#introduction to palm reading

[thethirdbear]

[rafey-baby]

trinket

rafe thinks his maid is just the sweetest little thing...  

prince!rafe x maid!reader 

c/w: rafe being a menace, him flirting (?) w her, some royal cameron family angst ig, brief descriptions of him having sex w another woman, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k

also this is by no means historically accurate which is why i’m not gonna name any specific era for this xx

moodboard & introduction

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Every mid-December, the palace comes alive in an entirely novel way with the bustling preparations for the annual winter ball that the king and queen host to celebrate ‘another wonderful year’.

The once quiet and calm castle transforms into something colorful and vivid with the mouthwatering smell of cakes and pastries cooking in the ovens of the royal kitchen, along with maids and other servants whirling around the long hallways as they place intricate decorations and shiny ribbons all over the broad staircases and windows. 

She’s grateful she doesn’t have to partake in the hustle and bustle all that much since her primary duties include taking care of the prince and ensuring he has everything and anything he could possibly need.  

Although right now, she sort of wishes she could be stringing up polished ornaments or garnishing elegant baked goods because apparently, being the prince’s personal maid sometimes means sitting quietly in his bedchambers (as per his request to keep him company while he’s reading) with her own thoughts and the sounds outside the door her only source of entertainment.  

Therefore, she’s elated when he suddenly turns to face her in his armchair— flitting his eyes over to her from the hefty book that seems to have made him exasperated rather than enthralled.  

“Will you join me for a walk? All this noise is makin’ m’head hurt.”

There’s enthusiasm in the nod of her head; a yearning to see the fresh layer of snow covering the trees and painting the entire kingdom with its powdery whiteness— the aftermath of last night’s blizzard. She doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the crystalline snowfall glittering under the touch of the afternoon sun— or maybe a certain pair of aquamarine eyes, but that’s beside the point.  

“That would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” she easily agrees. 

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I despise that name? There’s no need to use it when s’just me,” he scolds her before he’s straightening up and stretching out his arms over his head. 

“My apologies, it’s a habit,” she rises to her feet as well; trying her hardest not to let her eyes linger on the sliver of his stomach peeking out from underneath the silky fabric of his shirt. 

“I don’t want your apologies, want you to use my name,” he says before stepping closer— standing tall before her and forcing her to blink up at him in order to meet his eyes. “Go on, sweetheart, say it,” he practically orders; eager eyes fixed on her face.  

She hesitates under the sudden attention. He’s always seemed so fascinated by her and she doesn’t know why.  

“Um…Rafe.”  

He lets out a hum of approval. “That’s good. You ready to leave?” 

“Y— yes, uh, Rafe.”  

“Good job. Not so difficult, is it?” he coos at her almost mockingly— fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek when he tucks a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. 

She merely shakes her head— a warmth dusting over the apples of her cheeks when his touch lingers on the side of her face afterwards. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to drown in the lagoons of his eyes, but then he clears his throat and offers the palm of his hand for her to take.  

And it’s rather unusual for someone of his status to do; a prince who’s bound to wear the crown one day holding his maid’s hand isn’t exactly something that’s written in any book regarding the royal etiquette. However, he’s never been one to allow for dreadful rules and traditions to dictate his behavior, especially not towards her.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

“Are you looking forward to the winter ball?” she asks when they stop by the stables to check up on his horse, Jupiter.  

“You know I hate dancin’,” he mutters out as he watches its teeth grind on the carrot he brought with him.  

She smiles because she does know, before letting out a wistful sigh. “I wish I could attend.”

“You do? Why?” he’s perplexed by her enthusiasm towards something he considers as more tedious than anything— having to plaster on a smile for an entire night and socialize with people he doesn’t necessarily care for in order to humor his father never being something he’s particularly taken delight in.  

Especially when Sarah is going to be the one receiving all of their father’s attention anyway. Not that he cares (he does) but he would appreciate it, if for once in his life, his old man would show him even an ounce of the care he seems to so easily shower his sisters in.  

“Well, I’d love to wear a ball gown, but mostly for the food,” her feather-light voice brings him back to the moment.  

“I’ll make sure to bring you a plate ‘n you can eat it in my room then, yeah?” he promises as he runs his fingers through Jupiter’s black main.  

“You would do that?”  

“If you promise not to tell the other maids or they’re gonna accuse you of gettin’ special treatment,” his tone is playful. 

“They already do that,” she points out. “They think we spend too much time together.” 

“And what do you think?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t mind. I quite enjoy your company,” she answers truthfully. After all, she has grown quite fond of Rafe throughout the years. Sometimes she just wishes he wasn’t so overwhelming, in every sense of the word. 

“Yeah?” a smirk pulls at the side of his mouth, seemingly pleased with her answer. 

She’s certain he’s well aware of the effect he has on her— the effect he has on everyone. And she thinks that he enjoys it; relishes in toying with her for his own amusement simply because he can. He can practically do anything he wants since his father is oftentimes gone for long periods of time; fulfilling his duties for the kingdom and whatnot.  

And she knows Rafe doesn’t particularly mind the fact that his father is rarely home because he’s always been hard on him, much harder than on his sisters because whether he likes it or not, he’s set off to be the new king one day. And his reputation of having female guests over more often than not whenever his father is away doesn’t necessarily help with gaining his approval.

After all, rumor travels fast around the palace.  

Rafe once admitted to her that he often felt like a disappointment, and that the pressure of everyone’s expectations sometimes made him wish he was nothing more than a stableman. After all, he does get along with horses better than he ever has with his family— it’s not exactly a secret amongst the royal court.  

“Would you wanna go for a ride with me? Think Jupiter’s gettin’ bored,” he suddenly asks.  

“Oh, I would love to but I’ve never, um, ridden a horse before,” she timidly admits. 

“No? You wanna know how it feels? You could jus’ sit behind me, don’t need to do anythin’, yeah?” he coaxes her to say yes with a seemingly sincere smile; already walking Jupiter out of its stable and leaving her no choice but to follow them outside.   

“Really?” the frosty air causes a shiver to crawl up her spine when she eyes him, hesitant.  

“Mhm. Promise nothing’s gonna happen, I’ll take care of you. ‘N I know you’ll like it, s’very freeing,” he assures her as he’s already saddling up the horse, seemingly aware that she could never refuse him of anything.  

“Okay...if you insist,” she tentatively agrees with a nod that he rewards with a beaming grin; the icy snowflakes sticking to his hair making him look like something straight out of a fairy tale.  

Then, he’s lifting her up to straddle the entirely too big of an animal that sort of still scares her— strong hands gripping onto her hips and leaving her momentarily starstruck at how effortlessly he does it; as if she weighs nothing more than the carrot Jupiter was just chewing on.  

He follows soon after, settling down in front of her with ease before looking at her over his shoulder. “Need you to hold onto me unless you wanna fall,” he instructs, seemingly reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one teaching her something new.  

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, gingerly setting her hands on his waist, movements uncertain.  

“Gonna need you to hold on tighter, promise I won’t bite,” he huffs out a laugh before he’s grabbing her arms and wrapping them around his middle more firmly— forcing her to fully lean against his back when the sudden clip-clopping of Jupiter’s hooves against the snow-covered cobblestone causes her to let out a surprised shriek.   

“Good?” he asks, seemingly amused at the way she’s practically clutching onto him as the cottony snow prances around them. 

She manages out a hum, wondering if he can hear her poor heart loudly thumping in her ribcage when he decides to pick up the speed some more, as if she wasn’t already terrified.  

“Rafe! Can you slow down?” she squeaks out when Jupiter seems to only accelerate further underneath them.  

“Where’s the fun in that?” he lets out a hearty chuckle in response, apparently finding amusement in her utterly frightened state while she wonders why she let herself think for even one second that he had pure intentions.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Y/N? Will you go look for my son? I fear he’s once again escaped his responsibilities to God knows where,” the king requests with an exasperated sigh while she’s crouching down and helping a servant clean up the sharp pieces of a shattered wine glass— the sound of laughter and dancing flourishing around them. 

And she could swear she saw Rafe conversing with a guest only a few short moments ago. However, as she looks around in an attempt to locate the missing prince, he’s nowhere to be found.  

“Right away, Your Majesty,” she’s quick to answer with a polite smile.  

“Thank you,” he nods gratefully, seemingly fed up with his son already.  

She ensures that the poor girl who accidentally cut her finger on the broken shards is not going to faint before tiptoeing up the broad flight of stairs in order to reach the higher levels of the palace— the loud music and blooming celebrations echoing around the halls. 

“Your Highness? Are you in there?” she knocks softly on the mahogany door leading to his bedroom.  

However, she isn’t granted a response. 

“Rafe?” she tries once more before pressing her ear against the wood separating her from the muffled sounds she can now hear from the other side— brows furrowing when something akin to a whimper reaches her ears.

It sounds nothing like Rafe; it has a higher pitch, something more feminine than his usual drawl. And as she stands there, contemplating whether something is wrong or if she should just leave, the volume only amplifies.

And in a moment of cloudy judgement, she finds herself pushing down on the handle.

However, she curses her curiosity the moment the door cracks open and she’s faced with the view of some woman’s naked back. Her long, beautiful hair reminds her of lady Lydia (a daughter of one of the dukes invited to the ball) with none other than the prince himself underneath her sweaty form.  

The sheets that she changed this morning are crumpled and creased around them and without the barrier of the door, she can now hear Rafe’s low grunts as well— can see how his big hands guide her movements. And they’re both panting heavily, seemingly lost in some haze— maybe the same one that forces her to stay rooted to her spot in the doorway.  

With her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth parted, she’s not entirely sure how long she stands there for. Until out of the blue, she notices Rafe’s eyes flickering over to her— a smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches her staring. 

She tries to move her legs but they won’t listen; making his lazy grin only grow in tandem with his strained groans that seem to only increase in volume as he locks his eyes with her.  

And she can’t breathe; the air clogging her lungs instead of flowing through as her dazed mind tries to get her to do something, anything to get her to leave the room but his heady gaze seems to have hypnotized her— compelled her to stay right where she is.  

All at once, a gravelly noise rumbles from his chest— his head dropping against the cushion of his fluffy pillows, seemingly reaching some sort of a peak in his search for pleasure as the woman above him begins to slow down her movements. And that’s when she’s finally able to step away; shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the stairs with bated breaths and heart pounding in her ears.

When she reaches the bottom, she accidentally stumbles into someone holding a golden serving tray— causing it to topple over to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes before her wobbly legs are scrambling off in an attempt to locate the nearest escape route to the garden.  

And once she’s managed to make it outdoors, she feels like she can finally breathe— the crisp December wind granting her heated skin an opportunity to cool down as she sits down on one of the wooden benches with a sigh.

[motthe]

there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds [part 2]

warnings: childhood trauma, bit of blood, secondhand embarrassment maybe???

masterlist | ao3

Bob didn't know what to expect when Bucky mentioned a friend of his being able to help with his “weird mind power stuff.”

Said friend being a woman, Bob wasn’t sure if that made things easier or not. Opening up to anyone felt forbidden these days. That and the team knew how to deal with his bad days. He would have to see someone react to him for the first time all over again.

One thing Bob was sure about was that he would feel a hell of a lot worse hurting a woman if this training didn't go well.

Then you walked off the elevator, and he quickly realized he couldn't save face around you. For one, you held yourself like every other hero in his life. If there was a weakness, he couldn’t pinpoint it, and you held more confidence in one finger than he’d ever had in his entire life.

And second, you were beautiful. It had been a fact even from a distance, but then you held his hand without fear, and you’d smiled bright enough it blinded him for a good second.

Training the psychic side meant you were going to see every molecule of shit that ever existed in his head. There was nothing he was going to be able to hide from you. But if you weren’t running for the hills after everything you’d heard in his head the first day, then maybe there was a chance.

Bucky also mentioned all the lowlives you’d had to needle your way through to get evidence for detectives. When you said you’d seen the worst of the worst, you had meant it, and while Bob never once thought of himself as a good or even useful person, he could at least feel a bit better about himself when compared to a serial killer.

He had done bad things, but he'd never wanted to do them intentionally.

‘“So, h-how is all of this going to work?”

It was his second day meeting with you and after the storm of introductions with the rest of the team, one too many comments from Walker, and a strange look of respect passing between you and Yelena, this was the first time he’d ever been alone with you. There was no Bucky to look to for second opinions, no one to step in if something went wrong—

“Nothing is going to go wrong.”

His attention zipped to you as you sipped from a to-go coffee cup. “Um, can you warn me when you’re going to…you know?”

“I’m not reading your mind,” you said, tongue catching a stray drop on the corner of your lips.

Thank God, he thought and you winced like someone had blasted music in your ears. You made some vague hand gesture before the line in your brow relaxed.

“You’re projecting,” you said. “I told you, you're loud. But I can block you out. It just takes some fine tuning I don’t usually have to do with others.”

“So I’m just shouting everything?” he whispered, horrified.

You shook your head. “Not always. It’s bits and pieces. When you’re worried or excited the volume builds. It's like if you were ranting about something, y’know?”

“Can we work on that first?” he begged.

“First,” you said, clearly amused, “we have to get comfortable with one another. When I skirt around your head, you’re guarded in some places and open in others. You have to get used to being completely open with me before I can teach you to close yourself off.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “You’re going to have to see a lot of messed up stuff. I know you already have but still.”

“I’ll apologize as well,” you laughed, “because it’s going to go both ways. You’re going to see as much of me as I will of you, but that’s part of the process of building mental shields.”

“But if I’m able to get in—”

“You've done a great job keeping it under control so far,” you told him. “From what I read, you only see glimpses before you or your target breaks away.”

“I don’t want to even do that, though.”

“Well, in order to learn how to not do that, I have to see how you even do it in the first place.” You lifted your hand, palm facing up as you twiddled your fingers at him. “Let’s see what you bring out.”

He shook his head, sinking further into his chair. What happened to building up to his despicable magic trick? This was only day two. “I don’t think that's a good idea. Aren't we supposed to meditate or build the whole mind barrier thing by imagining bricks?”

“We’ll get there,” you promised, sipping your drink again. “For now, let’s level the playing field. You’re embarrassed and scared of all the things I know already. This will let you learn about me a bit.”

“What I make you see—” he tried again.

“I know. Trust me, I can handle it,” you swore, eyes hardened with certitude. “Now, come on in, Bob. The door’s open.”

He wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t curious about what shames you had floating around in your past, but baring yourself open as easily as you were… How were you okay with that? Would he learn where that came from while you were teaching him?

He closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to put you through the worst times of your life.

“Please, Bob. You trusted me to try yesterday. I need that again.”

“I know,” he whispered, straightening his shoulders as he looked you in the eye. “I just don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

There was that smile again. Radiant, he thought and you huffed on a laugh. Shit.

“I’m not afraid,” you promised.

He swallowed and reached out a hand. “You will be.”

A wall of darkness crashed over your mind. The ground fell out from under you, sending your heart off rhythm. Your first reaction was to ground yourself, but you fought it, allowing Bob’s presence to wash over you and drag you into whatever memory his power clung to.

Opening your eyes, you sucked your teeth at the sight of that old, wooden dining room table. You were four, doing your best to get around the food on your plate as your mother sat opposite of you. The dining room had that powdery smell of youth.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes watering as the grief claimed you. She was alive and breathing again and you were about to see the beginning of her spiral. But you had prepared for that.

“You don’t have to hide, Bob,” you called, sensing him nearby. “Come here.”

He stepped up on your right, eyes glued to the scene before looking at you. “You’re so young.”

“I was,” you agreed, frowning at the expressions flickering over your mother’s face. She looked a mess, clothes ragged on her frame and eyes darting around the room before settling on you, scowling at your plate.

“Baby, eat your food, please,” she called quietly.

“Don’t want to.”

You drowned the conversation out as you turned to Bob. “Your powers seem to pick shame from the beginning.”

“Never this young,” he whispered, eyes round as he looked at your toddler self.

“I was born with my powers. I couldn't control them back then,” you explained, wincing as your mother began to yell. You held a hand up, silencing the scene.

“How did you…?” He looked between your hand and the environment in awe.

“You can’t block my powers even when I’m in the midst of yours. That's interesting,” you hummed. Your heart squeezed in your chest as your mother threw herself to the floor, clawing at her head as your child self ran to her, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“What happened?” he asked, voice shaking.

“I projected a lot. Like you do now,” you explained, grabbing your upper arm as your mother’s hand found the butter knife on the floor and slashed. “She thought she was going insane and then she did.”

Bob turned away as your toddler self began to bleed, crawling away and screaming into silence. “I don’t want to see this.”

“Then don’t,” you told him. “Pull out of it.”

“I can’t just do things like you can!” he said, panic rising.

“Focus. Take a breath.” You eyed the scene as it started over from the top. Another thing to note. “You latched on to this memory. Let it go.”

“How?” His breath was picking up.

“Can I touch you?” you asked. The question seemed to confuse him for a second before he nodded. You grabbed his arms and turned him away from the dining room, getting his full attention on you. “Feel my hands?”

“Uh, yeah,” he murmured, bobbing his head.

“You’re feeling that with your mind. This isn’t real.”

“It was real," he breathed, watery.

“And now it’s done,” you stated gently. “Can’t be changed. I'll always regret what I did to my mother, but I was a kid. There was nothing I could do.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, hands folding back over yours as he took a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Feel the floor under your feet. You’ve grounded yourself to this memory. Now you just have unground.”

He looked down, expression pinching as he fought to focus. You couldn’t help but laugh as he jumped.

“With your mind,” you repeated.

“This is my mind!” he said, voice shrill and eyes wide as he met yours. “God, what if we’re stuck?”

“We’re not stuck,” you promised, squeezing his hands. “Here, I’ll do it. Maybe you’ll be able to feel it.”

Honing in on the sensations around you, you followed them back to your core, centering your focus on yourself and Bob. With a slow breath, you let that shield snap over the two of you, forcing the darkness back.

There was a split second as you trailed out of Bob's mental snare. You couldn't be sure, but somewhere on the horizon of your consciousness melding with his there was a…mass. A dark blotch.

And when you noticed it, there was no way to hide when it noticed you back.

A gasp of air split your lips. Back to reality, you two were still at the table in the Watchtower. Bob blinked opposite of you, his fingers skimming your palm. The shield you'd propped over both of you was still intact—that mental bond pulsing.

“How did she do that?”

Lots and lots of practice, you answered him, making yourself known in his head. Feel this? That’s how you’ll know I’m in your head.

He made a distressed expression that had you snorting. His head turned from side to side, reminiscent of a cat with a medical cone on for the first time. He wasn't sure what to do with a second presence melded to his. “Oh, weird. Okay. That feels so weird. I don't know if I like this.”

Yeah, not very comfortable. You want me to leave?

“Yeah, just, well, lemme try to get used to it for a second. So weird, what the fuck?”

You covered your face with your hand to try to find a semblance of professionalism, but it was impossible with the faces he made and the stream of thoughts filtering through.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing.

“I'd rather you be laughing than running, screaming out of the room. It's embarrassing, but it's not the worst.”

If it makes you feel any better, I'm not a professional in any shape or form. Bob's head tilted as he stared through the table. There was a brush against your mind. I'll make mistakes trying to figure out the best way to teach you what I know—oh, hi. That's me.

“You’re warm,” he replied aloud, squinting as he zeroed in. You made a point to retreat back a bit in case you ended up back in a shame room. His eyes flickered up to yours. “I feel you moving around. Is this how you see stuff?”

You nodded, a bit flustered at the feeling of his consciousness circling yours. He learned fast. “I’m not actively looking right now, just making my presence known. Careful, you press any further and you'll get my subconscious thoughts again.”

He shuddered as you pulled away from his mind completely. Your mind barrier went up for both his privacy and yours.

"Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“No, its fine, just...so weird.” His nose wrinkled as he said it.

“Yeah, I've heard that before,” you scoffed, smiling into your drink. The way he grinned back, it weighed in one corner—the same side he turned into to avoid eye contact. “You have any questions for me after all that?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, that sweet smile dropping as he bit at his lip. “You…felt something when we left the shame room. How did I feel that? And what was it?”

“My shield connected us. I wanted to bring you out with me instead of pushing you out. Would've been a bit rude since I asked you to show me.” You fiddled with the cup sleeve, leaning back into your chair. “As for what I felt, I don't want to assume anything but seeing as I sensed it as much as it sensed me…”

“Did it scare you?” he asked.

“No, but I didn't expect to run into Void this soon. Does it always sit on the outer edges like that?”

Bob shrugged. “On good days, yeah. But he's always around. A voice in the back of my head.”

“Tell me about him,” you murmured. “I've read what others think of him, but I want your input.”

“He's just…bad.” Bob shook his head, hands rubbing over his jeans. “Everything messed up or wrong in me, he feeds on it. He spits it back out on the bad days and tries to overwhelm me? I guess?”

“Does he try to get out often?”

His hair swayed as his head shook again. “More like when I'm weakest.”

“Weakest mentally? What about physically?” Bob shrugged, looking put off by the questions. “I'm not trying to overstep, I just need to understand as much as possible. They say he's your alter ego, that he's separate from you.”

“I mean, that's not wrong but I don't know if that's right either.”

You made a mental note. “Would you call him a parasite?”

“No.”

You raised a brow, amazed at the certainty. “Why? You said he feeds on you.”

There was a twist in his face, a flash of molten something in his eyes as he shook his head. “Sorry. Um, I don't know. I, uh…”

You slowly reached back out to his mind, gentle as you weighed against him. It's okay. We can stop here for today.

“Sorry,” he breathed, shoulders sinking. “He's louder now. I think we pissed him off.”

