers brush a stray thread of your sweatshirt. he tugs at it absentmindedly, his touch lingering like he’s unwilling to let you go just yet.

you step back, needing a moment to collect yourself and crouch to dig through your bag. the familiar scent of worn fabric greets you as you pull out your shoes. they’re old, the satin fraying at the edges, but still serviceable. joe crouches beside you, his knees cracking as he lowers himself down.

“i’m not trying to embarrass you,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now. “i just... i don’t think you realize how incredible you are. how much work you put into this. it’s—i don’t know, just amazing to watch.”

you glance at him, and there’s no trace of sarcasm or pretense in his expression. just honesty. it’s almost too much.

“you’re such a sap,” you say with a smile, trying to deflect, but the words come out softer than you intend.

he grins, completely unbothered by your deflection. “you love it.”

and god, you do. more than you probably should admit.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #bengals #cincinnati bengals #joey b #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #nfl imagine #joe burrow fic #joe burrow fluff

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literaryvein-reblogs · 28 days ago

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Writing Notes: Cognitive Bias

Cognitive Bias - a strong, preconceived notion of someone or something, based on information we have, perceive to have, or lack.

These preconceptions are mental shortcuts the human brain produces to expedite information processing—to quickly help it make sense of what it is seeing.

The many types of cognitive biases serve as systematic errors in a person’s subjective way of thinking, which originate from that individual’s own perceptions, observations, or points of view.

There are different types of bias people experience that influence and affect the way we think and behave, as well as our decision-making process.

Examples of Cognitive Bias

Confirmation bias. This type of bias refers to the tendency to seek out information that supports something you already believe, and is a particularly pernicious subset of cognitive bias—you remember the hits and forget the misses, which is a flaw in human reasoning. People will cue into things that matter to them, and dismiss the things that don’t, often leading to the “ostrich effect,” where a subject buries their head in the sand to avoid information that may disprove their original point.

The Dunning-Kruger Effect. This particular bias refers to how people perceive a concept or event to be simplistic just because their knowledge about it may be simple or lacking—the less you know about something, the less complicated it may appear. However, this form of bias limits curiosity—people don’t feel the need to further explore a concept, because it seems simplistic to them. This bias can also lead people to think they are smarter than they actually are, because they have reduced a complex idea to a simplistic understanding.

In-group bias. This type of bias refers to how people are more likely to support or believe someone within their own social group than an outsider. This bias tends to remove objectivity from any sort of selection or hiring process, as we tend to favor those we personally know and want to help.

Self-serving bias. A self-serving bias is an assumption that good things happen to us when we’ve done all the right things, but bad things happen to us because of circumstances outside our control or things other people purport. This bias results in a tendency to blame outside circumstances for bad situations rather than taking personal responsibility.

Availability bias. Also known as the availability heuristic, this bias refers to the tendency to use the information we can quickly recall when evaluating a topic or idea—even if this information is not the best representation of the topic or idea. Using this mental shortcut, we deem the information we can most easily recall as valid, and ignore alternative solutions or opinions.

Fundamental attribution error. This bias refers to the tendency to attribute someone’s particular behaviors to existing, unfounded stereotypes while attributing our own similar behavior to external factors. For instance, when someone on your team is late to an important meeting, you may assume that they are lazy or lacking motivation without considering internal and external factors like an illness or traffic accident that led to the tardiness. However, when you are running late because of a flat tire, you expect others to attribute the error to the external factor (flat tire) rather than your personal behavior.

Hindsight bias. Hindsight bias, also known as the knew-it-all-along effect, is when people perceive events to be more predictable after they happen. With this bias, people overestimate their ability to predict an outcome beforehand, even though the information they had at the time would not have led them to the correct outcome. This type of bias happens often in sports and world affairs. Hindsight bias can lead to overconfidence in one’s ability to predict future outcomes.