“Yeah, that'll probably be happening a lot from now on,” you chuckled, standing to throw your empty cup away. There was no trash can in your immediate view. “If you ever need help, I'm good at blocking things out for a time. I don't know if that would make things worse, but it's worth a shot, right?”

He surprised you with a weak laugh, clearing his throat as you turned. “Sorry. I know you said you weren't a professional, I just didn't expect this to be casual.”

You weren't sure how else you could have been. The stuff you both would be dealing with, well, you'd be getting personal with a whole lot in a very short amount of time. That's why you and Wanda were so close as well as Nat. One wanted you to learn your powers on a spiritual level, and the other wanted you to be able to steel your mind when chaos came knocking.

Hopefully, with Bob you could be that anchor they had become for you.

“I'm definitely not the strict and unemotional type,” you agreed with him. “As dangerous as all this could be, it's a breath of fresh air compared to what I was doing, so. Thanks for wanting me to help.”

There was that shy little grin of his again. You hoped, maybe after a few weeks or less, it wouldn't be as rare to see.

[honeyroots]

— keep it on the down low, ft. DEAN WINCHESTER

☆ SYNOPSIS: You're Sam’s best friend, but Dean just can’t keep his hands off of you.

☆ WORD COUNT: 1.6k ☆ WARNINGS: NSFW (18+) / fem!reader / p in v / mentions of alcohol / reader is sam’s best friend / college au / frat!dean / praise (f receiving) / lowkey sam is pining for reader / reader and dean are sneaking around ☆ PAIRING: stanford!dean x reader

“You have to bounce the ball on the table and then make it into one of the solo cups,” DEAN WINCHESTER was laying the rules of beer-pong out flat. As a champion in his frat house, he was serious about playing doubles and determined to drill the rules into you prior to the start of the game. 

Your first day at Stanford, you met Sam Winchester in an introduction to psychology class. He somehow forgot a pen and leaned over toward you, cheeks red as he asked to borrow any sort of writing utensil. Naturally, a friendship formed between you and Sam, and the first time you met his older brother Dean, who was the president of Alpha Delta Phi (apparently Dean rushing the frat it started as a joke), your mouth watered and your knees went a little weak. He was too perfect, his jawline sharp, lips full, and eyes the prettiest color of green. The worst part? He knew he was beautiful, always weaponizing his pretty privilege to his advantage, and you hated to say that it worked on you.

Dean was directly behind you, one hand pressed against your waist as you aimed for the red solo cup. It was merely practice, training you up for some end-of-the-year frat party that was coming up. His chin rested on your shoulder as you threw one of the ping-pong balls toward the red solo cups positioned at the other end of the table.

Whenever Dean got too close, Sam would huff and puff, telling Dean to get his grubby hands off of his best friend. But today Sam wasn’t here, it was just you and Dean, in an empty frat house. When he texted you this morning to come over, you blinked a few times thinking maybe you were still in the middle of a dream, but when reality set in and you realized you were reading his message correctly, you nearly ran to his house.

The ball bounced off the rim of the cup, falling to the floor, the bounces echoing off the walls as you sighed in defeat. There was something about the alignment of the cups that was throwing you off.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it,” Dean encouraged, pulling one of the balls from the pile in his right and shoving it into the palm of your hand. His chin was still nestled on your shoulder, eyes fixated on the flex of your hand as you released the next ball from the tips of your fingers. The ball landed in the front cup, earning a large smile from you.

“I did it!” You cheered, turning around to face Dean. Chests pressed together, your bodies were so close, you could be considered one entity. Dean dropped the ping pong balls, curving one of his fingers into your belt loop and pulling your lower half closer to him. As the rest of your body collided with his, you felt the halfie he was sporting against you.

With his other hand, not paying any mind to the ping pong balls bouncing awry, he grasped your chin. The room felt like it was spinning, your mind in a daze as Dean dipped his face forward. With his lips so close, they were grazing against yours as he spoke, “I’ve been wanting to do this.”

His lips were on yours in a matter of moments— gentle at first, with soft nips from his teeth tugging at your bottom lip. His hand found its way to the small of your back, fingers toying with the hem as he lifted just enough of the fabric for his calloused hands to run against the bare skin of your back.

“Fuck, tastes so good,” he hummed against your lips, jutting his tongue out to lick a stripe along the roof of your mouth. The way your lips moved together, tongues crashing against one another was natural like two puzzle pieces fitting together. “I’ve got a real sweet tooth, did you know that?”

The whole thing was a blur. How you ended up in his bedroom, and how you ended up in between his sheets, you weren’t really sure. The feel of his hands on your body, his lips against your skin created a mind fog like no other. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about Dean Winchester. Like you hadn’t thought about the lines of his face and the calluses on his fingers in depth, or how they might feel against you.

Dean peeled the comforter back, his mouth still on yours as he pushed you against the bed. Completely clothed, he fell on top of you, wrapping his arms over your head as his mouth pressed chaste kisses against the corner of your mouth, then down your neck until he reached the collar of your shirt. The way Dean laid into you was like he would never be able to have you again, exploring every inch of your skin as he peeled your clothes off was enough to have your skin heating.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, using one hand to reach behind and unclasp your bra; it was almost a red flag how quickly he unhooked the clasp. His lips ran down your chest, pressing kisses to (what felt like) every inch of your skin. With his teeth, he unzipped your pants, tugging your jeans off of your body at a slow speed. As soon as you were splayed across his bed, your body on full display for him, Dean stripped himself of his clothing. Rushed, like he couldn’t wait to be inside of you, he removed his shirt and jeans. Everything about him was so gorgeous, the dips in his abdomen, even the oddly shaped tattoo on his left pectoral was beautiful.

It didn’t take long for Dean to position himself in between your legs, his hand reaching down to toy with your clit. His middle finger connected with the sensitive bud, rubbing a few circles to prep you for what was to come. His face hovered above yours, eyes watching your facial expressions as he dragged his finger up and down your slit. He wanted to memorize the way your face contorted, to find the face you make when you’re experiencing the most pleasure so he could engrave the image into his mind and replay it for himself when he was alone.

“Just trying to warm you up, baby,” Dean spoke in a low voice, his eyes searching yours. Moving his fingers from your core, he brought them to his mouth to taste you. Humming in pleasure, Dean smiled against the tips of his fingers. Heat rushed through your body at the sight of him tasting you, collecting your slick like it was honey and running it against his tongue. “Tastes so sweet.”

“I’ve thought about this,” you admitted, small gasps pulling from the depths of your throat as Dean lined up the tip of his cock with your slit. Slowly, he pushed in, but not all the way, getting you used to the stretch of him. Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes screwing shut as you felt him enter, the stimulation of his fingers and the girth of him almost too stimulating.

“I know,” Dean breathed against you, his lips only inches away from yours. “I’ve thought about it too. I’m a slimy guy, huh? Thinking of my brother’s best friend. You’re just so pretty, like a doll.”

Dean pushed more of his shaft inside as he spoke, a soft groan coming from him as he felt the warmth of your core clench around him. Your body was responding to him in a way you didn’t expect, just the feeling of him bringing you to a place you had never experienced, and he wasn’t even rocking into you yet. When he began thrusting, the movements gentle against you, you couldn’t help but squeeze his shoulder in pleasure. With your head thrown back against the pillow that smelled of his aftershave, you let out soft whimpers. 

“You’re doing so good,” Dean praised, rocking his hips in and out of you. It took him a second to get to know the ins and outs of your body, trying to find your g-spot, but as soon as he located it, he doubled down. In just a few thrusts, he had you squirming beneath him, begging for more as he stimulated your core.

You felt your orgasm approaching, and before you could even give Dean a warning, you were spurting around him. Whining against his shoulder, you felt the peak of your orgasm spill over. With care, Dean continued to thrust in and out of you, riding you down from the high of your climax as he reached his own. Groans that sounded like a symphony sprang from Dean’s mouth. Collapsing on top of you with your bodies still connected, you both heavily breathed in unison. Interlocking your hands, Dean pressed his head against your chest. He cleared his throat, his lips gently pecking your collarbone. “We shouldn’t tell Sam about this.”

“No,” you agreed, guilt festering in the pit of your gut as you thought of your best friend. Was this a betrayal? Hooking up with his older brother? Squeezing Dean’s hand, your fingers brushed against the hardened skin of his index finger.

“Why are your hands so calloused?” You questioned, not necessarily meaning for the question to be spoken out loud.

“From my job. It’s the family business.” Dean let go of your fingers, and with a gasp from overstimulation, he pulled himself out of your core. Using his t-shirt, he wiped the insides of your thighs, finding solace in cleaning you up. 

“What do you do?” You hadn’t realized Dean worked outside of being a full-time student and full-time frat boy. It seemed that every time you spoke to Dean, you were unlocking buried lore, and one day you were determined to put the puzzle pieces together.

He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Call it community work.”

[gf2bellamy]

Hi hello!

Oh my gosh I love your work so much like you are the absolute GOAT of Spencer fluff fics.

If it’s not a bother, can I please request reader starting her first day at the bau and she’s all shy and nervous because she’s the youngest and wants to make a good impression and as she’s greeting everyone she goes to shake Spencer’s hand he does the whole thing about pathogens and says how it’s safer to kiss and her being so flustered just goes ‘oh okay’ and gives a quick peck on his cheek without thinking and scampers away leaving him completely dazed?

impressions — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: statistics about bacteria , reader being nervous a/n: thank you so so much !!! that actually made my day thank you <3333333 i hope you like this :)

Your heart was pounding so loudly in your chest that you were convinced everyone in the bullpen could hear it. You had barely stepped through the doors of the BAU, and already, nerves were twisting in your stomach like a tangled mess of wires. Your first day, your first real job with the FBI, and, perhaps most daunting of all, the knowledge that you were the youngest agent on the team.

Someone had been kind enough to guide you through the bullpen.

It was surreal, stepping into their world.

You took a deep breath, forcing your feet to move forward, and stopped in front of the door to Aaron Hotchner’s office. You quickly smoothed your hands over your neatly pressed blazer, as if that would somehow make you appear more put together than you felt.

Swallowing hard, you raised a shaky fist and knocked.

“Come in.” The voice was authoritative, but not unkind.You exhaled, steeling yourself, and pushed the door open.

Aaron Hotchner sat behind his desk, looking up from a file in front of him. His expression was unreadable, eyes scanning you in that way you imagined only a profiler could. You quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind you.

He greeted you with a small smile, standing up as he extended a hand. “Welcome to the BAU.”

You shook his hand as firmly as you could manage, hoping he couldn’t feel how clammy your palm was. “Thank you, sir. It’s—” You hesitated, your mind scrambling for words that didn’t sound completely ridiculous. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Hotch gave you a small nod, motioning for you to take a seat across from him. “I’ve read your file. Your record is impressive.”

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your heart rate picked up. “I, um—thank you, sir.”

“I know this unit can be… intimidating,” he continued, leaning forward slightly. “But you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t capable. I trust that you’ll prove yourself.”

This settled some of the nerves still twisting in your stomach.

“I’ll do my best,” you said, meaning every word.

“I expect nothing less.” Hotch nodded with a small smile at you.

“The rest of the team is in the conference room,” Hotch continued as he stood, already moving toward the door. He pulled it open for you, nodding for you to follow. As you stepped into the bullpen, trying to steady your nerves, Hotch continued, “We have a case in Texas. You’ll be briefed shortly.”

Right. No slow introductions, no easing into things. You had expected as much, but it still made your stomach twist with anticipation. This was it. Your first case, your first real step into the world of the BAU.

Just as you rounded the corner toward the conference room, a blur of movement caught your eye. Spencer Reid was practically sprinting through the bullpen, his satchel bouncing against his side as he hastily adjusted his tie. He skidded to a stop just in front of Hotch, his curls slightly disheveled, his breath uneven.

“Sorry I’m late,” Spencer said quickly, pushing his hair back from his face. “The metro had a delay, and then I was going over some of the Texas case files and lost track of time—”

Hotch held up a hand, cutting off the ramble. The sharp look he gave Spencer was enough to make him straighten his posture.

“Reid,” Hotch said, a quiet warning in his tone.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry.”

Hotch sighed but let it go, instead turning to you. “This is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

You took a step forward, offering a polite smile as you extended your hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Spencer glanced at your outstretched hand for half a second before grimacing slightly. “Oh, uh—I don’t really do handshakes,” he said, hesitating before explaining further. “Handshakes transfer more bacteria than any other common form of physical greeting. Studies show that the average handshake can transfer up to 124 million bacteria in just a few seconds.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Oh,” was all you managed to say.

Spencer nodded, entirely serious. “Statistically speaking, it’s actually safer to kiss someone than to shake their hand.”

You blinked. For a moment, your brain completely stalled.

Kissing. Safer.

Without thinking, without even processing what you were doing, you leaned in and pressed the quickest peck to his cheek. Spencer went completely still. His mouth fell open slightly, his wide eyes blinking as if his brain had just short-circuited.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you forced yourself to straighten, offering him a small, nervous smile, because what else were you supposed to do? Before either of you could say anything, Hotch pushed open the door to the conference room. You stepped in immediately.

Spencer, meanwhile, was still frozen in place.His mouth hung open slightly, his brain working overtime to process what had just happened.

Hotch gave him a look. “You walked into that one.”

Spencer barely heard him. His hand drifted up to his cheek, still warm from the press of your lips, and he stood there, completely dazed, as the reality of his morning took an unexpected and utterly bewildering turn.

[hai7ani]

Main masterlist | cw smut, objectification, story happens when reader is still a sex worker (details of reader's experiences working in the field is included), read at your own risk

The way you love me (be my baby)

i.

Sex with Rindou is different, you think.

He's not like the other men who pays you money for a quick fuck, or even booking the whole night with you on special occasions that they decide to splurge on drugs and sluts at the club.

They slap you around like you're just some toy meant for their pleasure. A lot of them share one bad habit in common, you notice 一 that they like leaving their wet condoms on your thigh after they finish, never bothering to dispose of it in the bin, and sometimes even going as far as snapping a quick photo of you despite the club's T&C's and against your will.

You're quick to learn that this is all you're worth for. You're fast to drill it in your head, accepting the fact that you are simply just a girl put into this world for sex and pleasure. A worthless toy that anyone gets to play with if they simply have some money or enough influence to get a membership for such prestigious club owned by a reputable organisation.

That's all you are to them: a toy.

But to yourself?

You're not exactly sure on what you are.

Nights are lonely in your room even when you're surrounded by people.

It's men, most nights, but there'd also be a few older women who'd visit the club every once in a while. Lonely, yearning women who are just as empty as you on the inside, aching to feel something 一 just anything at all 一 in their hearts. You can see it clear in their orbs the second they get to feel your touch on their skins 一 a kind of void in their eyes that you don't think you can fully understand, but could still relate to in a way.

Sometimes many men would also come together and loom over you as you cry. Not from pleasure, but from pain. They are always very harsh and demanding with you.

And as always, you didn't think that sex would be any different when you come face to face with a man in a seemingly very expensive suit waiting for you in an equally expensive hotel room. Long, lilac bangs fanning over his brows and he's a bit tanner than the rest. He has bored, doe eyes that turn bright as soon as they land on your figure playing with your fingers by the door, piercing bullets into your wavering soul as you stand before him and introduce yourself as a replacement for Sakura-chan.

And when you finally dare to look up into his eyes when he doesn't reply a word, nor a simple response to your introduction, you manage to recognise him very swiftly.

He's the owner of the club that you work for. Basically your boss, and the bigger boss of Freida.

Haitani-sama.

You hadn't expected for him to be so... quiet, and soft as a person. He's silent when beckoning you over with a hand from the edge of the bed, and still is when pulling you even closer to himself, placing his palm so warmly on the back of your thigh. His touch is demanding and at a place of absolute power, but he isn't abusive with it. His purples are bold, strong, and pinkish lips stained with wine slowly curling into a small smile while he gaze so deeply into your wide, glossy eyes.

You don't really remember much about your first time meeting him.

You remember talking with him, touching him as per your job's demands, and suddenly you find yourself straddling his hips, hands gripped tightly onto his shoulders while you pant and mewl into the air, cheeks flushed and your head thrown back, as he pistons a few thick fingers into your pussy, occasionally bumping and rubbing your clit with his palm so sweetly under the hem of your long dress and he's kissing down the valley of your breasts.

You've always thought that sex is meant to hurt.

But it is different with him together.

Every night when he returns and somehow chooses you each and every single time, you finally get to feel something in the empty shell that people call 'a heart'. It burns like gasoline in your chest when you feel it coming, but it is something that you find yourself longing for so feverishly on the nights he isn't visiting.

He asks for your legs to fall off his hips 一 to let yourself go and simply enjoy the moment with him 一 and he never hits you for pleasure like what you're used to being treated. He likes fucking in doggy, but always ends the night slow with missionary because it's what you're more comfortable with 一 based on your body language that he'd read through like an open book the first night with you.

He lets you cum as many times as you want, even going as far as making you use your big girl words to ask for it sometimes.

He gave you a voice 一 something that you've never got to have for yourself, and he lets you use it as much as you want with him. As loud as you want.

He never tugs on your hair or pulling your head back and forth whenever you have him in your mouth. It's degrading, and men tend to enjoy it a lot. But he doesn't do that very often, you notice 一 doesn't seem very into the whole blowjob or mouth-fucking thing despite the extreme pleasure he feels, and prefers having his dick inside of you and getting you both off with it.

You like that it's this way with him, that there is never any pain on your end. Guilty as charged, you treat it as an escape sometimes, even though you know damn well that you shouldn't be getting too close or intimate with a paying, returning customer.

Not to mention that he pays really well, too 一 always giving you way too much for your services, and never stealing photos or leaving behind his trash like the others always do either.

You come to learn fairly quickly that his first name is Rindou. Before this piece of information that he'd handed out to you way too early in your exchange, you've only known of him as Haitani-sama. Sometimes you'd call him Sir out of habit, but he prefers that less to Daddy. He fucking loves it, too, actually, and sometimes you'd resort to calling him just that for the whole night because you're not too sure on what else to say.

And sometimes he'd even request (or more like demand, considering that he's the fucking boss of the club you work for) to take you home with him a few nights, and when Freida-baba (all the girls in the club call her that) tries explaining that maybe it isn't such a good idea 一 since you do have returning customers who have booked the next few nights with you 一 he pushes up the bid with two extra zeros in his payment and watch as her eyeballs fall out of their sockets in amusement, but always with sternest, because Haitani Rindou is a man who always get what he wants.

And she'd agree every single time, because there is no way a woman like Freida would be able to reject so much money from selling just one girl and also saying no to her boss' wish.

The subtle things he does to you 一 for you and with you 一 makes your brain go haywire sometimes. And on some days, you seem to find yourself patiently, yet eagerly, waiting for his return to the club, just to be able to pleasure him again out of your own will.

Hanging around the lobby like a school girl waiting for Senpai to finish playing basketball at the court to pass him a love letter, and always finding chances to knock on Freida's door asking if Haitani-sama will be visiting anytime soon...

You can't help it.

ii.

"You know, brother," Ran places his glass on the table after taking a huge sip.

"That slut you've been seeing一"

"She has a name."

Rindou shoots back almost too fast. His brother widens his eyes a little at his words, but leans back into his seat, expression turning amused when he finds it a good motivation to keep going. He hasn't seen this sight since forever, where Rindou is being protective of a girl he's fond with.

"You've been obsessed with her lately." Ran comments. Rindou only swirls his own drink and watch with bored eyes as the ice melts from the heat, but with an impatient heart.

"She's not good news, you know."

Ran grabs his iPad from the side, scrolling through a few documents through the files app 一 the bright screen reflecting on his face 一 before pausing on one and handing the tablet over to Rindou.

"The girl's covered in debt, head to toe." He juts his chin to the screen as the younger reads through the file. His expression remains the same as before 一 still so nonchalant, still so boyish like a teenage boy who doesn't really care for what his mother says.

"She's only here for your money. Can't think of any other idea on why she's stuck to you like glue." He grins. "And that sweet little smile she's always throwing your way, damn. No wonder you're so obsessed."

It's more of the opposite, really 一 but he doesn't make a refutation to prove his brother wrong. He's stoic when he locks the screen after scanning through your background check, before throwing the device on the coffee table with a soft roll of his eyes, letting out a breath through his lips.

"I know."

Truth is, the man's already had his right-hand run your profile for him since the night you'd first met, after being so enamoured by you that he really wants to know everything about yourself 一 even the smallest details about you that you don't even realise. Rindou is already aware of how deep in crippling debt you are 一 a result of having a father with a deadly gambling addiction since you were just a baby and a mother who's addicted to heroine for the longest time ever 一 that no matter how much money you make in your lifetime selling your body and becoming entertainment for lustful men, it'll never be enough.

"But nii-chan," he pauses to look his brother in the eye. There's daggers in them despite him being family.

"She's my girl."

The grin on Ran's face only grows wider as he swipes away a fallen strand of hair breaking through the gel, after hours of being away from home.

"I'll do what I want with her."

He thinks it's fine if you're gonna break his heart and use him for his money. He has money. And at least he'll know that he'd felt good being with you during your time together 一 getting to dive back into a sweet little romance he hasn't felt in years is something that he thinks he's needed so feverishly this whole time.

"That's alright. But still, I'll have you know," Ran trails off his words to lean forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees to look at his brother, face turning serious.

"Love is an expensive thing to afford for people like us."

iii.

He hasn't been visiting you lately.

It's already been three weeks since his last return to the club, and you've long lost count on how much time you've spent moping around the lobby, pretending like you're cleaning up and assisting them on welcoming clients, when in reality, you're simply waiting to see if it'd be him walking through the glass doors this time.

The first week he stopped coming, you've just assumed that it was simply because he was too busy and drowned with work. You know it isn't easy running a club that sells pussy and bags filled with drugs slid under glass tables on the daily 一 having to constantly worry about the feds and possible snitches in the organisation is not easy work that simply anyone can handle.

On the second week that he still doesn't visit 一 even to the other girls in the club 一 you start to grow impatient and worried that perhaps something terrible has happened to him, considering his line of work. But you still see his right-hand that he keeps close around the venue sometimes, and nothing in particular seems to be off about his boss' lack of appearance recently.

On the third week, which happens to be today, you've resorted to retreating into the hallways and dragging your feet when you walk 一 sometimes peeking into rooms to see if he is perhaps inside 一 hoping that he'll miraculously turn up again like he always do.

You so desperately hope that soon you'll finally get to see him walking through the main door, all suave and handsome, and then you'd get to jump into his arms while he holds you close and kisses you and一

"Haitani-sama, would you like another drink?"

Your feet pauses.

Your head turns, scouting for the source of the voice with shakey eyes and hands一

There he is.

Perfectly healthy and legs spread widely on the expensive sofa gripping a glass of whiskey, a side of his lips curled into a handsome smirk. He's surrounded by people 一 a few men and their women, and一

"Haitani-sama, thank you for choosing me tonight." Sakura-chan giggles so sweetly into his ear, all pressed into his side on the sofa like she means something to him, and he's looking at her in the way you've grown used to being admired at, too.

Something bubbles up in your chest as you watch the scene unfold before your glossy eyes 一 that Sakura gets to be by his side for the night, that he didn't come to see you as promised 一 and it's plainly uncomfortable, to say the least. You don't know what else to say. A sticky feeling you haven't experienced before glued onto the walls of your heart, a chain filled with thorns coiling around your poor, beating flesh, stabbing you as it tightens even more一

You turn around.

It's hard to force a smile when a girl passing through the halls greets you goodnight, but you still manage a weak one for her somehow before walking back to your room, eyes bored into space.

You're left with a silence so deafening and empty when you sit on your bed, palms scrunching up the soft material of your dress as you let out a long breath through your dry lips.

It breaks your heart the more you think about it 一 a feeling so suffocating that you don't know what to do to make it go away 一 as you keep replaying scenes of the nights he'd claim you to be his favourite girl when he'd fuck you so beautifully in his room, limbs all tangled up in the sheets.

A favourite one amongst the many, obviously.

Your eyes water and your heart tightens any more in its confines as you bite on your lip and feel your nose souring up一

Silly you, thinking that you actually mean something to these people.

You're just a replaceable toy.

iv. cw: light daddy kink

You're nose deep into your book on the couch when he finally comes to visit for the night.

"Did you miss me?" His voice is deep, teasing, and smuggled with alcohol when he speaks. His tie and belt are in his hands and a few of his buttons are left undone 一 and he leaves them on your bed when he walks over to you.

You're silent when Rindou stands before you seated on your chair and you shut your book with a harsh pang in your chest.

He smells so much of her that it irks you to the core. A rosey, floral perfume that only one person you know uses on the daily, now covering a man head to toe that you find yourself desperately unable to tear away from.

You hate feeling like this so much 一 so helpless and falling deep into a void 一 but you still push away the ache of your heart and showing him a smile so sweet that you hope he doesn't notice.

You still allow yourself a moment to indulge in his warmth when you melt in his arms as he holds you close. You still cheat yourself into thinking that he cares when he sucks on the spot just beneath your jaw that never fails to make you fold.

You still want to believe that you're different among the rest 一 that you still mean something to somebody, that you're not just a worthless toy that people get to play with when they're bored一

You want to believe that you're lovable, too.

You're just a girl who wants to be loved.

"Mhm." You hum into his neck as a reply.

His touch is electric on your hips when he moves you both to bed, while he lays you down so gently on the mattress with drunk but gentle hands.

You help to remove his suit when he hovers above you and you only reach your neck up to peck him gently on the lips when you're finished.

He's obviously very drunk tonight when you hear the low hum full of want that he lets out when you cheekily move away from his attacking lips, and there's a lot of kisses exchanged between you two when he catches you after that 一 from forehead kisses that shows how much he adores you to sweet little eskimo kisses that feels way too intimate for a relationship like yours, to sucking on each other's tongue as you slowly tangle yourselves together under the blanket.

You feel so, so comfortable wrapped in his arms while he tickles your neck with his nose. It's so warm in here compared to the frigid feeling in your heart when watching the two of them all cuddled up together on the couch一

There it is.

It's clouding your head again.

Your smile wavers a little against his skin and it's harder to act like nothing's ever happened before.

It's hard being pressed under his weight as he sobers himself up by indulging in your kisses, while in reality your mind is constantly flying back and forth between letting things be and swallowing your own heart to excusing yourself for the night to go cry in the toilet一

"Something's bothering you."

You twitch a little at that. Rindou is already staring at you with his eyes half-lidded when your own flicker swiftly back to his figure resting on your chest.

"Hmm? Nothing is wrong, Sir." Your voice is extremely soft tonight, he notices.

And for some reason your response rubs him the wrong way. He clicks his tongue, a bit unsatisfied, and moves himself off your chest to rest on the pillow next to you.

But he still pulls you next to him nonetheless 一 clement hands combing through your locks with his five fingers so sweetly as he admires your pretty face.

"What's wrong?" He pushes you even closer to himself with the hand looped under your neck. "Tell me."

A thumb of his own finds its way rubbing on your bottom lip and you feel so mushy when he looks at you that way again, though you still remain silent at that.

"C'mon, tell me,"

He hands you your voice again with a wide open palm.

"My pretty girl."

And you take it with you.

You embrace it this time.

"I saw you with Sakura-chan earlier."

He sighs through his nose before nuzzling at your cheek, a teasing smile on his lips. "That's what this is about?"

He shifts you both a little when you don't respond, choosing to bury yourself into his neck and sulk. He doesn't force you to look at him, though. Still so sweet when he coos and comforts you by rubbing on your back.

"I didn't fuck her, you know. I was only with her for a couple hours."

You smile. "It's okay, you don't have to explain to me, Sir. I was simply waiting for you to visit again. I was worried, but you're okay."

Rindou doesn't like that this is your response to him when you've just hung your obvious jealousy out for him to see. His chest pangs with something unexplainable when you pat on his back instead when in fact, you're the one who's feeling hurt.

"I didn't fuck her." He affirms again, a little stricter but full of sincerity this time. "Why do you think I didn't call you out with me today?"

You shake your head, biting on the inner corners your cheeks as you listen.

"People don't go around flaunting their treasures, no? At least not rational ones," he pauses to nibble at the fat of your cheek, beckoning you to please look at him again一 "that's just asking to be robbed."

"I was with business partners and I don't want them to know you're mine. That's dangerous."

You don't know what's so dangerous about being known as Haitani Rindou's favourite girl, because you want to be known. You want to be shown off, too. You want to be flaunted around proudly, like you're not just some man's dirty little secret that he'll bring to the grave.

But you're sure he has his own reasons for that.

You slowly remove your face from his neck to sniffle.

"And I still came tonight, yeah?" He rubs on your lids, playing with your lashes gently as you nod.

"'Cause I wanted to see you, pretty."

When Rindou spots the light gloss over your eyes and you cutesy lips turn pouty and you're looking at him like he'd just broken your heart into pieces一

He folds.

"I'm sorry, baby."

It's a first, he thinks to himself 一 that he's apologising for being with another girl to the girl he still doesn't know what exactly she is to him, other than the fact that he likes having her around a lot.

"No more of that, yeah?" He cups your cheeks with his hands as he hovers over your face, thumbs caressing your skin as you start tearing up, sniffling.

"Daddy's all yours."

He leans in to smooch on your lips.

"It'll only ever be you by my side today onwards."

A hand of his grabs onto your wobbly ones to place it right where his heart resides, feeling it beat beneath your palm through the layer of his shirt. It's erratic 一 full of panic and heartache the minute your waterworks start, because he hates seeing you cry, especially when it is because of him.

And then he pulls your hand back up to his lips to kiss on your fingers, his purple orbs not once breaking contact with your own, as you whimper and reach yoir arms oit to pull him into your chest, swallowing him into your soul.

Yours and yours only.

Rindou smiles.

How is a girl like you ever going to break his heart?

Stupid Ran.

this 2 love bug's trope summarised: love at first sight but with juicy lore 🔇 this is so poorly written but i dont wanna keep it in my drafts any longer since the year is ending and i really want to post something

[wesstars]

crush

cairo sweet x fem!reader (no pronouns used)

summary: when cairo goes home, what comes to mind are thoughts of you. wc: 2.3k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! all characters 18+. university au. masturbation, smoking, non-linear narrative. reader is cairo’s teaching assistant, reader described as masc presenting. a/n: let me know what y’all think :) for the vibes

masterlist

“Is Professor Miller not coming?” Winnie had just dropped into her unassigned assigned seat next to Cairo, two minutes before Greco-Roman Literary Theory started. The flipping of pages punctuated the chatter of other students waiting, a comfortable sound.

“He said he’d be gone today,” Cairo replied absently. “There’s a ‘guest lecturer,’ our teaching assistant.”

“Oh, right. Who’s that?”

Cairo shrugged. “Who knows.” 

As if on cue, the door swung open. Cairo didn’t even look up—Miller mentioned that he kept a handful of research assistants that would be there to help with the advanced reading. But honestly, Cairo wasn’t sure what they could tell her that she didn’t already know. A melodic hum fell through the air for just a moment, a chorus. 

“Good morning.” At your lilting voice, rough with the edge of 10am, Cairo started. She watched you set your messenger bag on the desk. Your white shirt pulled over your shoulders; there was a glint at your collar, a necklace peeking through. A thin watch adorned your wrist. Winnie, along with some of the class, echoed your greeting, and Cairo blinked.

Late spring afternoon draped across the furniture in Cairo’s room, the quickly waning light giving easy way to a blue hour. Dropping her bag at the door, she tore off her shirt and skirt with the confidence of one standing before a crowd. Running a hand up from her sternum to her neck, she stretched languidly, sinking down onto her bed. After so many uneventful days—when she applied to Yale, she didn’t think that there would be any uneventful days—she finally had a story to turn over in her mind. 

You. You were a mystery. Even as you had started the class with an introduction, telling Cairo you’d graduated from a middle-of-nowhere college in California and sought a writing career in Vermont before delving into research, she longed to lay out the details and pull them out from under the rug. Where did you learn to teach? Did you like to drive, or be driven? Mountains, or the sea? Where did you grow up? Was there coffee or tea in your cupboard? Cairo’s stomach burned to know. Her dark eyes burned the ceiling with smoke signals, searching for you even though you were god knows where in that seaside state.

Arching her back, Cairo let her hand travel down, palm flat against her stomach, to trace the seam of her upper thigh. As the class had progressed, your keenly observant nature did not elude Cairo. Maybe listening was something that your pedagogy instilled in you, but the way you held each student’s question in the cant of your head, an answer in your crinkling eyes, listening seemed to be in your nature. It was meticulous, the way you picked apart the class text, weaving in references and tying it all in. In that two hour lecture, Cairo learned that you watched the same way you listened. 

Balmy as it was, the humidity made her dark waves cling to her skin, and she shivered as she brushed them back, thinking of a different pair of slim hands. Your scrutiny of each student had an intention that she couldn’t quite place; a determination that thrilled her. Cairo imagined that you’d observe her the same way, that she would be the one you were most fond of. It was only natural that her own attention would draw yours onto her. Holding the weight of your envisioned gaze made Cairo’s core twist, a pleased little flush that she prayed you could see. Your affected impartiality didn’t bother Cairo—in fact, it pulled her into your shadow. In her bed, she rolled onto her stomach then her knees, shaking her hair out. 

Her hands were steady as she reached for her bedside table, thumb rolling on the wheel of her zippo as she held the cigarette to her lips. Cairo took a drag, blowing out neat smoke rings as she settled back on her heels. The skin of her own fingers was cool against her lips, and when she took the smoke away, she studied the pattern of her lipstick on the white paper as she had so many times before.

She’d watched, unabashedly and unafraid of being caught, as you drummed your fingers on the chalk tray. Would your fingertip be soft or work hardened if it pressed down her tongue? Would your skin carry the stain of her red lip as deeply, as obediently, as the malleable wrapping paper?

“Alright, class,” you cleared your throat, turning slowly around the room to make eye contact with each student. “As you know, Jonathan’s away on a conference today. I’ll start with a bit of roll, just so I can learn your names. Not many of you come to my office hours, I know.” You smiled easily. It was so guileless, Cairo mused, nearly childlike. You had the class go around the rooms with names and majors, a circuit that Cairo gave no attention to other than your lilting rhythm of hums, the tapping of your foot on the floor, the way you flicked the corner of the role sheet with your thumb. Your gaze was soon on hers, waiting expectantly. She looked right back with a blink.

“Cairo Sweet. English major.”

“Cairo.” Her name rolled off your innocent little grin, making her cock her head. “Wonderful.” Fascinating. Would you whisper midnight black desires in her ear, so deep and dark they might be murmured into the ink of your own empty room?

You continued, circling back to the front and easily transitioning to the lesson plan. You had an awfully effortless way of grasping the class’ attention, holding gently and never forcing. It wasn’t like Professor Miller, who always seemed to hasten through the lecture so he could return to his research. She could tell you liked the woods of the text, to fall down into the depths of each word, feeling its weight in you and letting it rock. Just like Cairo. 

She sighed into the warm air prickling up her skin, the curl of your voice around her name making her nipples harden in her bralette, even in retrospect. Exhaling around her cigarette, Cairo brought her hands up to palm her breasts, feeling the drag of her rubied nubs on her palms. Was it the high of the nicotine, the blur of smoke ridden air that made her float straight up into the lofty space you’d created in her mind? Though the feel of her own fingers scraping the lace against her skin was familiar, she found herself keen to think of your soft or callused hands. She was wet already, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten wet so fast.

The weight she imagined of your touch on her flushed skin was completely, deliciously foreign. Unbidden but intimately welcome, Cairo wished that your caress would find the map of her chest as familiar as a classic, something you had searched a million times over yet always managed to find something new. Shamelessly, Cairo trailed her fingers down her stomach, nails catching on every rib as she arched her back in the spilled moonlight. The mystery in the crossing of your long legs as you’d leaned back on the desk climbed up her belly, curling in the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. The uneven roll of your sleeves clung to the corners of her eyes, eidetic and oh, so, tempting. She had watched you so ardently—did you like to watch? Would you watch? 

The space between her thighs was achingly empty, craving the set of your narrow hips. She was comfortable there, and she remembered the taut stretch of wool as you dropped into your chair and set one ankle over your knee. There was something endearing about the way your trousers had pulled up to reveal slouchy black socks, and darker her mind went as the material pulling creases around your lap made her shudder and—she reached behind to pull one of her fluffy pillows under her, smoke billowing into the air. 

Cairo gave her hips an experimental roll, imagining it was the soft fabric of your slacks against her aching cunt, and grinned around her cigarette. Unlike the pillow, you would be ever so solid under her, grabbing for her thighs like a dog yearns to please. Were you more likely to bruise her skin, yanking her into you without care for blood—or would you guide her gently, make a home in her innocence and hold her more dearly than life ever could? Either way, your desire for Cairo would be so apparent that you couldn’t help yourself.

The dip of your tongue in her navel, the little smirk you’d undoubtedly wear as you went down further—would you go for her throbbing clit first, or would your lips press so warm—she didn’t know. She didn’t have to, content with all those different versions of you unfurling before her. In her bedroom, each time she moved her hips, it became easier to imagine you guiding her actions, the bump of your nose on her folds, damned if not addicting.

Cairo grinned as she fell onto her forearms, hips pushing into the soft pillow without abandon. The slide of her panties soaked with slick against her sensitive clit felt like the delicate press of your splayed hand on her desk as you’d passed, eyes occupied by the text you were holding. It had only been a split second, but it was enough for her to memorize every crease, every vein. Cairo let out a whine, a demanding little sound, as her movements grew erratic. Looking up into the heaven where you must be, she imagined that you’d murmur to her, “I’m here, I’m here, how could I be anywhere else but here?” as you traced the dip in her back. Her arousal took her down every sullied path she’d ever dreamed of, but her mind stuck on one gesture that made her mouth go dry. 

She remembered the way your shirt got just a bit untucked when you stretched during the class break. You’d instinctively tucked it back in, quick as you surveyed the class. Cairo thought that you’d dress yourself back up the same way after you bent her over the desk after class, pushing her skirt up and shoving your fingers into her, painting bruises onto her hip bones with how tight you held her.

The two of you would share a mutual understanding that she wanted this, wanted it bad enough for you to take it whenever you saw fit. Cairo decided that today, this time, you’d be as rough as you pleased, a cup of pens clattering to the ground as you pushed her down, forearm across her shoulder blades. Your necklace would be cold on her warm skin, would it be cold on her tongue? You’d put two, three fingers inside, humming in that absentminded way you did. She thought you’d nuzzle into her ear, all lips and sharp teeth, asking if she’d sprayed your favorite hair mist of hers because she hoped you’d notice—she did—and take her, break her, whatever you wanted. 

You’d send her plummeting down towards a deeper hell (or was it higher, up to your majestic heaven?), already knowing everything that her body needed. Cairo imagined herself coming so helplessly around the stretch of your fingers, so high strung from nights of trying to mimic the press of your touch on her clit, unable to reach the same heights you sent her to. As she held back tears, eyes on the ceiling in reverence, feeling herself drip to the floor, you’d sigh as your mind wandered to other things already, carelessly running a hand down her back. 

Cairo gasped, dropping her nearly finished cigarette in favor of gripping the bed sheets. The white fabric wrinkled around her fingers, reminiscent of your shirt creasing as you’d rolled your sleeves up. This was something new you could show her, just how fast she could come and just how wet it made her. It was a marvel, feeling the fabric cling to her cunt, almost as good as how you’d feel. Resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow, she murmured your name over and over again, a little susurrus of a litany, so similar to your preoccupied hum. Panting, Cairo giggled in her bliss, soft and bright as Californian oranges clinging to rich leaves. You were dark enough to be tucked into the wrinkles in the soft pillow, dark enough for Cairo to love, as a journal loves a secret.

Sated, Cairo grabbed her phone and typed your name in. The results spilled out, and she scrolled, looking for all of the details in the background of your social media posts, curiously drunk on the year’s gap in your CV. Cairo noticed the perfect little circle where the cigarette had burned when she dropped it, and she brushed away the remnants. The gesture smeared the ash on the sheets.

—

Walking into your office with barely a knock, Cairo took in the familiar room of an academic, but with your unfamiliar knick knacks around the place. A lighter, a leather wallet, glasses and wired headphones. You didn’t look surprised as you glanced up from your laptop. Instead, you smiled. 

“Cairo, isn’t it?” 

A flush of pleasure shot straight into her—you remembered. She nodded. Your shelves were covered in books and stacks of reviews, the morning’s leftover cup of coffee sitting on one of the ledges. Did you smoke before, or after your coffee? The terrible, terrible want to replace the taste of smoke on your tongue with the taste of her gave Cairo just the confidence she needed. 

“What can I do for you?”

Cairo leaned over your desk, watching the way your eyes dropped to her burgundy lipstick. “Would you be able to help me on the Aristophanes reading?” She pushed her copy of The Clouds towards you. “I can’t seem to grasp it.” Your eyes met hers. “Of course.”

--

a/n cont'd: can you read my mind, i’ve been watching you… there’s just something about you, baby… ♪ / hope you enjoyed @woewriting :)

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

[covenofagatha]

The Psychology of Love (Part 2)

The Perfume

Agatha shows you some examples of projective tests to clear up the questions you have

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: none

On Wednesday, you can hardly look at Agatha when you walk into class. 

The shame from Monday night—from thinking about your professor while another girl fucked you—is too great, and you worry that if you make eye contact, she’ll somehow know what you did. You need to be careful with her.

After you had cum, the girl from the party had asked if you wanted to go back to her dorm with her. You could taste the blood on your lip from how hard you were biting it, because you didn’t know her name and you didn’t want to accidentally say a wrong name. She had shrugged when you shook your head apologetically and she walked away, leaving you to go stumble and find Wanda and Nat. 

You are definitely never going back to that sorority again. With any luck, you’ll never have to see that girl again. 

“Since we didn’t have time on Monday for introductions, let’s go around the room and say your name, major, and what you like to do for fun,” Agatha says. You inwardly groan; you’d rather take a pop quiz than have to do icebreakers. One of your least favorite things to do, possibly ever, is talk in class. 

She points to the girl at the end of your row on the other side to start it off. Your palms grow sweaty, your stomach twists, and you begin to chew on your thumb nail. 

The names of your classmates go in one ear and out the other and when it’s your turn, it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. You stammer out your introduction, risking a glance at Agatha when you’re done, and she’s staring back at you with a dark, hot glint in her eye. 

You swallow roughly and train your gaze forward, the memory of thinking of her the other night—wishing it was her?—still fresh in your mind. 

“All right, let’s get into it then,” Agatha claps her hands once everyone’s gone. There’s significantly less people in the room than there were on Monday, so it doesn’t take long. She stands up and pulls the keyboard of the computer closer to her and you sneak a peek at her. 

Her dark navy pencil skirt is long, stopping mid-calf and she’s wearing black heels that must be killing her feet. Her blouse is a sky-blue color with puffy sleeves with a belt that matches her skirt and accentuates her hips. There’s an open space between the top button and the second button on her shirt, and you can see a sliver of her pale skin. Her dark curly hair is in a loose ponytail and her cheekbones are sharp. Your mouth goes dry now that you’re really taking her in.

As if she knows you’re staring at her, Agatha’s lips quirk up and her eyes meet yours. She winks and you quickly look away and take out your notebook and a pen. 