Anchoring bias. The anchoring bias, also known as focalism or the anchoring effect, pertains to those who rely too heavily on the first piece of information they receive—an “anchoring” fact— and base all subsequent judgments or opinions on this fact.

Optimism bias. This bias refers to how we as humans are more likely to estimate a positive outcome if we are in a good mood.

Pessimism bias. This bias refers to how we as humans are more likely to estimate a negative outcome if we are in a bad mood.

The halo effect. This bias refers to the tendency to allow our impression of a person, company, or business in one domain influence our overall impression of the person or entity. For instance, a consumer who enjoys the performance of a microwave that they bought from a specific brand is more likely to buy other products from that brand because of their positive experience with the microwave.

Status quo bias. The status quo bias refers to the preference to keep things in their current state, while regarding any type of change as a loss. This bias results in the difficulty to process or accept change.

How to Reduce Cognitive Bias

Even though cognitive biases are pervasive throughout every system, there are ways to address your bias blind spots:

Be aware. The best way to prevent cognitive bias from influencing the way you think or make decisions is by being aware that they exist in the first place. Critical thinking is the enemy of bias. By knowing there are factors that can alter the way we see, experience, or recall things, we know that there are additional steps we must take when forming a judgment or opinion about something.

Challenge your own beliefs. Once you’re aware that your own thinking is heavily biased, continuously challenge the things you believe is a good way to begin the debiasing process—especially when receiving new information. This can help you expand your pool of knowledge, giving you a greater understanding of the subject matter.

Try a blind approach. Especially in the case of observer bias, researchers conduct blind studies to reduce the amount of bias in scientific studies or focus groups. By limiting the amount of influential information a person or group of people receive, they can make less affected decisions.

Biases make it difficult for people to exchange accurate information or derive truths.

A cognitive bias distorts our critical thinking, leading to possibly perpetuating misconceptions or misinformation that can be damaging to others.

Biases lead us to avoid information that may be unwelcome or uncomfortable, rather than investigating the information that could lead us to a more accurate outcome.

Biases can also cause us to see patterns or connections between ideas that aren’t necessarily there.

Logical Fallacy vs. Cognitive Bias

Cognitive biases are often confused with logical fallacies.

A cognitive bias refers to how our internal thinking patterns affect how we understand and process information.

A logical fallacy refers to an error in reasoning that weakens or invalidates an argument.

Cognitive biases are systematic errors in a person’s subjective way of thinking, while logical fallacies are about the errors in a logical argument.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#cognitive bias #writing notes #writing tips #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing advice #on writing #writing inspiration #writing ideas #light academia #lit #writing resources

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captain-huggy-bear · 4 months ago

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How does Jack ask you to be his valentine ?

Oh he's a sweetheart but also pretty conventional as well. I think he goes with your standard ideas of flowers, and chocolates, probably turning up at your door on the day itself because that's traditional and he just smirks and asks. The sort of lazy confidence in him that says he knows you're going to say yes, that it would be impossible for you to say no.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

It's still new, this thing you have with Jack, early days as it were. Not quite boyfriend and girlfriend yet, but not just two strangers who've been on a singular date either. Talking wasn't the right term and dating was maybe closer to it, figuring out whether this was going to be something long term or just a drop in the ocean. So you didn't really expect anything from him on Valentine's day, especially not when he'd said he had a game that night and wouldn't be able to take you out in the evening like he wanted to. You'd accepted that because at the end of the day you knew what you were getting into when you agreed to the very first date with him. Hockey meant things wouldn't always go as expected, not all events would be commemorated. It also wasn't a given considering the early nature of your relationship.

It's why you're not expecting it when your front door bell rings and you're certainly not expect to look through your peephole to see Jack Hughes standing on the other side in a suit and tie holding what might be the largest bouquet of pink roses you'd ever seen. So large that they'd block out his entire head and shoulders if he held them upright.

"Jack?" You open the door to him, feeling decidedly underdressed in your casual everyday clothes when compared with Jack and his suit. The black one that he's matched with a black tie like he's going to a formal event rather than standing in front of your house on the 14th February in the cold.