Agatha opens a slideshow titled Trait Theory. “The main question this approach looks at is ‘do individuals possess specific personality constructs?’—and to what extent? Like we talked about last class, personality is a construct. The only evidence for it is what we’ve measured in tests that we’ve created. 

“Personality testing is a big business and it’s used for a lot of different things: counseling, education, forensics, employment—even all of you use it in your everyday life just by assessing people. Some tests measure one trait while others measure multiple.” 

It’s hypnotic to listen to her talk and you realize how easy and practiced her words are. You’ve had professors that stumble over their lectures or who read off the slides the whole time, but not Agatha. The review that said she was a genius was not lying.

She clicks to the next slide and a picture of a pattern of inkblots appears. “Projective tests are based on Freudian ideas; the subject is shown ambiguous stimuli and it’s based on the idea that the subject’s responses reflect their inner feelings—they project onto the test. The Rorschach Inkblot Test has subjects scrutinize cards with ink and talk about what they see with the colors and details.” 

The next slide has a picture of a woman standing outside a door with a hand on her face. In the room, a man is lying in a bed. “This is an example from the Thematic Apperception Test. Everyone might interpret this picture differently—some think she found him having an affair, some may think she found him dead, some may think she killed him. It’s all about relating your personal experiences to what you see and that gives psychologists an insight to your inner thoughts and feelings.” 

You think back to the picture of the house and family she had everyone draw on Monday. It was definitely a projection of your own struggles and she had seen that. 

It does really make sense. Except for the inkblot tests—how can your interpretation of a couple of drops on a page mean anything?

“Projective tests have very low validity. Can anyone remind us of what that means?” 

Agatha’s eyes scan the room. Once again, no one raises their hand and you chew on the tip of your pen until you feel her gaze stop on you. You risk a glance at her to find her staring expectantly at you. 

Your stomach twists. You do really hate talking in class. “Validity is how accurate the test is measuring what it’s supposed to be measuring.” Luckily, you paid attention in General Psychology when you took it freshman year. 

“Very good,” she hums and your cheeks heat up, a pleasant feeling settling in your gut. “I’m going to hope that the rest of you were too shy to say something and didn’t just forget. Yes, projective tests have very low validity, especially predictive validity. Objective tests are much better. These are tests in which someone answers ‘true’ or ‘false’ or you rate your experiences on a number scale. Tests like the Big Five. Anyone know any other objective tests for personality traits?” 

Her gaze lands on you even quicker, but this time you’re ready for it. “The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory?” You sound much more confident and you feel much less nervous.

Agatha beams. “Right again. That one measures about ten primary traits, but you won’t need to know them for your test. You do need to know that the Big Five Personality Test measures extroversion, openness, conscientiousness, agreeableness, and neuroticism though.”

A burn spreads through your hand at how fast you’re scribbling things down and you hear furious typing behind you. You can’t get her praise out of your head and you think speaking up and answering questions might not be so bad after all.

Despite your shame after Monday night, you still desperately want Agatha’s attention. It seems that she likes you at least a little. 

It’s hard to tell if you’re projecting your own feelings onto this. 

“All right, that’s all the time we have for today. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me them right now or during my office hours. Those are posted on the syllabus. Stop in to see me anytime,” Agatha announces, smirking at you when you accidentally meet her eyes. 

The questions about the Rorschach tests are still weighing on your mind, and as much as you’re tempted to leave and google them later, there’s a little voice that’s nagging for you to go ask her. 

So you trudge up to the desk, chewing on your nails, and wait there awkwardly. Agatha’s typing something on the computer but her face brightens when she looks at you and your heart leaps. 

“Do you need something, hon?” she asks and you ignore the heat that rises inside you. 

“Yeah, I’m just a little confused on the inkblot tests. Like, how are they analyzed? Does it really matter if someone sees a bat or a vase or whatever? How does that mean anything?”

She nods and beckons you to follow her when she begins walking out of the classroom. “Great question. I’m really happy that you’re wondering about these things and you’re not afraid to talk to me about them. I also really appreciate you answering questions during my lecture. Keep up the good work,” she says, playfully winking with a smile. Your stomach warms—you definitely will. 

Her perfume drifts into your nostrils from your close proximity as she leads you down the hall and your cunt starts to pulse. From the praise, from the smell, from her…you’re not quite sure. 

Maybe all three. 

Agatha pauses outside of a door with her name on it before fumbling to put the key in the lock. She opens it and steps to the side to let you go in first. Her office is spacious, with a desk and a chair facing the doorway, two chairs on the other side of it, and a couch pushed next to a bookshelf on the wall opposite the one with a window. 

You perch on a chair while she sits down in hers and ruffles around in a desk drawer before pulling a stack of cards out and plopping them down in front of you. They’re inkblots—some in black and white, some in color. 

She shuffles through them and points to the one on top. “What does this look like to you?” 

Leaning closer, your brows furrow as you try to make out the shape. It looks vaguely like lips, symmetrical down the middle and pink along the jagged edges. The color bleeds to red to make a smaller oval shape on the inside. 

It very much looks like a vulva. 

Heat floods through your cheeks as you sit back and clear your throat. There’s no way you’re telling your hot professor that. “I don’t know, I guess I can kind of make out a…butterfly?” Agatha snorts at your obvious lie. 

“You can say it, hon. It looks like a cunt.” You gasp and choke on nothing, feeling your underwear get damp. Agatha gives you a wicked smile. “Now, what does that mean? Does it mean that you like women? Does it mean that you’re thinking about sex?” 

Her scent coupled with her talking about that makes you spin and you grip the arms of the chair tightly. If you weren’t thinking about sex before, you definitely are now. 

You wonder what your professor tastes like. 

Agatha shrugs casually to answer her own question. “Probably doesn’t mean much. There’s some research that people with schizophrenia tend to see monsters in these. But if you see animals, does it mean that you’re depressed—or do you just like animals? The point is, these hold probably the least amount of validity compared to any projective tests. I wouldn’t read too much into it.” 

The fact that she brought you all the way here, made you look at the suggestive cards, just for it to not matter has you reeling. What does it mean? 

“Oh. Okay. I guess I was just confused about how they’re interpreted. Thought I would ask. It is really interesting how we can infer stuff like that off of this, though. Even if the predictive validity is low.” 

She nods. “As much as people hate Freud, it’s hard to deny that he wasn’t wrong about everything. Projective tests might not hold empirical value, but people do tend to transfer their feelings onto pictures and whatnot because it’s easier to separate their feelings from it and talk about it that way.” 

To highlight her point, Agatha pulls another paper out of her drawer. It must be an example from the Thematic Apperception Test. It’s a picture of two women, facing each other, in a dark hallway. One has an arm outstretched, the other is half-tilted away and looking at the ground.

“What’s happening in this scene?”

“This girl—” You point to the one with the cold body language, “—is wishing she was with someone else. Her girlfriend is really trying to connect with her, but it’s not working.” A cold feeling spreads through you at how transparent you just were. Your eyes dart around the room before meeting Agatha’s, who’s looking at you with a knowing gaze and you feel your stomach tighten. It doesn't mean anything, you tell yourself. She doesn’t know. 

“Very good,” she purrs and leans in closer. “That’s a perfectly reasonable interpretation. I see two students arguing about their professor. See how it varies?”

Just as you’re opening your mouth to agree, the door to her office opens. You whirl around like you just got caught doing something wrong to find a girl older than you standing there, with dark hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes. She’s wearing a green shirt and jeans and she regards you cautiously as she walks slowly across Agatha’s office to sit in the chair next to you. 

When you turn back to Agatha, there’s a glint on her face. “This is Rio. I had her a few years ago and now she’s one of my graduate students and my TA for your class,” she tells you and you awkwardly smile and nod at the new woman. 

Rio doesn’t even look at you. It feels like you’re interrupting something.

So you clap your hands on your knees and stand up. “Thanks, Professor. I’ll see you on Friday?” 

Agatha hums. “I’ll see you then, hon. Good job in class today.” 

You walk out, heart pounding, and have to take a moment to collect yourself. Your plan of being careful around your professor has nearly gone entirely out the window—you’ve become addicted to her praise and validation. Is it because of your mommy issues? Because she’s hot? 

Either way, you amble out of the psychology building and through the Student Union on the way back to your dorm, determined to pour over the textbook and learn everything you can about the Trait approach before Friday. You can wistfully imagine Agatha cooing about how proud she is that you’re studying up and how much you’ve impressed her. 

But before you can walk out of the Student Union, the smell of coffee from the bagel shop hits you and you stop dead in your tracks. It’s not Agatha’s perfume exactly, but the effect it has on you is undeniable. 

Very good. Keep up the good work. Right again. Good job in class today. 

Her praises swirl around in your mind, clear as day, and you quickly shoulder open the door to the outside so hard that it makes your arm ache. You bite at your thumbnail but the smell still lingers, her voice still haunts you. There’s a growing stickiness between your legs that you feel with each step you take.

It looks like a cunt. 

Good girl. 

You jolt—she’s never called you that. She wouldn’t call you that. Your descent into madness is concerning and her perfume is at the center of it. Is it too late to drop her class? Would she be mad at you?

But you can’t do that, because you’re a senior and you need this class to graduate. So you either have to pretend like your cunt isn’t throbbing at the thought of her calling you a good girl, or you need to get it out of your system. You could find the girl from the other night, you could go back to the sorority and ask around for her name. She was hot, fucked you well enough, and smelled like your professor. 

She could be a healthy way to sort out your feelings and stop obsessing over your professor. There’s a hint of guilt nagging at your brain for essentially using her, but maybe in time you’d grow to really like her. 

It turns out, you don’t have to wait that long to find her again. 

You’re in the dining hall with Wanda and Nat while they fill you in on their days—Wanda’s racist professor made a racist comment and Nat’s biology professor accidentally said “orgasm” instead of “organism”—when you notice that Wanda keeps looking over your shoulder. 

“What?” you ask, craning your neck back and scanning the crowds of students getting dinner, but you don’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

Wanda nods toward someone and subtly points in their direction. “That girl…she keeps looking over at us.” 

This time, you look closer and find the girl from the party on Monday staring at you. She’s sitting at a table all by herself, her laptop opened in front of her next to a plate of pizza. Your breathing freezes and you turn back to your friends. “We may have hooked up at the party the other day,” you tell them sheepishly. Both of them gasp excitedly. 

“Why is this the first we’re hearing of this?” Nat demands. 

Your cheeks flush. “I don’t know, it was just a one time thing, I didn’t think I’d see her again. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

“She clearly thinks it was,” Wanda teases. “She’s been checking you out since we sat down. Go talk to her.” 

Groaning in protest, you shake your head but they keep pestering until you get up just to make them stop. You drag your feet against the tile as you walk over to the girl and even though you had convinced yourself that she would be a good thing for you earlier, doubt starts to gnaw at you. 

“Um, hey, can I sit?” you ask, pointing at the empty chair across from her. 

She nods and closes her computer, giving you her full attention, but doesn’t say anything. 

So you start. “About the other night, I’m sorry. I think we both just got a little carried away.” You introduce yourself, since you still don’t know each other’s names, and reach out your hand across the table. 

“I’m Morgan,” she says and shakes your hand. Her skin is soft and you can’t help but wonder what Agatha’s feels like. “You don’t have to apologize. It was a party, we were both a little tipsy, I’m sure.” 

Her perfume floats around you and makes you think about your professor again and you hate the way it makes you feel. “Cool, yeah, okay.” The awkwardness after a college hookup is something you could do without for the rest of your life. “Would you want to get dinner sometime?” 

Morgan grins. “I’d really like that. I can give you my number?” 

You nod and pull out your phone, handing it to her so she can put in her contact. She gives it back to you and you stand up from the table. “Awesome, I guess I’ll be seeing you later.” 

“Perfect.” 

As you’re walking away, a thought overcomes your body and you have no choice but to turn back around. Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, this might be a weird question, but what perfume do you wear?” 

She falters for a moment. “Um, I think it’s called Black Opium. Why?” 

“No reason,” you answer hastily and quickly smile before walking back over to Nat and Wanda, who have been watching you the whole time. 

“So?” Wanda prompts once you sit back down and pick up your fork. You shovel pasta into your mouth to delay answering. 

Black Opium. 

It’s very Agatha. Dark, euphoric, addicting. 

“Don’t leave us in suspense,” Nat eggs you on. “Are you guys girlfriends now? Going to hook up with her again after this?”

Your nose wrinkles. “No, I just asked her if she’d want to get dinner sometime. She said yes and gave me her number.” 

Their synchronized “Oooh” makes you roll your eyes. No surprise they’re making a big deal about it. This is the first time you’ve actually had a date since your ex-girlfriend three years ago. 

Does this really count though?

You mull what a relationship with Morgan might look like and try to keep your thoughts from steering to Agatha while you zone out on Wanda and Nat talking about the homework they have. 

After you finish the rest of your dinner, you walk back to your dorm building with both of them. Out of the corner of your eye, you see their hands brushing against each other and you feel the same longing pang in your chest that you always do when you’re with them. 

Something like that would be possible with Morgan. 

But even the delusion that Agatha would like you like that outweighs the potential for something real with someone your own age. 

“I’m going to crash with Nat tonight,” Wanda says, bumping into you to get your attention. 

“Remember to be safe,” you respond solemnly. Wanda and Nat both snort and give you a hug before they part ways with you. 

When you get back to your room, you grab your laptop from your bag and plop onto your bed with it. The first thing you do is type your professor’s name into Google. 

A few things pop up, mostly just articles about her teaching at Westview University and you find some of her publications. There’s a few pictures of her from dinners and awards and her official university headshot. No mention of a family or a partner, though. You wonder if she would put something like that online. It seems like she’d probably want to keep that private. 

The link to her reviews is about the fifth site on the page and you decide to scroll through them again. There’s a few that were added from two days ago and you’re sure they’re from the people that dropped your class. You’re re-reading them and wincing at how mean some of them are, taking them more personally now that you know her, when you pause on one. 

You saw it the other day, but you didn’t think too much about it. 

If you’re lucky to be one of her favorites, you’re going to do just fine in the class. She can be very creative and maybe a little unorthodox when it comes to her methods of helping you understand something, but they’re very effective. 

It’s not the review itself that makes you intrigued—it’s the name of the person who left it. 

Rio V. 

This must be her TA that you met earlier. The one who didn’t seem to like you very much, for no reason. You make a mental note to keep an eye on her, if you see her again, and open a new tab. 

You type in “Black Opium” and click on the first brand of perfume you see. Chewing on your lip, you hover the mouse over the Add to cart button. It’s one-hundred dollars, way too much to buy just because the professor you’re becoming obsessed with wears it. 

But Agatha’s praises echo around in your head and you feel a fire stoking to life in your stomach. The dull heat becomes more and she’s all you can think about. 

She’s all you want. 

You buy the perfume. 

Part Three

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose

[sswed]

so if you need a hero

kika nazareth x firefighter!reader

A/N: pure unadulterated smut, thus minors DNI, thanks

wc 3k

It's midnight and your shift is about to end when the bell rings and you're suddenly behind the driver's wheel of a van just minutes later, yawing so hard that your eyes tear up slightly. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to be anything serious since it wasn't a specific code, so you're alone in the van and get there to notice no smoke or visible fire in the apartment building.

You slam the door closed on the red van and make your way inside, the lobby is nice enough but you don't have time to look around properly. Instead, you ignore the elevator, just in case something is actually wrong and climb up the concrete stairs.

You're exhausted, having worked for nearly a whole 24 hours straight with only short power naps and surprisingly hot in your work polo as you make your way up floor by floor. After a short while, you reach the door.

Number forty six stares back at you, gold bright and shiny, clashing with your muted appearance.

There's no smoke coming from under the door nor is it open which means that there isn't any spreading fire, or so you hope. You knock on the door with the back of your hand, grazing your knuckles on the wood.

It swings open to reveal a rather panicked looking gorgeous woman, like out of a film or romance novel, who nearly makes your jaw drop open. Yet, you're quick to focus and spot a small huddle of smoke in the kitchen sink.

You push past her gently without a word to check it out, cringing as your dirty boots touch her polished floors. Clearly, they had been cleaned recently and now you were ruining them. You would take your shoes off but it's a little late now and you don't think your socks are any cleaner.

You arrive in the kitchen and peer over the counter to look at the sink to see a smoking toaster. It seems to have set fire for some reason and is now chilling in the sink.

You relax, it's nothing major, just a toaster malfunctioning because that's what they do.

You turn around to look at her, "Sorry for that, I-"

You rub the back of your neck with a palm and smile sheepishly as she looks at you with a slightly shocked expression. There is something else there too but you can't read it, the way her eyes widen before squinting puts you off course.

You don't think you've felt like... this since your last break up, even then you’d never been so overwhelmed and now you aren't sure how to speak without sounding like a squeaky toy because this random woman has the most gorgeous eyes in the galaxy.

A warm mix of brown and sunset yellow that's making you feel more than just warm.

"I thought it was something... A little more serious," You grit your teeth at the way your voice comes out a little high.

This girl has got your heart beating quicker than it usually does. She's got pyjama shorts on with little cats and a ratty looking shirt but you don't think anyone else could pull it off or at least anyone you know.

"I-" She blushes and then it hits you- You haven't offered an introduction or anything.

"I'm Y/N, from the fire department, we got a call?"

She nods and then smiles lightly, "Yeah... That was a little bit impulsive."

The silver of her teeth that peek out from her lips make her want to break out in a wide grin, the kind that makes your eyes crinkle a little.

"I'm Kika."

You smile and nod, you want to tell her it's a beautiful name, perfect for someone like her but you catch yourself, you really don't want to be weird, not in the middle of the night. So you glance behind you and turn your focus towards the now broken toaster which has stopped smoking.

"Can I ask what happened?"

Kika flushes red for a moment then laughs unexpectedly and something jolts in you. It's like a bolt of lightning down your spine that has you feeling very hot and energized, as if you could go run a marathon in your heavy work boots and scream whilst doing it.

Kika's been having a... difficult night. Her toast had gotten stuck in the toaster so she did the natural thing and stuck a knife into the slot to reach for the bread. She didn't get the bread, instead she got a jolt through the knife and a small fire.

So she did the natural thing, panicked a little or maybe a lot, called the fire department and then unplugged the toaster and threw it into the sink.

Truth be told, it hadn't been that bad, she's a little shaken up from the electrical shock but most of all. She had hit the jackpot with the fire department, they had sent her the hottest looking firefighter she's ever seen and she's watched plenty of crappy TV to know what hot firefighters look like.

The second she had opened the door and your eyes pierced hers, she felt undoubtedly flushed and she wanted to say that the fire isn't in the sink but in her.

"Hello?" You say, trying to get Kika's attention and she seems to snap out of it when she looks up at you.

Those brown eyes meet yours and you feel like the world could explode without you noticing. They've captured your attention like nothing else and you don't know how to rip your gaze off Kika's, you're stuck and you know that if you could choose, you would never walk out that door again.

"Sorry... I- Stuck a knife in the toaster and that happened." Kika mumbles awkwardly and you resist the urge to chuckle at her blushing cheeks.

"Okay, I would recommend not doing that again," You joke with a serious tone and Kika breaks out into a giggle that has your heart aching a little more.

You don't know why or how but this feels different to any other encounter you've had, something... It's like a breath of fresh air after a while in a smoke infested room. You need her, this Kika.

"I figured that out after the toaster set on fire," Kika scoffs playful and now it's your turn to laugh because how can someone be so perfect?

So beautifully funny and stunning at the same time, right in front of you, in the same universe that you're in.

"I- will take the toaster with me. For the sake of convenience," You say and turn around, thankfully hiding the furiously blush on your cheeks.

Kika's having a weird effect on you, one that you aren't sure you want to get rid of but unfortunately, your shift has officially ended and Kika doesn't need your help anymore.

You pick the cooled toaster up and hug it close to your chest before turning around to face Kika again, who is now standing by the open door. You can't read her face, it's a smile but her eyes aren't as bright as they were before.

You walk towards the door, probably leaving behind a trail of dry mud which makes your stomach tighten with cringe. You've probably made Kika feel awkward with your staring and now you're leaving behind a mess for her to clean.

You cross the threshold into the corridor and swing around to look at Kika one last time. She's still as radiant as she was the first time she opened the door and you aren't sure you want to leave, even if it means standing outside the door forever like some kind of stone statue.

"I'll be going now, if there are any further emergencies please call us," You recite the taught phrase like a prayer back to Kika and she nods but doesn't speak so you decide to shuffle back around and make way for the stairs.

You think it's all over and you'll go back home, probably think about Kika before falling asleep but you feel a hand wrap around your bicep. It makes you stil in the middle of the hallway and slowly turn around to face Kika.

"I- Sorry, that was... forward," She rambles a little and you listen with rapt attention, every word comes out like honey, melting you inside.

"Are you busy?" Kika askes, her once glazed over eyes now crystal clear as they look up at you.

Your heart skips a beat and you think you're going to pass out from excitement. You shake your head firmly, all your previous tiredness fading at once.

"I've never had more time than I do now," You reply with a slight smile, still holding the toaster to your chest.

Kika nods slightly, then looks down for a moment and you think it's all going to fall apart and she's just going to say okay but then her head snaps up and she quickly leans in to kiss you. You let her because, truth be told, that's all you've dreamed of since laying your eyes on her.

Her lips are soft and gentle on yours like she's unsure whether you want this or not. You kiss back with desire, opening your mouth and letting her tongue slip in to trace each individual tooth while you groan into her.

One of Kika's arms comes to wrap around your neck, tugging you down to meet her height even more and you nearly drop the toaster on the floor from the contact. Goosebumps spread across your arms and the hair on the back of your neck stands tall all of a sudden.

You've been shocked by her kiss and your heart is racing ahead of you.

She pulls back soon after but her arm doesn't leave your neck instead the other comes to join it and she looks at your bruised lips quickly before meeting your eyes.

"I think there's a fire in my bedroom, want to check it out?" Kika whispers and you hear every word as if she had shouted it.

You chuckle and grin. Nothing sounds better at that moment.

"Should have told me straight away," You purr and Kika winks before unwrapping her hands from your neck and turning around, prompting you to follow her.

You take fast steps after her, hot on her trail until you reach the front door again. She pushes it open and you come in, put the toaster on the floor and rip your shoes off to place them next to the broken machine.

Once you straighten out and stand up, Kika launches herself at you and you catch her with ease. You rest your hands around the back of her thighs and let her wrap her strong legs around your middle.

Then she leans in and kisses you, it's not as gentle as before, it's filled with teeth and tongue but it feels just as right.

"Which way to the bedroom?" You say, catching your breath and Kika smiles against your lips.

"It's down the hall on the right," Kika murmurs into your ear and you feel a rush go down your spine.

You walk quickly to the bedroom and you can hear Kika chuckle as you speed walk. She's got her arms around your neck, holding you tightly and you don't think you've experienced anything better than this.

"I'm not going to run away," Kika says in a sultry voice and you feel the fire in your stomach get bigger.

"And I want to solve this fire as quickly as possible," You grumble playfully as you finally reach Kika's bedroom.

It's a nice room with a cosy interior but you could care less right now, you want Kika, now. You throw her on the bed gently and crawl up the bed until you've reached her. She's just these narrowed dark eyes that liquidate your insides and make you want to stay in bed with her forever.

"Aren't you my hero, then?" Kika smirks and you can't help but groan that question.

"Fuck, maybe," You reply as you play with the hem of her shirt.

Kika's hand comes to rest on yours and he guides it up and into her shirt, letting you feel the smooth skin under the ratty tee. It feels like marble, purely perfect under your callused hand.

She leans forwards, never letting go of your hand that is up her shirt and mewls into your ear.

"Then I think you need a reward."

That goes straight to your core and you nod your head quickly. Kika giggles besides your ear before leaning back and stripping her shirt off to reveal her chest. She then guides your hand to it, allowing you to feel the soft tissue.

You genuinely don't think you've seen better boobs in your whole life.

They fit in the palm of your hand perfectly, like they were made for it and when you trace Kika's nipples with the tips of your fingers she leans back with her mouth open. She gasps out a high moan that sounds like music to your ears.

You lean towards her and allow yourself to run a hot lick over one of her nipples. The action has Kika arching in your grasp with a breathy moan coming from her that settles into your core.

You give a few more kitten licks on each nipple, giving yourself enough time to appreciate Kika's chest before pulling back to look at her. Kika's eyes are screwed shut and her mouth is open slightly in pure pleasure.

She opens her eyes soon after she registers the loss of contact and smiles sweetly at you.

"Can I give my hero her reward now?" Kika smirks and you nod.

Kika's hands immediately find the bottom of your polo, tug it up and over your head before discarding it. She pauses in to take in your body, running her eyes over your fully uncovered arms and abs with blush coating her face before focusing flipping you over.

You let her do so and she ends up straddling your abs. You look at her with pure lust, she's all you want, nothing more, nothing else. Then your eyes focus in on the front of her sleep shorts, they're drenched to the bone with a patch of wetness on the front.

Kika lets you watch as she slips a hand into them and circles her clit with her own fingers. She moans at the contact of her own fingers and you take a sharp breath in, she looks so hot that your stomach flip flops a few times.

You swallow deeply and lick your lips at the sight, nothing has ever looked better than Kika right then, touching herself because of you.

She takes a few more minutes before sliding her hand out and discarding the shorts completely. Instead, she now sits on your abs completely naked and drenched to the point of smearing it all over your torso.

"You ready?" Kika raises a brow and you nod immediately. You'd do anything she wanted right now.

Kika chuckles and then slowly makes her way up your body until she's settled over your face and you're waiting for the best part. She grinds down directly on your mouth and she tastes like what you imagine divine waters do.

"Shit, that's-" Kika whines about you and you reach to grip her hips tightly.

You flatten your tongue against her clit and she rolls her hips like she was waiting for this moment just like you were. You decide to swirl your tongue around her at the same time and Kika is launched into a series of gasping breaths and yelps.

"Fucking hell!" Kika moans above you loudly.

Her hands now gripping the headboard strongly for support and you in turn rest your hands on her muscular thighs that rest on either side of your head.

"I- I wanted you to fuck me the second I opened that fucking door," Kika groans out and grinds right into your scalding tongue.

She's beautiful, you can even tell with your eyes closed and the way she's whining so loudly above does something unexplainable to you.

"I would have let you have me on the counter if it meant that you would," Kika admits mid moan and you press your tongue harder to her clit at the admission.

You would have done anything Kika wanted if it came from her.

"God, I'm so close!"

Kika shakes a little above you and all you can do in response is grab her hips to encourage her to continue. She rolls her hips in long strokes and you drink her wetness like an endless fountain. You've been dying for it and now you won't waste the opportunity.

Kika comes soon after with a high yelps and thrash that has her rasping for breath and your mouth drenched in her wetness. You give her kitten licks through it until she rolls off you and onto the pillows.

Kika looks radiant, almost glowing with a light layer of sweat coating her as well as you. She turns to you and grins then leans in to give you a watery kiss.

She can taste herself on your tongue but it doesn't matter because the two of you are too wrapped up in all of this to care.

When you break apart, you lean back against the pillows to catch your breath and try to slow your heart rate before you blow up into a million different pieces.

Kika is just so brilliant that you can't help but never want to stop.

You turn your head on the soft pillows to look at the side of her face, it's just as beautiful as the rest of her and you don't know why, but you'd let her do anything to you.

"Can I stay the night?" You ask, slightly sheepishly.

Kika grins and throws an arm over your shoulder, pressing you tightly against her once again.

"Can you stay forever?"

You chuckle and nod. If she'd let you, then you'd stay for more than forever.

[itneverendshere]

for bitchy pogue reader I'd love some actual introductions to Topper and Kelce after the golf course, they can be huge assholes but we've seen a nicer side to both of them. So Rafe trying to see if group hanging out *is* possible, and it's probably very weird but maybe it works out?

it's not working out just yet....but maybe! soon! thank you for the request💗

get your head in the game

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

you think you had too many shots before leaving the house.

alright, so maybe the vodka was overkill. maybe. but you knew you’d need a little courage to pull off this top that’s basically a vague suggestion of a shirt. the whole thing's simple math—tight skirt, low-cut top, a flick of lip gloss, and, boom, everyone else is irrelevant.

if you wanted, you could have any guy here eating out of the palm of your hand. so why the fuck did you dress thinking about rafe when you’re supposed to distance yourself from that asshole? no idea.

the bonfire’s huge tonight, lighting up all the faces you couldn’t care less about.

you can feel him, hovering somewhere nearby. he’s in that faded sweatshirt he always wears when it’s colder out, the one that smells like salt and smoke and way too many of your bad nights. mister pouty face himself, sulking around the fire, watching you with this look that says he knows he messed up but doesn’t even know where to start patching things over.

you turn your back on him for the millionth time that night, let your hips sway just a little extra, knowing he’s watching. yeah, you’re putting on a show—flicking your hair, laughing louder than you need to. 

you’re just reaching for a beer when you feel hands slide around your waist, and you almost jump out of your skin, but then you catch that familiar, maddening scent of his and your body goes all traitorous, leaning back against him before you snap out of it.

"jesus,” you’re already twisting out of his clasp, turning around, and there he is, standing like he didn’t just sneak up on you with those stupid blue eyes and that stupid, lopsided grin. 

you want to shove him away, but he’s got that look, begging for a chance without saying a word, and you hate how much it gets to you.

your head had been a mess since that day at the golf course.

“what do you want?” you ask, arms crossed, brows up, giving him that full-on don’t mess with me look.

“to talk,” he’s close, way too close, looking down at you, trying to read every little twitch of your face, as if he can just stand there and make things better by breathing the same air.

his hands are still hovering around your waist, waiting for permission to touch you again. part of you wants to let him, but you just narrow your eyes, tilting your chin.

“aren’t you afraid your little friends are gonna see you?” you edge him on, “talking to a pogue?”

“don’t start,” he says, you can see the pleading in his eyes as he reaches for your waist again, fingertips brushing your hip, he can’t stand not touching you for another second.

“why not?”

he winces, dropping his hand back to his side, and it’s almost pathetic, how he’s just standing there, not even pretending to defend himself. “i—c’mon, i already apologized—”

you roll your eyes, not trying to hide the smirk pulling at your lips. 

“apologized?” you let out a bitter laugh, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “oh, yeah, that makes up for all the times you acted like i didn’t exist.”

his face crumples, and you can see him struggling, his hand drifting toward your hip again, but he hesitates, afraid he’s about to get slapped away.

it’s almost sad, mr. big shot practically pussy-whipped.

“c’mon, don’t do this,” he murmurs, stepping closer until you can feel the warmth of him. his fingertips ghost along your bare arm, he’s just as desperate to feel you. 

you scoff, leaning back against the cooler, crossing your arms in front of you as his hand slides to your waist, bold and pleading all at once. his touch is warm, and you hate how your body responds, you've been waiting all night for him to finally show up.

“there’s some people i want you to meet.”

his thumb brushes the skin just above your waistband, and he’s so close you can feel his breath against your cheek.

“what?” you huff in annoyance, lifting your chin up as he inches closer, his lips brushing against the side of your neck.

you feel his thumb grazing your skin back and forth, his lips so close you can taste the desperation in his breath.

perhaps it’s the vodka, or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you but you feel yourself softening, just a little, against your will.

“my friends.”

you didn’t hear him right. 

his friends? the same friends who wouldn’t even look at you if you walked past them in town? the same friends he’d all but hid you from for months?

“what?” you ask, slower this time, more disbelief than anything, and you tilt your head up to get a better look at him. 

he’s got that kicked puppy look in his eyes, and you’re not even sure what to make of it.

this is rafe cameron, the guy who wouldn’t be caught dead with you outside the bedroom, now practically begging to introduce you to his kook buddies?

“i want them to know,” his voice trails off, “i want them to know ‘m with you.”

“with me?” you repeat, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in your voice. “since when?”

this can’t be real—this can’t be the same rafe who couldn’t even look you in the eye outside his house three months ago.

“i told you, the other day at the golf course.”

you stare at him like he’s stupid, “you mean, when you went alpha on those little frat boys?”

“i saved you from them, okay.” 

you’re seconds away from outright laughter when he just keeps looking at you with those fucking pleading eyes, that hand grazing your cheek in a way that should be soft but instead feels like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.

why the fuck is this so endearing to you.

he sounds almost earnest. but you’re not giving him an inch, not after months of him acting like he didn’t know your name in public.

“what do you mean, ‘saved me’?” you raise an eyebrow, biting back a smirk. “saved me from what? a little attention?”

rafe lets out a rough exhale, glancing down with a frustrated shake of his head.

“they were hitting on you,” he mutters, his hand tightening on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you aware of every single inch of his hold on you. “and ‘m not gonna stand around and watch some asshole get his hands all over what’s mine.”

mine? 

he’s really lost it. 

“country club, i don’t know if you hit your head golfing and this is some post-head trauma hallucination, but ‘mine’ implies you want something more than whatever the fuck this is.” you motion between the two of you, throwing a hand up in exasperation.

“why don’t you ever call me by my name?” he grumbles, just like he did the other day on the golf course. he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “except when—”

your mouth drops open. is he serious? this shit again?

“except when what?” you glare at him as you swat his chest. 

he’s got that smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“you only call me rafe when,” his voice drops deliciously, and he leans in close, eyes half-lidded and fixed on your lips. “…when ’m inside you.”

“shut up,” you hiss, smacking his chest again, but he doesn’t move. instead, his smirk grows as he catches your wrist and holds it, letting his fingers trace over your knuckles.

before you can retort, there’s a loud cackle from behind you.

you turn, and there they are: topper and kelce, both looking like they’ve stumbled into a parallel universe.

“whoa, what’s this?” topper’s smirk is almost as wide as rafe’s. “didn’t know our boy here had himself a—” he raises his eyebrows, letting the word hang with a smug twist of his mouth. kelce snickers, crossing his arms, eyes darting between you and rafe.

you’re already huffing, half-prepared to watch rafe put on his usual bad boy with daddy issues mask, toss out some stupid excuse, or worse—let them think you’re just a fucking hole to him.

rafe gives your waist an extra squeeze, fingers pressing into your side as if he’s staking a claim.

“this,” he says, clearing his throat like he’s about to announce something official, “is my girlfriend.”

you blink, utterly thrown, and from the look on their faces, topper and kelce are right there with you, both staring at rafe like he’s just grown an extra head.

“your what?” kelce sputters out, eyes widening, expecting the punchline.

you open your mouth to say something snarky, make some joke out of this whole ridiculous scene, but rafe’s fingers are tracing slow, warm circles against your hip and you can’t think straight to save your life.

god, old you would’ve ridiculed yourself for being putty in the hands of a kook of all people. 

“girlfriend,” he repeats, spelling it out just for them. “want you both to meet her.”

you swear kelce’s jaw drops, while topper lets out a low, incredulous laugh. tweedledum and tweedledee at their best.

“you’re serious,” topper mutters, giving you a once-over and shaking his head in disbelief. “i thought she was just a—”

“yeah, ’m serious,” rafe cuts in, his tone brooking no argument.

you must’ve missed the part where you two talked about this thing like adults and he proceeded to ask you. 

“your what?” you bite out, as you try to wrench his arm away, but his grip only tightens, he’s prepared for a full-on wrestle if it keeps you there.

“hey—will you just stay here?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it’s just for you. 

you’d throw something at him if you could. you yank his hand away anyway, tearing yourself free from his grip. “stay? are you kidding?”

you’re already storming off into the crowd, but you still hear kelce behind you, their voices , “that went well.”

rafe curses under his breath, but you just keep walking, not looking back, even as you can feel him running after you, those long legs of his making it easy to catch up.

“wait! seriously, wait!”

like hell you’re going to let him off the hook so easily.

“not happening!” you shout over your shoulder. 

you could turn around and give him one last piece of your mind, but a part of you knows it’ll only lead to more hurt feelings—yours or his. you push through a group of people huddled around the bonfire, and it’s only when you reach the edge of the beach that you finally stop, trying to catch your breath.

“why do you always do this?” rafe’s voice comes from behind you. you don’t turn around, knowing that if you see that look on his face, you might just give in.

“do what?” you cross your arms defensively.

“run away,” he almost whines, taking a step closer, and you can hear the frustration in the way his throat tightens up, “you never give me a chance to explain.”

“explain what? that you want me to be your girlfriend when two weeks ago, you couldn’t even look at me in front of your friends?” you spin to face him, “this is ridiculous.”

rafe opens his mouth, probably to defend himself, but the look on your face shuts any attempt down.

“i asked you to stay.”

you groan, itching to pull your hair out, “what are you talkin’ about?”

“that night, i asked you to stay.”

“and proceeded to ignore me the next day, yes, i’m well fuckin’ aware.”

you want him to feel a sliver of what he’s put you through, but he just steps closer, trying to coax you back.

“i was trying to figure things out,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something to you. “it’s not easy, alright?”

“were you incredibly tortured by the thought of letting your friends know you were fucking a ‘pogue’? please.”

“what, you really think i don’t care about you?” he’s pleading now, his face just inches from yours. “because if you don’t know that by now, then i don’t know what else i can do.”

you laugh bitterly. is he actually serious?

“you can grow a fucking pair. where was this brave, ‘caring’ version of you last week? or the week before that?” you throw a hand up, trying to make him see how obvious this all is. “when you could’ve just acted like a man and told your friends instead of pretending i was some embarrassing secret.”

“’m trying to fix that,” he says, desperate, “right here, right now.”

“and ’m supposed to just forget the way you treated me all those times?”

“can you just let me try to be better?”

you swallow, biting your lip. he’s closer now, and you can smell that familiar cologne and saltwater.

“it’s gonna take more than a few pretty words.”

“i know,” he says, nodding like he’s promising you something. “that’s why i want you to meet my friends, why i want them to know ’m with you.” his fingers finally, lace with yours, and he looks down at your hands, “i want to do this right.”

you stare down at his hand in yours, and for a second, yeah, your heart stutters, betraying every ounce of pride you’ve tried to keep intact through this whole mess.

this is rafe we’re talking about. kook royalty, king of mixed signals, the guy who’s too proud to admit when he’s wrong, especially when his boys are watching and he’s saying all the things you’ve wanted to hear since day one.

a few weeks ago, you’d have laughed at the idea of ever feeling anything real for him. you, a pogue with a mouth on you, and him, a kook with daddy issues and an ego bigger than his bank account.

but here you are, letting him pull this romantic shit on you. is he actually worth all this? you could do better; you know that.

you could have someone who doesn’t make you feel like an option, someone who’s not constantly forcing you to guess what the hell he wants. the real question is, do you actually believe he’s gonna change? or is this just another moment of him saying whatever he has to so he doesn’t lose the convenience of you?

you huff, half-scoffing, half-sighing, because honestly, he does sound genuine for once, and maybe a part of you wants to believe him so badly you could actually throw your whole life away. 

“prove it then,” you say it like you’re daring him. “day by day. if you’re serious, you’ll show me. and you’ll handle your idiot friends in the process.”

“deal.”

you raise a brown, “you’re not gonna think about it?”

he shrugs, “nothin’ to think about.”

you roll your eyes, because that line should be cheesy, but it lands. he really has no right to be this good at disarming you with a few well-placed words. and the worst part? he knows it. 

“can i kiss you?”

of course he'd say something like that. of course, after all the back-and-forth, the pushing and pulling, he’d just stand there and ask to kiss you like everything’s solved.

you sigh, tilting your head like you’re seriously considering it. "you think a kiss is gonna make me forget every dumb shit you did?"

he smirks, but he knows he’s on thin ice. “nah, but i figured it’d be a start.”

you almost hate him for making it sound so tempting, you wish it didn't feel this good to be wanted.

you shake your head, resisting the impulse to let him off easy, but how he’s looking at you… ugh. you can’t help it, you’re thinking with your pussy at this point.

"fine," you say, trying to sound annoyed even as your heart's practically pounding out of your chest. "one kiss, no tongue.”

his mouth actually drops open, and he's staring at you like you’ve just told him he can only have one fry out of the whole basket.

"no tongue?" he repeats, eyebrows practically hitting his hairline. he's doing this thing where his mouth opens and closes like he’s a fucking fish, "wait, please—what do you mean, no tongue?"

you only just manage to keep a straight face, because fuck, this is killing him, and it’s almost cute.

"exactly what i said," you nodd, crossing your arms with this wicked little smirk. "you wanted a kiss. you get one.”

he’s looking at you like you insulted his entire lineage, "c’mon, just a little tongue. you know you wann—"

“absolutely not,” you wrinkle your nose, laughing as you cut him off. maybe you do, but this is way more fun, watching him squirm.

“fine,” he groans, moving in close, the glint in his eye tells you he’s about to break all the rules the second he’s got you there. he leans in, almost sulking, and you feel him press a single, very tame, very tongue-free kiss to your lips, “so... no tongue later either? when ’m between your legs? 'cause i’d hate to break your rules.”

son of a bitch.

it’s useless to act unaffected when he’s looking at you like that.

“pull that shit again, rafe, and you’re getting blue balls for the next month.”

he looks scandalized, that smirk dropping as he watches you with wide, pleading eyes. “you wouldn’t.”

“play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

his jaw drops a little like he can’t decide whether to laugh or fall to his knees and beg for mercy. “you’re seriously cruel, y’know that?”

“course i do.”

[xoxochb]

hii !! if you haven’t, could you do one where reader does the current boyfriend trend on percy? 🤍

“okay I’m gonna start with my introduction and then explain what we’re doing and then… proceed with my book haul, recommendations, whatever. simple enough?”

percy nods slowly. “it’s not rocket science.”

“great! now…” you trail off as you grab your stack of books, previously bought, and placing them within arms reach for your video haul.

“do I get to also talk about the books?”

you furrow the brows, averting your eyes to percy. “you’re dyslexic.”

he only shrugs. “I can judge them by their covers.”

“how so?”

“like this one,” he begins, picking up a book blue and white sparkly cover. “it’s probably one of the few books you own that doesn’t have smut.”

“oh, honey.” you laugh and place the book back in the stack. “you are so very wrong. alex volkov is a freak.”

percy takes a double glance to it before sighing and flopping back down on the bed in defeat.

“up. let’s start this video.” you poke at his head until he looks up. “ready?”

“as I’ll ever be, sweet girl.” yet his head remains propped up on his arm tiredly.

“great!” you smile widely, and with sweaty hands, click on the record button. “hi friends, today I’m going to go talk about my favorite books with my current boyfriend who is actually—”

percy’s head shoots up in an instant. “current?!”

“yeah and we’re gonna—”

“are you planning on having other boyfriends?”

you cock your head to the side in faux question.

“‘current boyfriend’ that’s a direct quote.” he takes your cheeks between his palms, looking you blatantly in the eyes. “you don’t need other men.”

“how do you know that? what if one of my book boyfriends shows up on my doorstep and—”

percy’s index goes over your lips with a disapproving shake of his head. “you don’t need them.”

you nip at his finger until he pulls it away. “what if I find another man? who’s sexier than you. or what if he has one hundred and seven scars on his back?”

“no.”