"Hey..." The smile he gives you is nearly a smirk, that confidence that first drew you to him, firmly in place. His hair has grown longer at the moment, nearly reaching his shoulders, tucked behind his ears.

"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at the rink for morning skate...?"

"Already been, decided this was more important than my post practice nap." It makes you feel warm all over, the way he says that so easily, like it's a given that seeing you is more important than his routines and rituals, things you know hockey players hold dear to their hearts.

"Oh?"

"Here," He hands you the bouquet that takes up your entire arm space, larger than a toddler and smelling sweetly of rose. He'd picked the scented roses, ones that smell strongly too a little detail that you can't help but take note of. "I picked the pink ones, thought it'd be a little less cliché."

You can't help the soft smile you give him because it really is sweet and unexpected. More romantic than any of your past boyfriends had ever been and he's not even in a relationship with you yet.

"They're lovely, Jack...you really didn't have to..." You feel bad knowing you hadn't expected anything and so hadn't got anything for him.

"I wanted to. I can't exactly ask you to be my valentine without flowers now, can I, angel?" Your positive reception of the flowers has him relaxing further, a smile turning into a smirk, leaning closer to you, arm leaning against your door frame. The invasion of your personal space makes you nervous in the best sort of way, giddy.

"You want to be my valentine?" You can't actually remember the last time you were actually asked to be someone's valentine...it makes butterflies flutter about in your stomach.

"Sweetheart, who else would I ask?"

You shrug, pursing your lips as you look up at him from under your lashes, all of a sudden unsure and lacking confidence because neither of you ever said you were only seeing each other. That you were exclusive. While you certainly weren't seeing any other guys, it would make sense for someone like Jack, popular and famous, to have a whole roster of girls waiting on him. It wouldn't surprise you if he had other girls he was testing the waters with, figuring out who was the best fit.

He seems to sense that your thoughts have gone that way, or maybe he just has good timing.

"You're the only girl I'm seeing and the only one I want to see, angel...I've not gone on a date with anyone else since before our first one." He doesn't like that it's clearly shocking to you, the way you look up him like he's just given you the world. Jack thinks it should be obvious to you that he's all in, that he's completely taken with you and has been since the first date. He's only waiting to ask you to be his girlfriend because he knows you need a little more time, not because he's not ready or doesn't want to.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Why waste my time with anyone else? They wouldn't be you." It's simply really. You're perfect for him. You're kind, you're caring, pretty and smart. You're understanding of his schedule and his moods. You get along with Luke and you treat him like Jack, just Jack. Not Jack Hughes, hockey superstar. Why waste his time on girls who fawn and giggle over his title, his status but don't really like him for him?

"Jack..."

He diffuses some of the heavy tension with his next question, not wanting to make things too serious too fast, not wanting you to feel pressure to respond in kind, "You still haven't answered my question. Will you be my valentine?"

"Yes, I'll be your valentine." You smile up at him all giddy and sweet and he wants to kiss you all over your cheeks, lift you until you're giggling uncontrollably, but he controls himself. Jack has to remind himself you're not his girlfriend yet, he's trying to take this slow, easy for you, a love confession might be a bit much 3 months in.

"Good because we have a lunch date, so go get changed into something nice." Not that you don't look nice, you always look nice, but he knows you'll feel self conscious if he takes you into a nice restaurant in casual clothes while he's in a full suit and tie.

"A lunch date?"

"Well, I can't take you out for dinner because of the game, but I figured lunch would work?" Your hesitation has Jack questioning himself, starting to second guess if this was a good idea, maybe you already had plans, "Or...you don't have to, we can stay here or...or I can go?"

"No, no! Lunch sounds...it sounds perfect."

The smile you receive is enough. It's more than enough, you think you might just do anything to be on the receiving end of that smile.

#huggy bear writes #jack hughes x reader #huggy bear lb #jack hughes/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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mbbmz · 6 months ago

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Hey again😍I took 2 nights of thinking to actually come up with ANYTHING💀 SO, Brahman Wakasa who casually hooks up with reader to release stress n stuff. But reader realizes she's catching feelings for him and doesn't want him to be with any other girl, so she confesses it to him! Could be happy or sad ending but ngl im kinda in the mood for angst😭

Hi darling! Sorry I took a while to write this I was lacking motivation A LOT lol

Also what I write is a bit different from what you described to me but the spirit is still there, I hope you’ll still like it.

Warnings : Porn with a little plot, smut, ptv sex, riding, Waka is an asshole, kinda angsty and no comfort

NSFW under the cut

Stay.

The room was filled with panting breaths and small grunts, the headboard of your bed hitting the wall every so often. It was hard to keep your eyes open, but you did, for the sole purpose of watching the man under you.

His eyes were closed, his beautiful lips parted and a small frown on his usually relaxed features. It was almost unfair how pretty he was, his eyelashes fluttering everytime your pace varied, going from slow rolls of your hips to fast, small bounces. Your hands were settled on his firm chest, trying hard not to wander and disrupt the pace you were setting. You could feel his fingers digging in your hips, sometimes trailing down to draw lazy circles on your clit, trailing up to play with your nipples before repeating the cycle again. At this point, you didn’t care where he touched you, as long as you felt his hands on you.

You met Wakasa at a bar, three, four months ago. You don’t really remember. You remember hooking up with him, though, as it was probably one of the best nights in your life. Since then, you two became sort of… friends with benefit.

It wasn’t true, and you knew it. You weren’t even his friend. You were just a hook up, a booty call.

You were fine with that, because that’s what he was to you too. Until he wasn’t. Until you started seeing him in a different light. Until you felt a small pressure in your chest every time he was getting ready to leave. Each of those times, the words ‘don’t leave’ were threading to come out of your throat. They never did.

You felt your orgasm approaching, your pace quickening as your movements got slightly shaky, stuttering from the pleasure. You could see a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, neck and chest, making him even hotter in your eyes. His fingers came to play with your clit, rubbing it up and down in an attempt to get you closer to the edge.

A low moan escaped his lips, feeling your walls fluttering, tightening around him from the movements of his index on your sensitive mound. It was a matter of a few seconds until a wave of pleasure coursed your body, your orgasm hitting you like a ton of bricks. It always did with him.

You continued moving your hips a bit more, trying to finish him off despite the sensitivity you had down there, and it paid off after a few seconds. You were both panting heavily, trying to come down of your high. Your thighs were hurting a bit, so after gaining some energy to do so, you let his softening cock leave the warmth of your body to lay down beside him, your head on his chest.

This sweet moment lasted five minutes, tops, before he started getting up. Sitting up on your bed, you watched him picking up his clothes from the floor, getting ready to leave.

-"That was cool. Thanks for lettin’ me crash here."

Cool. That was cool. Yeah, that’s exactly how you would describe too. Of course.

You felt the same usual words burning your tongue, you were running out of time. Soon he would go past that door and there would be nothing you can do about it.

-"Why don’t you… stay a bit more?.."

Your voice came out softer than what you intended. You hated it, how desperate you sounded. When you saw him looking at you, you knew he knew. You despised the way he was looking at you right now. His face was as expressionless as usual, but you could see it in his eyes. Almost like pity, but with a tinge or irritation. Like something inconvenient had happened.

-"Needa go, got somethin’ goin’ on tonight."

No goodbye, no see you around, no take care. Just silence as he walked past the door, leaving behind him a used condom, a creaking bed and a broken heart.

Late at night, curled under your blanket, your eyes were stinging a little. You should go to sleep, you had work tomorrow. Yet despite the sting of your eyes and the overwhelming tiredness, you couldn’t take your gaze off the text you sent to him. You couldn’t take off your eyes from the small red lettering next to it.