“but hypothetically—”

this time a finger doesn’t press over your mouth but another mouth instead. an entirely sloppy kiss that sends you falling onto your back against the sheets with uncontrollable laughs. it forces percy to pull apart, yet lingering hovering over you.

“you only need me.”

you squint your eyes at him. “this is possessive behavior, do you know that? possessive.” you repeat again with a peck to his lips.

“isn’t that what you read about? those boys—”

“men.”

percy rolls his eyes sassily. “those men that kill people for looking at their girlfriends in the wrong way.”

“that’s not how it goes down.”

“can I go down?”

“can you never open your mouth again?”

his mouth clamps shut upon your request. with another laugh, you cup his face and pull his mouth back down to yours (indeed).

you had to delete that video, still recording and long forgotten. it wasn’t very social media appropriate.

[socialobligation]

needle & nerve | e. kirishima

he came in for a piercing. what he didn’t expect was the artist behind the gloves—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and maybe his new favorite reason to come back. (987 words)

your shop sat just off the main street—half tattoo studio, half piercing parlor, with walls that held a little bit of grit and a whole lot of story. incense burned low in the corner, masking the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed beneath the soft thud of bass-heavy music filtering in from the back room. framed flash sheets covered the walls, inked with dragons, snakes, roses, and teeth. some were faded from sun, some fresh, some yours. all of them meant something to someone.

you leaned over the front desk, chin in your palm, scrolling idly through a list of upcoming appointments when the door chimed. you didn't look up right away—it wasn't rare to get walk-ins—but something about the shift in the room made your hand pause over the mouse.

he stepped inside like he wasn’t sure how loud to be. tall, square-shouldered, all muscle and nervous momentum. red hair pulled back in a headband that didn’t quite tame it, and eyes—bright, dark-lashed, darting around the space like they were trying to memorize it before it could change.

"uh—hi," he said. his voice cracked slightly on the first syllable, too loud for the low hum of the shop. "i’ve got an appointment?"

you looked up and found a boy who seemed more like a mountain in training. his cheeks flushed deeper when your gaze caught him.

"eyebrow at three?"

"yeah." he nodded, breath like it had been held since the sidewalk. "that’s me."

"cool. i’m your piercer today," you said, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing toward the back. "i’m y/n."

he blinked, then smiled like he hadn’t expected introductions to be part of this. "eijiro. kirishima eijiro."

you gave him a nod and a smirk. "nice to meet you, eijiro. let’s make you bleed a little."

he trailed behind as you led him through the studio, past tattoo chairs draped in black leather and chrome trays lined with freshly sterilized tools. his eyes lingered on the art pinned above each station, pausing longer at a piece you'd done last week—three snakes coiled through the jaw of a skull.

"first piercing?" you asked, tugging on gloves.

"yeah." he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "figured it was time. always thought about it but... i dunno. guess i needed a push."

"it’s a good pick," you said, voice easy, hands already arranging your tray. "subtle. sharp. very you."

he blinked, then smiled. "you don’t even know me."

"don’t need to. i read people."

he laughed, louder this time. "and what do i read like?"

"someone who talks a big game and still gets nervous walking into places like this."

he opened his mouth, then closed it with a grin. "fair enough."

you motioned to the chair. "you’ll feel a quick pinch and then a little pressure. it’s not that bad. just don’t flinch."

"i won’t. promise." he slid into the chair like it was a test. his hands settled in his lap, though you could see the way he kept flexing his fingers.

you moved around him with steady precision. sterilized clamp. single-use needle in its packaging. mirror nearby. you sprayed his brow with antiseptic and caught his flinch out of the corner of your eye—not from pain, but from cold.

he glanced at you. "you do tattoos too?"

"yep. mostly blackwork. fine line, sometimes flash. i draw all my own sheets."

"that snake piece on the way in—that was yours?"

you nodded. "you've got a good eye."

he flushed again, red creeping across his ears now. "guess i’m just a fan of good linework."

you leaned in close, brushing his hair from his temple. his skin was warm under your gloves. close like this, he smelled like clean laundry and just a little sweat, like maybe he’d psyched himself up before walking through the door.

"keep your head still. i’m gonna mark you."

you felt his breath hitch as you pressed the pen lightly to his skin. you could feel the tension in his shoulders—not fear, exactly. more like anticipation wound tight beneath muscle.

"you alright?"

he nodded. "just thinking."

"about what?"

"if this actually makes me cooler or if i’ll just look like i lost a bet."

you smiled. "only one way to find out."

you lined the clamp up gently. "deep breath in."

he inhaled, and you pierced through his skin.

a second passed. then two.

you pulled the needle through, swapped it for the jewelry, and clipped the hoop into place. he didn’t move, not even when you wiped away the smallest dot of blood.

"that’s it?" he blinked at you, like he expected to be bleeding out.

"that’s it."

he touched the edge of the new ring, careful, like it might still sting.

"damn. kinda expected to cry or something."

"give it five hours. you might regret it."

he laughed and stood, slowly, adjusting to the sudden lightness in his posture.

you peeled your gloves off with a soft snap, tossed them in the bin, and reached for the aftercare sheet. when you turned back around, he was holding something in his hand.

a post-it. yellow. handwriting a little slanted, a little rushed.

he stuck it to the counter next to the tip jar. his number written in black ink on the paper.

"in case i want the other side done," he said casually. "or, you know, maybe a snake tattoo. or maybe coffee."

you tilted your head, one eyebrow raised. "you just hand out your number to everyone you meet under bright lights and sharp metal?"

he grinned, sheepish and bold all at once. "only when they’re the prettiest person i’ve ever met."

he waved over his shoulder, and the bell above the door chimed as he left, hair catching the light like a flame, and you were still staring at the post-it note—still smiling—when the door eased shut behind him.

[sinandguilt]

𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌����𝐖.

remmick x male reader

summary: Grief makes you do foolish things. Like wandering out at night after dark, singing to ghosts and the trees they hide behind. But even worse– the devil listening, rambling on with false stories about how he knew your father before he died, and letting him follow you home.

warnings: mature, slowburnish, suggestive/nsfw, subtle d/s, dead dove, dubcon, blood, manipulation, stalking, violence, feeding, brief mentions of graphic violence/gore, grief, remmick is actually creepy as hell, reader is wary but still naive, saliva as an aphrodisiac, drugging, dysphoria, fingering, trans!reader/m!reader, feminine terms for anatomy, dacryphilia, pathetic man alert, remmick is a certified munch, remmick acts all cocky but goes weak in the knees for blood, oneshot(?), not beta read, itsy-bitsy plot holes to lore that don't exist if you squint, author is struggling to tag.

wc: 9.5k

(a/n): i’m not too proud of this fic, but i spent too long on it to trash it. maybe i'll revamp in the future. i took some inspiration from the story little red riding hood (specifically from into the woods, but without the child part) and put my own spin on it. first good chunk is just an introduction for you to get to know the character a bit, (i hate making x reader fics w/o the character having any personality. also, transmasc black/native!character, specifically choctaw (mother is black, father is indigenous). i hope i did enough research to write more than five paragraphs of this. might be some slight lore and time-period inaccuracies for plot but enjoy.

(likes, comments and/or reblogs are welcomed and encouraged!)

⸄࿆࿆⸅ྃ⸄࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆ ⸅𓊆†𓊇⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄࿆⸅⸄࿆࿆⸅ྃ

Low hanging branches of the underbrush tore at your legs as they carried you forward. Knocking against a tree, a yelp is wrenched from your throat as the bark tears into the cotton thinly blanketing your arm. Still, your hand digs into the dampened dirt, pushing you off the ground. You stumble forward with weakened resolve, ragged breaths swim with the sound of branches snapping like bones. You don't bother turning back to see if he's following you, the mere shadows of his presence sinking into your skin in his stead. Sucking in a shallow breath, the air around you seemed to thin. Flashes of your mama blanket your vision– her sweet songs, her teasing words, her loving arms. You couldn't bother to choke back the sob that bloomed in your throat. The same little words seemed to be the only thing pushing you forward. Just make it to the door. Make it, you have to. All the while, the low whistle whispers past the trees– following you. His voice. Nothing mattered anymore. Not your abandoned hatchet shrouded in dirt, not your legs burning as they hauled you forward– just those porch lights, just that door. Just your mama sleeping soundly, blissfully unaware of your absence, your empty bed. Nothing mattered, not even the swift crack sent to the back of your head, or the sound of your body hitting the ground. All of this could've been avoided if you had just heeded your mama’s warning–

“By nightfall, stay out of them woods.

That’s the devil’s playground.”

–┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈–

Sunlight pierced through the shabby planks of wood nailed together by a faded dream of home, the light spilling onto the dust-kept floors. The low voice of your mother rang out, “Get that thing off my table,” she nagged, nodding her head toward the red cloak blanketing the dining table. “I didn't spend hours sewing that damn thing together for you t’just leave it wherever.” She sighed for a moment before her attention returned to the blade beneath her palm. She blinked away tears, holding her head back away from the freshly-cut onions on her cutting board and brushing wet, thin hands onto her lavender slip. “Make sure you get all your work done, chores n’ all that.”

You shuffled forward out of the shadow cowering from the sunlight, skin of sienna. Your clothes draped over your body, long and heavy like you'd been wearing someone else's, not quite meant to fit you. Your hair fell over your face, braided into all sorts of different ways. Some twisted, string netting over the hair, some braided with beads and charms hugging them tight, and a few locks interwoven with feathers from ravens and crows falling over your collarbones. The two most noticeable braids of your hair were much longer, flowing down over your back nearly to your waist. Long, just like your daddy’s. You pull the red hood from the dust-ridden table– worn and chipped, holding it in your hands for a moment. She had woven in black, leather strings that overlapped the collar, where you'd pull it tight. Most likely taken from her corset. Tribal patterns laced the material, the hood lined with grey wolf fur. A fond memory of him setting the fur on the back of the dining room chair etches into the back of your mind.

“You know how I feel about you just leavin’ anythin’ on my damn table,” she huffed, her hand settled at her hip as she leaned against the wooden counter. A stray curl fell over her cheek– her raven hair pulled into a bun as she smiled, doing her best to fake annoyance. It'd been sweltering all that day, and mama had spent all her time cleaning without pause. She refused to have the house any other way than spotless. Your daddy stepped forward, brushing the curl from her face and behind her ear. You watched with a smile as your daddy leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Habit, I’m sorry.” His voice was gruff and thick, as if it was snuffed deep in an ashtray. “Won't happen again, pisa achukma.”

The closest memory of him flickers like an open flame, but the moment it greets itself to the confines of your mind, you snuff it out– your eyes flitting to your mama’s face growing stoic. She folded her arms over her chest in mild irritation. She’d looked different than how she used to last spring. Her weight had dropped– her body nearing frail and thin. Her eyes looked tired, sunken. She brushed a few crumbs from a dented wooden chair with mild irritation before plopping down in her seat. The on-stretching silence was then interrupted, her voice cutting through your thoughts like a clearing.

“We gon’ talk now or do I gotta keep playin’ mind reader?” Your mouth grew sour, tongue pliant and useless. Right. The incident. Your eyes fall over your new hood– to the burned edges that had ripped into the rim of the cloak, to where it's singed and scorched black on what used to be your father’s blanket his mother had gifted to him– who you couldn't even give the courtesy of naming your grandma on account of never being blessed the chance to meet the woman. “Y’can’t just keep this ‘vow of silence’ up forever, baby. I know it hurts, god, I know–” she sucks in a breath, her hand on her chest. Head held high as always. She'd never break in front of you– she swore it. “But you are all I got left now. We gotta play this safe, okay?” The floorboards creak beneath her feet as she steps forward. How small you must look to her– eyes tired, heavy. “All that pain and nowhere to put it,” she'd say.

It'd been nearing a few weeks since what happened to daddy. If you blinked, you could still smell copper in the air, bitter beneath your tongue– how the fire stained the red of his blanket, burning into a thick smoke of black, Daddy throwing Mama that hatchet, woven in red patterns and string– tossing away his only defense, how his body burned; the sick smell of flesh peeling away like an onion. You weren't there for all of it, just the aftermath– rushing out of your Aunt’s with bare feet onto the paved bedding. Mama’s cries pierced your ears, almost drowning out the sound of those white men laughing. Tires skid against the dry dirt coughing up dust, circling around his burning body in their trucks like wolves to a lamb. Predators to prey. Soft thumbs brush away fallen tears you hadn't realized were welling in your eyes, blurring your vision. Those almond eyes, big and brown, blinked away the salty beads of tears staining your lashes.

“Look, y’know I'll always be there for you. I got you no matter what we goin’ through. This ain't the first time we've gone through shit together, and it damn sure won't be the last. I was here when you told me you were–” she pauses, resting her hands on your shoulders and squeezing lightly. She crooks a finger beneath your chin, pulling your gaze upward to meet her own. “You’ll always be my baby,” she hesitated. “My son.” Her eyes were teary, dark brown eyes darting between your own. “We're all we got now. I need you to know that. Don't go dark on me, too, okay? Anyone else but me.” You found yourself nodding slowly, a tear trickling down your cheek. For weeks, you had kept yourself numb after what happened. And yet, warmth enveloped you as she wrapped her arms around you. “‘S gon’ be okay. We'll be okay.” Your hands were splayed over her back. Your fingers met the cotton of her slip dress, the pad of your index tapping slowly, three times. You could feel her smile against the crown of your head, pressing in with a small kiss. “I love you too.”

The smallest memory tickled the back of your mind, of you and your daddy’s hideout. Where you'd camp under the stars guiding moonlight over their makeshift fort. Maybe that's how it happened– the memory of his fingers strumming his guitar trickled down and broke open and shattered all sorts of reasoning in your mind. Any sensibility out the window for you to end up here. Going out at night was forbidden, now that daddy was gone. A sharp pang of defiance hit your chest. You refused to bury the last parts of your daddy's memory. His body was enough.

So you waited. Waited until the sky fell into night, until the hallway had gotten quiet and mama's soft snoring was all that filled the silence. And it did. The sun had soon faded with the bright, blue sky washing into black, the stars burning into a clouded night. You slowly pulled the front door closed, tucking your daddy’s worn hatchet into his gun holster, a large hole torn into the leather to fit the handle. Just in case. You crept off of the front porch and onto the grassless, beaten path, fresh oil lamp in hand. You'd been down this road countless times, the leaves on the trees swaying in sync with the blades of grass. The burning glow of fireflies led you toward the underbrush off the path.

The path mama said you're not supposed to leave. The path your daddy carved out for you that mama didn't know about. Make no mistake– your daddy wasn't careless. He had rushed out of the house that day yelling your name until his voice was hoarse only to find you running up to him with big, doe eyes and grinning from ear to ear, cupping a frog in your hands that you found by the riverbank beyond the trees shrouding the edge of the house. How could he stand there, chest heaving laboriously and deny you of your curiosity? There was only one rule– Don't cross the white line. A rule he had made very clear since you were old enough to sit out on the porch by yourself. You remember watching him draw a line in white chalk across the somber edges of the forest from your little makeshift tent.

Branches and leaves scratch at your legs, your fingers brushing against the skin of the trees like home. Red and white paint spotted them– an indicator you and your daddy used to find your way back home. You pushed deeper into the darkened woods, past the cypress trees. Your nails scraped at the roughened bark, hurried footsteps into the bed of grass. You hummed a soft song, voice high and sweet, cracking open for the first time all month like yolk breaking free from its shell. A song your mama taught you that she learned when she was a girl. “Through the dark, I wade,” you muttered. “As if in its glory days.” Brushing the hair from your face, the sweat begins to slick your skin. “Knowing all my tears and rage,” you hummed, high and reminiscent. “Could load a revolver.” Firelights burned bright in darkness, the sound of rushing water lulling you in deeper. Almost there. Hand prints in red and white paint stained the trees from when you were a mere girl. Before the thought of being able to become something higher struck your fancy. Before you had bound your chest in bandages, and long before the ache in your ribs had faded with time.

Mama used to tease you, saying that you didn't have much to show. Said they were itty-bitty, like yellow buds of magnolias before they'd even got to bloom– before white petals fell open with age. That was before she knew, before you told her. Suddenly all those small teasing words fell short. She had grown quiet. “You know I love you right?” her voice was soft as milk and honeydew, cupping your cheek. She held you like glass, so fragile and easy to break. Because you were. “No matter what you call yourself. You'll always be mine.” Her weary arms wrapped around your small frame. Almost as if the universe knew before you did. Your curves were stunted– chest small and unfulfilled, yet your hair grew in their stead, falling past your shoulders like silk. When daddy passed, you’d cut a large amount– the hair around your face no longer needing to be pulled back behind your shoulder blades. Mama helped braid and twist the rest of it, like she had seen some foreign girls have them. Yet you kept the pools of hair down your back long, braided tight. As if you’d left that part of yourself behind– who you used to be when daddy was still breathing softly against your skin as you laid your head out on his chest that warm day in May.

You stopped in your tracks. A small glint of glass catching your eye, the rust had set heavy on the oil lamp. You moved forward slowly, kneeling before your hideout. It'd been a long time since you'd visited, the candle burned to the end of its wick, curling in on itself as if it had spent its flame waiting for your return. Your eyes catch on the line drawn with chalk right at the edge of the tent. Pushing the lamp smothered in ash and wax aside, you replace it with the one fresh from the house. Crawling inside, you made yourself home again beneath the old blankets soaked dry since the skies last mourned daddy’s passing with you. Digging your hands under the pillows and blankets, you pause the moment your fingers brush against it– the strings of daddy’s guitar. Slowly, you pulled it into his lap– its body too big and bulky for you to blanket it comfortably, not meant for the two of you to slot together like daddy did with it. You hook the band over your shoulders while soft pads of skin strum at the cords, a low hum thrumming into the open air. The air shifts, a push from the wind blows the stray hairs from your face. Your nail scratches at the strings, palm hugging the nape of the guitar. Thin fingers press deep into the cords and the guitar whines. The sound of voice flies high and soft into the air like lace, intricacies falling from your lips.

“Slip off down to sleep,” you murmur. A song you'd nearly forgotten, your eyes fall shut as you serenade the sky with practiced words. “I’ll be waitin’ for your open arms– with cold to keep, until you feel yourself dragging down–” The hush of leaves blowing in the wind seemed to slow, the woods growing quiet. Your strumming grew louder, bolder as your voice rang out. “–the fitted sheets. Your home is nothing more to me than shelter for your heart– a heart that bleeds,” you hums. “It bleeds for me.” Your hand slows against the open void of the guitar. For a moment, there's nothing but the low whisper of the breeze slotted between the leaves and blades of grass. For a moment, you don't notice the air shifting, cold settling on your skin, only feeling your fingers pin the cords of the guitar.

A chill crawls down your spine, making itself known. It forces your eyes open with a quiet gasp. And then, you see it. How the cypress trees seem to bend and groan around it, the fireflies’ lights dulling. A figure– a man. Tall with broadened shoulders and stalk still. The silhouette stood there, shrouded in darkness. Almost as if he was waiting for you to notice his presence. As if the chill in the air wasn't enough of an introduction. He just stood there– with his weight leaned against one leg, hands sewn into his pockets.

It was surreal– unnerving, even. No croaking of the frogs leaping from the river’s edge, no chirping of the crickets– just silence. You could hear the thump of your heart, blood pounding in your ears as you remained still, frozen like a deer at the end of a rifle’s barrel. Adrenaline began to pool within your stomach, your gut twisting into knots. For a moment, you almost convinced yourself it was just an odd shadow, until the figure cocked his head, his arms rising into a slow clap. Each clap sent an echo cracking through the forest, the man beginning to amble toward you.

“Now that was just beautiful. Truly,” You stumbled, forcing yourself to rise to your feet– your hand swiftly grazed the hatchet in your makeshift holster, hood slipping from your head, folding back against your neck. The man paused with raised hands, halting any further movement closer toward you, just a few feet before the line drawn in chalk. Shadows clouded his face from the neck up, pale skin making itself known in the moonlight. A man– a white man. “Woah woah, hey. I don't mean no harm,” he soothed with a deep southern drawl, the words dripped from his lips as if his voice had doused a fire in honey. “I just happened t’hear yer singin’ as I was walkin’ by. Didn't wanna scare y’off.”

You take your time eyeing the man before you. His collar was loose and near sweat-drenched, the glint of a small, gold chain wrapped his collarbones, the light blue cuffs of his sleeves pulled tight at his wrists. Dark suspenders lined his torso and down his back, a makeshift band splayed across his chest, presumably for an instrument on his back. You stayed quiet, white-knuckling the hatchet at your side. The man ducked his head forward and out of the shadows, short black curls slicked his forehead in sweat. Every move the man took was measured, yet deliberate. “My name's Remmick.” You slid the hatchet from the holster, gripping it by the nape of wood just before the blade. Nothing about this man was natural. His lopsided grin gave him the chills and he seemed more relaxed than normal to be threatened with a hatchet. What's a white man doing in the middle of the woods at night, anyway? By himself?

Every inch of the man rang false, every part of your body screamed danger. The man's deep, brown eyes seem to shine in the dark, darting down to your iron-grip. “No need to be on high alert. I swear, I meant no harm. S’just–” he spoke, his body language suddenly shifting as he gestures into the open air. “Well, when I heard yer voice, I was just curious– I mean that was a damn near siren call. Thought I was bein’ lured in by some angel, maybe worse.” he chuckles. The corners of his mouth curl upward with awkward, yet playful amusement, like he'd been waiting for you to laugh. You didn't. Instead, your gaze flits to the glint of his teeth briefly, unsure.

You remain unmoving from your place, feet anchored into the dirt behind the line. Remmick’s smile fades, nodding his head softly in understanding as his finger undulates across the side of his neck, the sound of his nail lightly scratching skin filling the silence between you. “My mistake, didn't mean’ta set ya off ‘r nothin’.” he reluctantly turns on his heel, glancing down at the guitar in your hand before he leaves. You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding as the man takes a few steps away and “–Wait a second,” he pauses, spinning right back around and sauntering forward. Your nerves rake up against your spine, defensive. “Is that–? Nah, it can't be…” You must've made a face of obvious confusion, because the man jabs a finger at the guitar in your hand. “Sorry, s’just– I knew a man who had a guitar just like that one in yer hand. Ah, what was his name again..?” He pressed a finger to his lips as if he was trying to recall something. Just this once, you leaned forward, eyes hopeful. “Started with’a…S–” You took a step forward, finding feeling in his legs. “You knew my daddy?” you asked, sucking in a breath of desperation.

Hook, line and sinker.

Remmick pauses, not quite looking in your direction as he nods along. “Yeah, yeah I knew ‘im. We was good friends.” he paused, like he needed to collect his thoughts. “Not for long, heard somethin’ happened. Matter a’fact, I was actually headin’ this way to check up on ‘im.” Your heart dips in disappointment for a moment before the man speaks again, “Wait a minute– yer his…” You don't miss the way the man’s eyes roll over your frame, and you swallow down a shudder of humiliation.

“Son. I'm his son.” You fill in with false confidence, voicing pitching up. Who on earth would believe that? Swinging the guitar over your shoulder to rest against your back, your hand fidgets at the holster at your side, slowly pushing the hatchet back into its leather. Remmick gives an absent nod in understanding, hand resting over his hip. Pretending to not notice. “Well, I hope he's all right–” Deciding to hopefully spare yourself from words of lithe pity, you quickly interject, “He's dead.” You did your best to hide the tremble of a newborn doe’s legs in your voice, unsure why you're willingly offering up so much information at the mere mention of your daddy.

The man’s small smile falters for a moment, settling into a deep frown. You could comment on how something had shifted in the way he looked at you. Maybe with understanding, maybe sadness, maybe something more. “Ah,” He bows his head in respect, dragging his hand against his chest and over his thin, mussed dress shirt. “‘M sorry for yer loss…hm, that there’s’a real shame.” he sighed. There was a beat of silence before you spoke again– spoke more than a few words for the first time in weeks. “How'd.. how'd you know him?” you asked, suddenly growing confidence in his voice. Even bold enough to take a step forward. The man stood still for a moment, his eyes flicking to your dirt-washed leather boot breaching ever closer toward the line with a small smile that made your stomach swirl with unease. He tilts his head, curious.

Quiet for a moment, as if he'd been enjoying the silence– how you lingered with bated breath. “Yer sure bein’ careful not to step on over this line. Why is that? What's it for?” he questions, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Y’sure yer supposed to be out here on yer own so late at night?” You stilled in confusion at how hard the conversation had shifted, and whatever brief connection you had flickered– dimmed. You gave a brief and uncertain nod. The man mirrored the tilt of his head, doubtful. His eyes squinted, casting a sliver of moonlight over his eyes. “Nevermind,” you mumbled, feeling dumb for prying at old stories about some man and a ghost. Twigs crunched beneath your feet as you slowly pulled away, his eyes trailing after you. “Sorry for askin’. Goodnight, sir.” you muttered awkwardly, shuffling away from him and the interaction alone. As you walked away, his voice echoed behind you. “I could tell ya. Nothin’ but small stories to share…but I'd rather tell ya while I make sure you get home okay. S’not safe to be wanderin’ out alone in these woods.”

You paused, pulling your gaze from the trees before you and turning on your heels once again to face him. This time, you stepped closer than you had before, your boots toeing a hair over the line. This wasn't foolish, was it? You'd be getting home safe, swapping stories with a man who knew your father…but at the cost of him knowing where you live. You could already hear Mama’s voice, shrill and angry. “What did I tell you about strangers? Let alone a white man?! I don’t give a damn if he knew the first lady– you don't talk to strangers!” You hesitate, briefly giving him a once-over with furrowed brows. “You're not… some kinda killer or thief are you?” Remmick gives a dry chuckle, hollow, as he steps forward. Only a few inches bordered the space between you two. “You think your daddy’s the type to be friends with men like that?” he asks, the question not needing a response. Your hand laced around the handle of your hatchet falls to your side, shoulders dropping slightly with a small sigh.

You turn on your heel, eyes never leaving the man as you wait for him to follow before he speaks again, “That mean I'm chaperonin’?” The question slips from his lips like a joke, but he makes no effort to move, his hands pulled tightly behind his back, as if he was genuinely waiting for an answer. You slowly nod, “It's fine, I don't mind,” you insisted. “If my daddy trusted you, I guess I can too.” The man gives a borderline wolfish grin, walking over the threshold languidly. He took his time, keeping himself a few steps just behind you, voice low and lazy. “Lead the way, darlin’.”

You ignore the way the nickname had sewn shivers into your spine, along with the small brush of heat sent straight to your stomach. Your boots crunched against the brittle rocks beneath your soles, the shudder of the leaves in the wind filling the silence. You didn't have to turn to know his gaze was fixed onto you. His footsteps were quiet, eerily quiet for a man that walked without a care in the world or a place to be. You ignored the unsettling presence stretching into the air, deciding against your better judgement for dry, small talk.

“So, how'd you meet my dad?” You didn't bother to crane your neck to speak, figuring there'd be no need to. It did nothing to ease the sickly feeling in your gut festering as the man rasped behind you. “Got into some trouble I couldn't get out of.” he answered, oddly dry. There was a stark difference in how he'd been acting a few minutes ago to now. For a man who seemed to know a lot about your daddy, he sure spoke of him in few words. In fact, the only consistent sound between them were his ragged breaths, seemingly only growing louder. Almost as if he was…getting closer? You couldn't help but sneak a glance at him.

He had been walking behind you the same distance as before, but he looked…off. Looked distracted, as if the distance had been intentional. You watched as his eyes lazily shifted from the trees to the lake, occasionally down the beaten path you'd been walking. It didn’t look like he was waiting for anything to happen, no. Besides, it was rare for wolves and bears to keep company on this side of the woods, let alone any man. No, in fact, it was like he was memorizing everything around him. He rolled his wrist in his palm, his thumb brushing over a vein. The grip he had on himself looked tight, strained. You could see his jaw clenching from the spill of moonlight. Was he in pain? Why would he be? Why now? His eyes snap to meet your own, the slight cock of his head causes you to quickly pry your eyes away from him like skin from an open flame. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment at getting caught openly ogling the man, hoping you hadn't given him any false promises or ideas. You hesitated to open your mouth again to break the silence, but it seemed he’d noticed the uncomfortable stretch of silence between you two this time, speaking first. You could feel his eyes sliding down over your frame, a little longer than necessary. “That’s'a real nice cape you got there, fits ya real nice.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, bowing your head slightly into a nod. You tried to keep your focus on the path ahead, your hand brushing against familiar trees stained with you and your daddy’s handprints. If he noticed, he made no mention of it, continuing on about your clothes as you peered past the branches and leaves shrouded in shadows. “Reminds me of that lil’ story they read to li’l lads much younger than you, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’,” he droned. Quietly noting the slight shift of his accent, you hum in response, making sure you didn't come off as dismissive despite your desperate longing for silence. He continues on, and you make no effort to shut him down from the unnecessary amount of conversation between the two of you. It'd be impolite.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” he carried on, no doubt unaware of your complete lack of interest in a discussion about your appearance. You had enough of that already. You decided not to comment on how much he spoke of you compared to your daddy for only knowing you a short while. “A lil' girl, skippin’ about in the woods for her mama to go visit her sick grandma…” he pauses, and you could hear his tongue slicking over his lips. You restrain yourself from a full-body shudder in case he’d notice, and he pushed on, his steps a little louder with every drag of his feet. “Basket full of bread n’ everythin’ else, and then she runs into this… big, bad wolf.” A sick feeling settles into your stomach again as the sound of his tone shifts a little lower and into something foreign. Your pace stutters almost imperceptibly– almost, the hairs rising at the nape of your neck. You quickly blanket the sudden fear with a scoff, ignoring how your throat runs dry. “Right, so if I'm supposed to be ‘Red Riding Hood’, does that mean you’d be the big bad wolf?” you ask, burying the question in humor over your terror, not even bothering to hide the brief look over your shoulder.

There’s a small flicker of something dark and heavy pooling in his eyes– like oil as he laughs, too hearty to settle your nerves. As if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. It was beyond eery. Some strange man who showed up out of nowhere, walking you home with promises of stories about your daddy, only for him to ramble on about children's tales. “I just think she was mighty impolite. Thing is– lil’ Red could’ve just shared some of her treats. Not like it would've harmed anybody,” he rambled on, as if he wasn’t drinking the terror itching beneath your skin. “‘S awfully rude to chat up a storm ‘bout someone else’s hot meal in front of someone starved of one.” His voice had sunk into a deep rasp, pulling fear out of you like wool from a spindle.

You halted in your tracks, the lights of your front porch luminous in the far distance. Spinning around to face him like bullets locked in a chamber, your voice cut through his, sharp– the kind of tone your daddy taught you to use when you meant business. “Thanks for walking me home, sir,” you could hear the slight tremor in your voice, falling short of the business end. Remmick falters, his legs sputtering into a stop, the smile he wore long gone. Whether it was the trees’ branches curled over his head or your imagination, a shadow had cast over his eyes. “I can get there myself now.” you reassured him, keeping your forced smile brief as you gave a curt nod off. He cocks a brow, amused. “Well, I didn't walk all this way just to be left here in the woods without makin’ sure you made it to the door.” he stated. His tone was definite, not combative– almost like he was testing how far he could push your courtesy, which had already been stretched thin. “I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but I really should be going now.” you bowed your head, stepping backward. He follows, taking a step forward in turn. “Y’really don't get it, do you lambkin?” Any shred of playfulness had been stripped from his voice, his tone bare and heavy. “I had no intention of lettin’ you up n’ leave, not without a lil’ taste, anyway.”

An echo of dread sinks into your bones, shaky legs stumbling backward. And again, he follows, his hands still clenched behind his back. Every inch of your body is screaming to fight, run, anything to get away from him. The air between you grew thick as fear settled into your nerves. Remmick inhales, breathing in deep. “Y’know, I can smell you from here. Can hear yer lil’ heart beatin’ out of yer chest there.” he rasped. Instinctively, your hand clutches your hatchet, drawing it from your holster. He clicks his tongue, sauntering forward. “I wasn't lyin’ when I said I find it rude to dangle a hot meal in front of someone starved.” he confessed, now close enough to flick a lock of hair from your face. The moon filtered through the clouds, revealing a silver lustre over his eyes. Saliva lined over his chin, thick and white as his voice rumbled. “‘N yer all I got, lil’ Red.”

Without hesitation, you grip the splintering wood of your hatchet, swinging it deep into the cave of his shoulder, the wedge of it dipping into his collarbone. Blood rolled from his shoulder in waves, drenching his sky-washed, collared shirt in nothing but red. Remmick howled in pain, staggering as he clutched the handle protruding from his shoulder. “Fuck!” he growled, chest heaving something fierce with eyes drawn back to you. Slowly, he wrenched the hatchet from his flesh, and the sound of his bones slickened with blood cracking drew in nausea from you as you watched. You don't bother lingering, fleeing down the small incline and toward those porch lights that felt miles away. You spare a glance behind you to see Remmick just standing there, throwing the hatchet down into the softened dirt. Fire had burned over those silver, moonlit eyes as he called for you, his voice echoing through the forest. “Runnin’ will get ya nowhere, lil’ lamb. There ain’t nowhere you can hide under moonlight where I won't find you.”

And here you are, your legs burning like wax to a flame. Your hand shot out to shield you from a larger branch nearly thwacking you in the face. Closer, I can see the light. The trees seemed to part for you like water as you pushed forward. You ignored the burn of your lungs as the air grew thin, grasping at the air desperately to catch your breath. Your heart pounding with fear was an understatement, every ounce of blood in your body singing to get home. And then, darkness. You could hear your body fall to the ground with a reverberated thud.

┄─━ ࿅ ༻ ♱ ༺ ࿅ ━─┄

Your head swam, nausea never fading. A small blur of Remmick sat across from you, and too many fingers to count strum at the banjo in his lap. You did your best to blink into your vision focus. “Where is..where I–” Remmick’s head shot up, his voice ringing out like bells as laughter bubbled into the open air.

“Ho–ly shit. Almost knockin’ the livin’ daylights outta you must’ve givin’ you a concussion there, sweetheart.” He's quick on you before you can blink, gentle hands grazing over… something over your ankle. Something tight, numbing. The stark comparison to how he'd been before to now made your head spin. Your head burns white-hot with pain, your eyes sliding your gaze over him to watch as he hovers above you. “Careful how yer lookin’ at me there, darlin’,” he admonished, pulling his hands away from you and settling back into his chair, his arms folded over the back as he leaned forward. “Ain't nothin’ stoppin’ me from killin’ you and takin’ what I want–” your gaze fell down to the cotton sheets you sat on, your back against the headboard while he continued on. “But I consider myself’a gentleman. Yeah– I need you to know me.” Your eyes fluttered closed, wanting nothing more than to drift off. You would've– if it weren't for the snap of Remmick’s fingers pulling you further into consciousness. “Ah-ah, hey, don't go noddin’ off on me now. Where are you?” His words slipped into your head as you stirred, realization sinking in. Where are you? Your eyes darted from the walls to the soft bed beneath you. Not your walls, not your bed. Not your home. “I..I don't–” Remmick nods. “That's right, you don't know.” he scolded, like he owned the right to be disappointed. “I oughta think that would've woken you up a lil’ faster there, lambkin.”

And it does. You jolt forward from the bed, snagging your foot at the edge of the mattress as you tried to pull your legs underneath you. Your eyes drift down to the rope tied firmly around your ankle, caught on the bed post. Your boots had been taken off, tossed into the corner of the room. Remmick's eyes follow your own, untangling the rope tethering you to the wooden leg, his movements slow and languid– like you weren't trapped with him. You hauled your legs from the edge, pulling away from his touch like a burn. He pulled away as well, leaning back against his chair. Silence laced the air between the two of you. No, he’d been quiet, like he'd been waiting for you to speak. Not that you needed permission. Your lips part with a slight tremble, voice dry and brittle. “Are you going to kill me?”

He pauses, allowing silence to linger once again, possibly entertaining the idea. “I could. ‘M capable. I mean, what would yer old man say ‘bout you talkin’ to strangers?” Your mouth grew sour, the taste swimming over the bed beneath your tongue. “Don't talk about him.” you grit out, the words snapping from your jaw. The walls around you seemed to creak and groan, breathing you in, tasting your defiance. Or maybe you were just deluded. Remmick stood, pulling his chair around to sit properly. He leaned back with a tilt of his head, legs spread and inviting. “Careful,” he warned, words short and stern. “Y’ain’t got no one here to save you now, lil’ lamb.” Remmick leaned forward, that red sliver in his eyes returning. “Now, I've been nothin’ but kind to you. Gave you my name– my company. There's nothin’ I hate more than my gifts bein’ taken for granted.” he rumbled.

Your tongue laid pliant in your mouth, useless. Didn't seem like the time to be mouthy, anyway. Deft fingers drew over the wooden footer, tracing lines and patterns near your foot. “You ain't give me as much of a ‘hello’, singin’ high n’ sweet over yer daddy’s guitar. Took my interest in you as a threat.” he drawled, almost melancholic. “‘S been years since I shared company with anyone...” he trailed off. Scarred knuckles graze the bare skin of your ankle. “Since I've eaten. Properly.” he admitted. “‘M tired of settlin’ for filth. Need me somethin’ sweet…” he murmured, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes flit to meet your own.

Terror settled into your skin, drawing your legs tight over your chest. He sighs, slipping his hand away. “I can strike a deal with you, y’know. You wanna know what really happened to yer daddy.” he avouched. “Wanna know the names of the sons of bitches that killed ‘em too.” his voice dips low, telling. Your ears perk up slightly, enough for him to notice. “If you give me what I want, I'll give you everythin’ yer pretty little beatin’ heart desires and more.” he tempted, sin spilling from his lips with practiced ease.

Anyone else knew better. Anyone else would say no to those sweet little words– knew they sunk into your soul with a weight you couldn't carry. But you didn't care about knowing better, there was nothing else you needed to know besides curing the heartache he'd left you with. Mama's words fell on deaf ears as you sighed. You leered at the man before you, measured. He looked sweaty, shirt stained of moisture and blood from the gash you had given him earlier, the shirt torn open from his shoulder. Looked as if it'd been healing up nicely while you were knocked unconscious. Shock couldn't have been drawn any more from you. You knew what he was when saliva dribbled from his mouth, fire burned within his eyes– he was the devil, coming before you to bear you his humble gifts. “What is it you want?”

“Ain't it obvious?” he asked, with a tilt of his head. A habit he had, you noticed. He didn't elaborate, not needing to with the way his eyes raked over your frame. “Tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up to a name. Whether it's carved into a wall, inked into a sheet of paper or whispered into your ear...you’ll know it was me who gave it to you,” he stated. “‘N after yer done, I'll be there that night after you’ve killed him to give you another– that n’ more.” You sputter, cutting through his words as your brain tried to process what he was saying. “Wha-what happens if I can't kill him in a day? What If I need time?” He grins, wolfish– the same grin he gave you in the woods. “Then it'll take as long as it takes, darlin’. If y’need my help, just whisper my name after sunfall n’ I’ll be there. But no matter how long it takes, I'll still be there after every kill. To take what's mine.” You let in a shaky breath. “I'll do it.

“‘M sure you would at the thought alone darlin’, but I need t’know you mean it. I need a first.” he avowed, nodding in a matter-of-fact way. “A first?” you parroted in confusion. He nodded again, “A first of yours. Somethin’ you've never offered up, never shared. First kill, first shed of blood…” his gaze kept to the floors before his next words, locking on your own. “...first kiss.” A shiver runs down your spine as you mull over sharing any of your firsts with the creature– the devil. The silence doesn't last long, as he speaks again with a sickening, polished grin.

“So, what's it gonna be?”

┄─━ ࿅ ༻ ♱ ༺ ࿅ ━─┄

Red fell from your shoulders as he loosened the strings of your cloak, unburdened by the memory of your father as your mind begins to cloud in need with his lips on your own, his tongue pushing past teeth. Remmick’s hands were slow pulling away your dark and dirt-mudded shirt, unbuttoning the cuffs. “Sweet boy,” he murmured, low and heavy. “So good for me.” he cants, and he's wrong. You were being anything but good, spread open under the devil’s touch, far from home as your mama slept sound. Couldn't even leave a note, not that you would've. Not that you could bare your shame to the disappointment in her eyes, after coveting your lust– your need.

You're pulled away from the thought as a finger hooked into your bandages wound tight over your chest. You made a shamefully poor attempt to stop him, your hands too heavy and heated. The bandages barely fall from your skin before his mouth is on you. He moves to the dulled swell of your chest with rapt attention, his tongue laving over a nipple, the back of your hand rushes over your mouth as you stifle a moan. “Ah-ah, none of that now,” he rumbled, reverent. “You ain't gon’ rob me of hearin’ you fall apart for me pretty.” His teeth graze over, nipping at the bud and you honest-to-god whimper, writhing in his arms. He gives the other the same treatment– the same attention and care, a peek of his tongue sending you further over the edge. His jaw slacks, moaning into your skin as he moves his head down, down, down past loosened bandages. You made a noise of protest, head slumped against the pillows. “I don't– I'm not…I can't–” He hushes your sweet cries, the words uselessly slurred on your tongue.

“Yer body don't gotta be made to sin for me to crave it, darlin’.” Your head lolls to the side, granting him easy access. His lips trail over your skin, your throat bare and open for him. A whimper breaks out from deep in your chest, fire thrumming in your veins, your stomach pooling heat only he could swim in. “See, sweet thing?” he hums, tongue lapping at the soft of your neck. “Look how easy you open up for me once you see how good I can make it for you.” His hands strum heat from you with the barest of touch, your body caving in to want more than anything. “Such a pretty lil’ thing, all limp and wantin’...” Nails rake over the expanse of your tummy, fingertips tracing your wants like a man starved. Your eyes flutter, coated in a clouded haze when he reaches below your navel. Your head swims, hesitance no longer holding you back as you card soft fingers in his hair. He groans– like you were sin handed to him over silver.

He made himself room between your thighs, thighs bracketing his face. Tasting you wasn't enough, he needed to be buried into your bones. He hardly needed invitation for what he was doing to you, your head turned mush at every touch. You threw an arm over your face, humiliation burning into you under his scrutiny, those dark eyes stilled over you. “Don't feel shame, lambkin,” He coos softly, pulling your arm away. He guides your hand over the slack of his jaw, caving into your touch. “Feel me.” Your lips trembled as you spoke, and god– is that how you sounded? Your voice was all high and sweet as you spoke. “‘M not made right– don't look how I wanna down..down there.” Remmick glowered, like he couldn't bother to hide his annoyance in your words. Like you had no right.

His hands showering you in warmth as he pulls you apart further– your thighs open wide. “A meals’a meal, darlin’. You think ‘m gon’ complain how it's made?” he chuckled, the sound reverberating through you as he pulled away your slacks, tossing them without a care in the word. He marveled at the sight of you, cunt soaked beneath thin cotton. “Fuck,” he groaned, tugging away your underwear. “You might be more than I can handle, sweetness.” He blew cold into your skin, reveling in the way you shuddered beneath him.