Not delivered.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tokyo revengers angst #wakasa imaushi #wakasa x you #tr wakasa #tokrev wakasa #tokyo revengers wakasa #wakasa x reader #wakasa smut

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years ago

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Monsters Reimagined: Bandits

As a game of heroic fantasy that centers so primarily on combat, D&D is more often than not a game about righteous violence, which is why I spend so much time thinking about the targets of that violence. Every piece of media made by humans is a thing created from conscious or unconscious design, it’s saying something whether or not its creators intended it to do so.

Tolkien made his characters peaceloving and pastoral, and coded his embodiment of evil as powerhungry, warlike, and industrial. When d&d directly cribbed from Tolkien's work it purposely changed those enemies to be primitive tribespeople who were resentful of the riches the “civilized” races possessed. Was this intentional? None can say, but as a text d&d says something decidedly different than Tolkien.

That's why today I want to talk about bandits, the historical concept of being an “outlaw”, and how media uses crime to “un-person” certain classes of people in order to give heroes a target to beat up.

Tldr: despite presenting bandits as a generic threat, most d&d scenarios never go into detail about what causes bandits to exist, merely presuming the existence of outlaws up to no good that the heroes should feel no qualms about slaughtering. If your story is going to stand up to the scrutiny of your players however, you need to be aware of WHY these individuals have been driven to banditry, rather than defaulting to “they broke the law so they deserve what’s coming to them.”

I got to thinking about writing this post when playing a modded version of fallout 4, an npc offhndedly mentioned to me that raiders (the postapoc bandit rebrand) were too lazy to do any farming and it was good that I’d offed them by the dozens so that they wouldn’t make trouble for those that did.

That gave me pause, fallout takes place in an irradiated wasteland where folks struggle to survive but this mod was specifically about rebuilding infrastructure like farms and ensuring people had enough to get by. Lack of resources to go around was a specific justification for why raiders existed in the first place, but as the setting became more arable the mod-author had to create an excuse why the bandit’s didn’t give up their violent ways and start a nice little coop, settling on them being inherently lazy , dumb, and psychopathic.

This is exactly how d&d has historically painted most of its “monstrous humanoid” enemies. Because the game is ostensibly about combat the authors need to give you reasons why a peaceful solution is impossible, why the orcs, goblins, gnolls (and yes, bandits), can’t just integrate with the local town or find a nice stretch of wilderness to build their own settlement on and manage in accordance with their needs. They go so far in this justification that they end up (accidently or not) recreating a lot of IRL arguments for persecution and genocide.

Bandits are interesting because much like cultists, it’s a descriptor that’s used to unperson groups of characters who would traditionally be inside the “not ontologically evil” bubble that’s applied to d&d’s protagonists. Break the law or worship the wrong god says d&d and you’re just as worth killing as the mindless minions of darkness, your only purpose to serve as a target of the protagonist’s righteous violence.

The way we get around this self-justification pitfall and get back to our cool fantasy action game is to relentlessly question authority, not only inside the game but the authors too. We have to interrogate anyone who'd show us evil and direct our outrage a certain way because if we don't we end up with crusades, pogroms, and Qanon.

With that ethical pill out of the way, I thought I’d dive into a listing of different historical groups that we might call “Bandits” at one time or another and what worldbuilding conceits their existence necessitates.

Brigands: By and large the most common sort of “bandit” you’re going to see are former soldiers left over from wars, often with a social gap between them and the people they’re raiding that prevents reintegration ( IE: They’re from a foreign land and can’t speak the local tongue, their side lost and now they’re considered outlaws, they’re mercenaries who have been stiffed on their contract). Justifying why brigands are out brigading is as easy as asking yourself “What were the most recent conflicts in this region and who was fighting them?”. There’s also something to say about how a life of trauma and violence can be hard to leave even after the battle is over, which is why you historically tend to see lots of gangs and paramilitary groups pop up in the wake of conflict.

Raiders: fundamentally the thing that has caused cultures to raid eachother since the dawn of time is sacristy. When the threat of starvation looms it’s far easier to justify potentially throwing your life away if it means securing enough food to last you and those close to you through the next year/season/day. Raider cultures develop in biomes that don’t support steady agriculture, or in times where famine, war, climate change, or disease make the harvests unreliable. They tend to target neighboring cultures that DO have reliable harvests which is why you frequently see raiders emerging from “the barbaric frontier” to raid “civilization” that just so happens to occupy the space of a reliably fertile river valley. When thinking about including raiders in your story, consider what environmental forces have caused this most recent and previous raids, as well as consider how frequent raiding has shaped the targeted society. Frequent attacks by raiders is how we get walled palaces and warrior classes after all, so this shit is important.

Slavers: Just like raiding, most cultures have engaged in slavery at one point or another, which is a matter I get into here. While raiders taking captives is not uncommon, actively attacking people for slaves is something that starts occurring once you have a built up slave market, necessitating the existence of at least one or more hierarchical societies that need more disposable workers than then their lower class is capable of providing. The roman legion and its constant campaigns was the apparatus by which the imperium fed its insatiable need for cheap slave labor. Subsistence raiders generally don’t take slaves en masse unless they know somewhere to sell them, because if you’re having trouble feeding your own people you’re not going to capture more ( this is what d&d gets wrong about monstrous humanoids most of the time).

Tax Farmers: special mention to this underused classic, where gangs of toughs would bid to see who could collect money for government officials, and then proceed to ransack the realm looking to squeeze as much money out of the people as possible. This tends to happen in areas where the state apparatus is stretched too thin or is too lighthanded to have established enduring means of funding. Tax farmers are a great one-two punch for campaigns where you want your party to be set up against a corrupt authority: our heroes defeat the marauding bandits and then oh-no, turns out they were not only sanctioned by the government but backed by an influential political figure who you’ve just punched in the coinpurse. If tax farming exists it means the government is strong enough to need a yearly budget but not so established (at least in the local region) that it’s developed a reliably peaceful method of maintaining it.

Robber Baron: Though the term is now synonymous with ruthless industrialists, it originated from the practice of shortmidned petty gentry (barons and knights and counts and the like) going out to extort and even rob THEIR OWN LANDS out of a desire for personal enrichment/boredom. Schemes can range from using their troops to shake down those who pass through their domain to outright murdering their own peasants for sport because you haven’t gotten to fight in a war for a while. Just as any greed or violence minded noble can be a robber baron so it doesn’t take that much of a storytelling leap but I encourage you to channel all your landlord hate into this one.

Rebels: More than just simple outlaws, rebels have a particular cause they’re a part of (just or otherwise) that puts them at odds with the reigning authority. They could violently support a disfavoured political faction, be acting out against a law they think is unjust, or hoping to break away from the authority entirely. Though attacks against those figures of authority are to be expected, it’s all too common for rebels to go onto praying on common folk for the sake of the cause. To make a group of rebels worth having in your campaign pinpoint an issue that two groups of people with their own distinct interests could disagree on, and then ratchet up the tension. Rebels have to be able to beleive in a cause, so they have to have an argument that supports them.

Remnants: Like a hybrid of brigands, rebels, and taxfarmers, Remnants represent a previously legitimate system of authority that has since been replaced but not yet fully disappeared. This can happen either because the local authority has been replaced by something new (feudal nobles left out after a monarchy toppling revolution) or because it has faded entirely ( Colonial forces of an empire left to their own devices after the empire collapses). Remnants often sat at the top of social structures that had endured for generations and so still hold onto the ghost of power ( and the violence it can command) and the traditions that support it. Think about big changes that have happened in your world of late, are the remnants looking to overturn it? Win new privilege for themselves? Go overlooked by their new overlords?

Art

#monsters reimagined #bandits #dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #ttprg #pathfinder #heavy topics #monsters reimagined

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