His tongue bathed in you, hooking your legs over his shoulders as he lavished your clit with attention. He relished how your back bowed, whining softly into open air. He laved over your cunt, salt-slick from his insistence. “Oh, you treat me so sweet,” he panted, starved. “Wound up with heaven in my hands.” His thumb rolled over your clit, roughened hands pushing you further sensitive. “All it took was talkin’ you into it a lil’, showin’ you how good it could be.” You were anchored in the feeling of him, his hands– his touch the only thing keeping you leveled. Your name left his lips against his will, wanting to keep the letters buried beneath his tongue. “So, so good. Laid out all pretty for me.” He choked back a whimper at your taste, salt melting away to your sweetness, innocence on his tongue. He knew you could be good like this, he just had to dig it out of you a bit. Your stomach coiled, taut with heat as you white-knuckled his curls.

Your chest burned, only satiated by Remmick’s tongue– his touch. “Please, it hurts,” you sobbed, tears staining your cheeks. He pauses, slowly pulling back with slight worry. “Hurts without you touching– make it go away, please.” you begged, the small tremor of your lips sealing your need. His mouth opened in a silent “ah” in understanding, hand cupping your jaw softly. “Forgot about that. Y’Had me worried for a minute there, sweetness,” His thumb trails over your lips, pushing past them and sitting heavy on your tongue. You sigh, appreciative– grateful for his attention. Something you'd never come to know without the foreign heat pooling in your tummy. “A lil’ somethin’ I forgot to tell you when I showed you my lil’ magic trick– when I do it, yer body is commanded to need me– my presence, my touch. Me. You were made mine before I even got t’lay my hands all over you, lil’ lamb.”

His words were garbled under your open sobs, the way he wanted you. “Oh, don't you worry now, it'll wear off. Eventually.” he mutters, mouth on you once again, drinking you in. Seconds pass into minutes of him wrenching pleasure out of you, his mouth coated in slick. It’s only when he wrings you of your first orgasm does he give you more. Then, and only then, does he push those thick fingers past the tight ring of your cunt. You cry out, lips all puffy and pink. He doesn't stop, just slows. Pushing, pushing them into you. You instinctively wrap your hand around his wrist, not stopping him, just holding it there. Bracing. He sighed into the soft of your neck, your blood pulsating beneath your skin. “Been waitin’ for somethin’ like you for long, long time…” he whispers. “I can feel fire in your blood, sweetness. Can feel how it's pulsin’ for me.” His eyes flit to your own as he manages to tear himself from your neck. “Can I, pretty? Would’ya be so kind, hm? Jus’ a lil’ taste…please–” he babbles, his resolve cracking like porcelain. You feel yourself nod, unsure what you're even agreeing to, not even really caring. All that occupied your mind was heat, pure and raw. It was an afterthought when you felt Remmick nip at your neck, blemishing the skin. And then…

Teeth prick your skin as he sinks his teeth down, deep into your throat bared for him. Your mouth opens, the air peeled from your lungs as cold washes over your skin. Something trickles from your neck, fervid. And Remmick groans, something guttural. Tears blur your vision, echoes of Remmick lapping at your skin keep you lucid. He growls, muttering beneath your skin, something ancient. Some words you recognized, most you didn't. “Cho milis rium (So sweet to me),” he keens. “Mo uan milis, tha thu cho math. Cho umhail. (My sweet lamb, you're so good to me.)” His fingers piston into you without falter, curled to reach that sweet spot. You let out a broken sob, mewling into his ear. A shuddering breath is pressed against your shoulder, mumbles of ruin, broken in and soft in your ear. “So pretty– so good, fuck,” he lets out a breathy moan, a desperate, filthy thing. “Needed this– needed you, ‘n yer so sweet–”

He mouthed over your wound, hot breath coating your skin. Your eyes flutter shut, the sound of him fading in and out with your consciousness. He taps your thigh, insistent. Grounding. Your eyes open with warped focus, blurred, feeling something grinding into you– someone. Remmick had been rutting against you, peppering sloppy kisses along your jaw with blood-slickened lips. “Don’t go passin’ out on me, now. Need you nice n’– fuck, warm–” He was desperate, filthy words spewing from his tongue. “Need’ta fuck you. Tell me I can, don't stop me now, please.” his control wavered, slipping out of his grasp and coming undone over you. You nodded, and he swallowed dry. “Say it. C'mon, tell me.” he pleads with a languid grunt, the words rushed– as if shame burned his tongue in needing to beg you for it. “Need you,” you whisper, face flushed as warmth filled your head.

You don't know when you feel it. Maybe after the deep groan into the quiet, or the grip around your thigh, or maybe the first push– his hips sinking closer against you. Pressure. Filling you, holding you captive. It's slow at first– its release, before you feel it again, and again, and again. His cock pumping into you, those dark brown eyes shining slivers of red as he gapes at you. You writhe, whimpering soft. He hushes your small cries, his arms wrapping over you, hand cupping at the nape of your neck. It's enough for you to pull yourself from the haze, enough for you to cling to him. Heat builds in your tummy, and you clench around him, fervent. He moans into the shell of your ear, nothing but filthy squelching coating silence. Your nails bite into his back, digging into his shirt. Why does he still have that filthy thing on? You whine, fuckdrunk, and he notices with a huff of laughter. “I gotcha, sweet thing, fuck– I'll give’ya what’ya want.” he drawls, fucking into you with an unwavering pace. “Please, please–” He growls, a litany of filth spilling from his lips.

White brushes over and paints your vision, Remmick’s hips still snapping into you with fervor, wringing you dry of your orgasm and through the aftershocks of pleasure. Your hips fuck into the air, overstimulated. You weep, soft like silk. “Shh, s’okay. I can make it good, I promise, I'll make it so good.” he groans, greedy and debauched. He comes, pulling out and fucking slick and cum onto the sheets, like he didn't deserve to ruin you any further– to pump you full of sin. He sighs, his high settling as he brushes away tears from your eyes. The two of you pant into the open air, your skin sticky and glossed in sweat. A moment passes, a beat of silence, nothing but your sniffles before he returns. You hadn't even noticed he was gone. Something cold presses into your inner thigh, wet. It laves over your skin as your vision blurs, fighting sleep. “S’Alright. You can rest,” he assures, fingertips brushing over your navel. “You’ll see me again real soon.” The words etched into your consciousness as your vision blacked, exhaustion taking over you.

It’s only when you hear nails rake over the wood beside you do you startle awake, gasping a lungful. Your eyes dart around only to find yourself…in your room? Peering down at your chest, you half-expected bare skin, only to be covered in the same clothes you'd worn before. You scan the room, finding everything exactly how you had left it, except for two things– Your daddy's guitar posed in the corner of your room, leaning flush against the mahogany of the closet door. That, and your hatchet– buried deep into the cracked wood of your dresser. Your eyes roll over to where you'd heard the scratching in your sleep to see letters carved into the wood beneath the windowsill, forming a name. Donovan Greene.

Your jaw sets, lips pressed into a thin line as you toss your bed sheets aside, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed. You're thrown off by the sound of your mother hollering from the kitchen echoing into the narrow hallway, muffled by your bedroom door.

“Baby! Get up, you got work to do!”

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: little bit of angst summary: you meet your estranged best friend in college after 4 years. wc: 2.1k

previous part | masterlist. | part three

Finnick wasn’t expecting to see you.

Not really.

Sure, he saw your name on the new student list posted in the welcome center the day he moved in—buried somewhere in a sea of freshman names. He stared at it longer than he meant to. Just to be sure.

But it could’ve been a different girl. A different name. A different you.

He hadn’t let himself believe it. Not until move-in day.

You’d walked past him. A box in your arms, your brother a step ahead of you. And Finnick had felt it, something shift, something tilt, like gravity had realigned without his permission.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t blame you.

He hadn’t worn the sun necklace in years.

You used to call him that. The sun.

You were the moon—quiet, watchful, always glowing a little softer beside him. You said it once in sixth grade, late at night, curled up on a trampoline under a summer sky that never felt dark enough. “You’re the sun, Finnick. You’re bright and warm and everyone wants to be near you.”

He didn’t know how to tell you that he only ever felt like that when you were around.

You were the one who listened when he ranted about shark documentaries, who made up games on rainy days, who cried when his hamster died and brought him a dumb little sympathy card with a drawing of a little hamster with angel wings.

You were the one who stayed.

Until he didn’t.

Orientation felt like walking a tightrope in front of an audience that didn’t know what they were watching.

He’d almost convinced himself you wouldn’t be there.

And then you were.

Your voice was the same—a little softer than he remembered, but still enough to make his chest ache. He hadn’t even planned on speaking to you, but you were just there beside him, and suddenly he couldn’t not say something.

Your conversation was small. Awkward. Nothing like how it used to be.

But he felt the orbit pull, the old rhythm tugging at the edge of something ancient between you.

And he hated how easy it was to fall back into it. How fast his brain flooded with every version of you he used to know, Camp Half-Blood shirts, sunburned noses at the carnival, moonlight tangled in your hair on late walks home.

He hadn’t said everything he wanted to say.

He didn’t know how to say it.

He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to.

That night, after the welcome dinner, Finnick sat on the edge of his dorm bed with the sun necklace in his hand—the chain tangled from being shoved in a drawer for so long, the charm cool against his palm.

He didn’t wear it. Not yet.

But he didn’t put it away either.

Somewhere out there, the moon was walking the same campus as him. Breathing the same air. Maybe even thinking about him too.

And for the first time in a long time, Finnick let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t completely fallen out of your orbit.

Finnick showed up early to his first Monday morning English class.

Not because he was trying to be a good student—he was still figuring out how to use the campus bus system and ended up arriving twenty minutes early by accident. So he took a seat by the window, opened his laptop, and stared blankly at a Google Doc titled ENG101: Introduction to Critical Reading & Writing.

And then the door opened again.

He heard your voice before he saw you—something soft and polite to the professor as you walked in. And suddenly, the room got smaller.

Of course you were in this class. Of course.

Because the universe had a way of aligning paths that weren’t quite ready to cross, like the sun and moon, destined to orbit the same sky but never quite knowing how to share it.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

He could’ve stayed quiet. He could’ve looked away.

Instead...

“Hey,” he said.

You paused mid-step, eyes meeting his.

“…Hi.”

He nodded to the seat next to him before he could overthink it. “You can sit, if you want. Or not.”

A small, unreadable smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks.”

You sat down.

The professor started talking—something about the syllabus and the writing center and a short essay that nobody wanted to write...but Finnick could barely focus.

You were close enough for him to see the fray in your backpack strap. Close enough to catch the scent of your shampoo and your sweet smelling perfume.

After class, you packed up quickly.

Too quickly.

“Hey,” he said again, standing awkwardly beside his desk. “Do you- uh, do you have this class every Monday and Wednesday?”

You nodded. “Yeah. And Friday.”

“Right. Me too.”

Another pause.

“Cool,” you said.

It wasn’t cool. It was weird and stiff and full of things neither of you knew how to say yet.

But for now, it was something.

“See you Wednesday?” he asked.

You glanced back at him on your way out, and the smallest piece of you cracked open when you said, “Yeah, Finnick. See you.”

And just like that, he felt the orbit shift again.

Not enough to pull you back. But maybe…enough to bring you a little closer.

You were gone before he could say anything else.

Finnick stayed there a moment longer, watching the space you’d just occupied like it might still echo with your voice.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt like this, not in a sharp, ripping kind of way, but in the dull ache of something unfinished. Like reading a letter that cuts off mid-sentence.

You’d said his name. That had to mean something. Right?

He saw you again on Wednesday. Same seat. Same class.

This time, you said hi first.

And maybe that was all it was, a quiet, casual “Hey,” like classmates did, but it settled in his chest like warmth, like a memory trying to stretch back into the shape of something real.

You didn’t say much. Neither did he.

But you sat next to him again.

That was enough.

By Friday, Finnick stopped pretending he didn’t watch for you when you walked in. He’d half-smile, you’d half-smile back, and the silence between you started to feel a little less sharp.

Still, there were things he hadn’t asked.

Like whether you still read before bed. Whether you still hated strawberries. Whether you knew how many times he almost texted you and then deleted it all.

He caught himself writing your name in the margin of his notes, not in the weird, dramatic way a love-sick teenager might, just… absentmindedly. Like muscle memory.

He hadn’t even realized until he looked down and saw it in his own handwriting.

Your name. Like it had never really left.

That weekend, he sat on the floor of his dorm room with the sun necklace in his hand again. The chain was untangled now. He could wear it if he wanted.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he pressed it to his palm and let his eyes drift to the ceiling, where the light pooled soft and gold through the blinds.

He wondered if you ever still looked up at the night sky and thought about him. He wondered if you ever remembered the trampoline. If you still thought of him as the sun.

Because he never stopped thinking of you as the moon—steady and quiet and just out of reach.

Maybe this was how it began again.

Not with fireworks.

Just two people in the same class. Sitting side by side. Saying each other’s names like they hadn’t been missing for years.

Like maybe...slowly, carefully at least, the sun and moon were learning how to share the sky again.

Weeks passed like sunlight on water—rippling, blinking, easy to lose track of.

Classes blended together. Orientation events faded into background noise. Finnick started to find his rhythm—morning runs, black coffee he pretended to enjoy, half-focused study sessions in the library.

But always, you were there.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays meant English 101. Which meant you.

You still sat next to him. You still said his name. And some days, you stayed long enough to talk.

Not for long. Just a few minutes. Just enough time to say something about the reading, or joke about the TA’s overly detailed emails, or ask how his week was going.

Small things.

But they made the air around him feel just a little easier to breathe.

It was Friday after class when he asked.

You were standing outside under one of the big oak trees near the humanities building, scrolling your phone and sipping on an iced coffee.

The sunlight hit your hair just enough to make it glow.

And maybe it was too much. Maybe it was too soon.

But Finnick walked up anyway.

“Hey,” he said.

You looked up. You smiled, soft, a little caught off guard. “Hey.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, I was thinking…There’s this little coffee shop just off campus. Not the big chain one. This place called Drift.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “Drift?”

“Yeah. It’s quiet, kind of tucked behind the bookstore. I’ve been going there before class sometimes. Thought it might be...I don’t know. Nice.”

He almost bailed on the last word. Let it hang too long. But you didn’t look weirded out.

You just blinked once, then tilted your head.

“Are you asking me to go with you?”

He gave a small shrug, like he wasn’t dying inside. “Only if you want. Tomorrow morning?”

You didn’t answer right away.

For a second, he thought he misread everything—that maybe this was still too fragile, that maybe he should’ve kept orbiting at a safe distance.

But then you smiled. More than polite this time.

“Okay,” you said. “Tomorrow. What time?”

He tried not to sound too eager. “Nine?”

“Nine’s good.” You shifted your bag on your shoulder, already starting to turn. “See you then, Finnick.”

And just like that, you walked away, leaving him standing there, heart thudding a little too fast, blinking into the sunlight like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to change.

Not drastically. Not all at once.

But the phases were shifting. And tomorrow? Tomorrow felt like a new one.

Finnick woke up earlier than he meant to.

Not in a dramatic, nervous energy sort of way, at least that’s what he told himself, but in the way that came from too much tossing and turning the night before. His phone lit up: 7:42 a.m.

Still plenty of time.

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling.

He hadn’t done this in a long time—waited to see someone, not because he had to, not because it was expected, but because he wanted to. And not just anyone.

You.

He got up, showered, put on jeans and a hoodie—casual, not like it meant too much. Then changed the hoodie. Twice. Settled on one that wasn’t wrinkled and didn’t scream I thought too hard about this.

He considered wearing the sun necklace again.

Held it in his hand for a long moment.

But it still didn’t feel right. Not yet.

He left it on the desk.

8:53 a.m.

He got to Drift early. Of course he did.

It was quiet inside, warm wood-paneled walls, indie music playing softly in the background, and a barista who barely looked up when he walked in. The place smelled like cinnamon and espresso.

He ordered a drink. Something normal. Something to hold.

Picked a table near the window. One with two chairs.

Kept his phone on the table, face up.

9:02 a.m.

He kept watching the door. Every time it opened, something in his chest did that tight little lurch, like this might be it.

But it wasn’t.

Just another student. Just another couple. Just the barista coming out to clean the condiment station.

9:14 a.m.

He refreshed his messages. Nothing.

No “running late.” No “on my way.” No “sorry I can’t make it.”

He tried not to let it mean anything. Tried not to overthink.

Maybe you just overslept.

9:27 a.m.

Still no sign of you.

His coffee was half-empty. His phone was still silent.

He stared at your name in his contacts. Thumb hovering.

And then, finally, he tapped it. Called.

The line rang once.

Twice.

And then—

“The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

Finnick froze.

He pulled the phone away from his ear like it had stung him.

Stared at the screen.

Tried again.

Same result.

Number not in service.

The chair across from him sat empty.

The music played on.

People came and went.

And Finnick just sat there, surrounded by the smell of coffee and the hum of voices, with a phone that suddenly felt heavier in his hand than it had in years.

Like something had cracked. Quietly. Finally.

Because you said yes. You were supposed to show up.

And you didn’t.

[xprakzif]

𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙪𝙥 • m.sturniolo

the sequel to for the night

parings: matt x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT MDNI, bleeding(briefly), p in v, raw intercourse, kissing, foul language

summary: after matt’s ‘on night stand’, he’s haunted by the memory when he can’t escape her at a friends house.

“welcome, welcome! shoes off please”

the triplets had just arrived to larray’s house. nick brung them along to hang out and get to know eachother before they film a collab.

“this is nai!” he introduced nailea to the boys, she was sitting on the floor building what seemed to be a lego set, there was pieces scattered around and somethings already built as if she had help.

they exchanged greetings and introductions before having a seat on the long sofa.

“that’s cool, what is it?” chris joked to nailea, pointing to the pieces on the floor.

“it’s supposed to be flowers, we’re not finished” she replied.

“wow larri, i didn’t know you were artsy like that!” nick teased making chris giggle.

larray gave him a confused look, “i didn’t make that”

the boys stood lost, glancing at eachother. as if on cue, a creaking sound caught their attention.

“um, there might be blood on your bathroom floor from how many times i got scratched..”

there stood a wet cat in the arms of a girl.

no one recognized her, except matt.

this was the girl he met that night, the red lit room.

suddenly his cheeks tinted red, becoming flustered, embarrassed, and terrified all at once.

she wrapped the soaked feline in a towel, the article of clothing that she wore was awfully familiar. it was oversized and rolled up at the sleeves revealing small cuts on her hands and palms from basically wrestling the cat to bathe. underneath was a short white tank top paired with black shorts.

matt gulped, it was the flannel he left at the party. in the room. where they-

“oh, hi! nice to meet you guys, i’m y/n” she handed the irritated cat to larray, walking back to her place next to nailea on the floor.

they looked as if they finished a difficult puzzle, seeing it was her who accompanied nailea in building lego flowers.

the boys mentioned their names once again to introduce themselves to her. larray was in the background cooing at his fur-ball, letting the group settle in and become comfortable with one another.

“i swear matt has that same shirt, y/n” nick blurted gaining the center of attention.

she looked into matt’s eyes, they were feet apart but it felt like she was right in his face.

she recognized him, now she knew from where.

“i’m sure he does..” she smiled still locking eyes.

he shifted in his seat, a mix of embarrassment and shame. in his mind replayed that night. he shut out the voices surrounding him, focused on the vivid memory of being inside the girl who was just a few steps away. he felt his pants tighten.

chris smacked his chest making him flinch and nearly gasp as if he could read his mind.

“dude, hello?”

“huh- what?” matt replied.

“we’re asking if you’re hungry?” all eyes were on him. he scanned the room to see everyone waiting on his answer.

“i mean, yea i-i guess”

her gaze never left him, the acrylic nail on her thumb between her rows of teeth. she knew the effect she had, it only made her more excited.

they both lingered on each others skin for days. regretting not exchanging numbers, thinking it was only a one night thing. there was way more.

“alright, who’s coming?” nick was by the door with larray, ready to make a trip to mcdonald’s.

“me! me!” nailea leaped up singing her way to the door the collect her shoes.

“i’ll stay back, i’m actually enjoying this” y/n motioned toward the lego’s on the carpet.

“text me what you want!” nailea shouted, they began to walk out the door.

“you coming, matt?” chris asked peeking through the front door carefully not to let out the cats roaming about.

“nah, i- i’ll stay. just get me what i always get.”

chris nodded before shutting the front door. the sound of the group pulling off was heard vaguely, headlights shined across the curtains.

matt was watching until he felt the seat next to him move. she sat next to him, getting inches away from his face.

“hi,” she whispered, her legs bent under her body.

“hey” he responded with less confidence.

“matt..” he shuddered at the sound of his name in her voice, “i couldn’t stop thinking about you,”

her hand ran down his bicep to his, grasping it gently. his eyes watched every movement.

she was waiting for him to say something, anything. she didn’t want to look stupid trying to get to him when he only wanted to hook up for a night.

but that was far from it.

unexpectedly, their lips collided. he moved his hands to hold her face while she wrapped hers around his neck.

mouths moving at such a speed filled with passion and lust. their tongues collided and twirled around one another mixing their dna.

matt pulled away barley, “you know,” placing another kiss to her lips, “this looks way better on you than me,” tugging on his own flannel she wore, “but i’d like to see if off right now.”

she wasted no time in almost ripping off the fabric, tossing it over the sofa they were on. she layed backward pulling him down with her. both lips finding their way back to his.

matt’s phone buzzed in the pocket of his jeans, ignoring it too fulfilled in the moment.

he kissed down her neck, leaving wet marks down to her chest right where her heart was. lifting up the small shirt that barley reached her waist. underneath was bare, getting to work right away kissing all over her boobs, occasionally sucking on the soft skin.

randomly her phone buzzed loudly, causing them to jump. it didn’t stop there, she was receiving a call this time. he smirked at her frustration, mentally laughing remembering how last time it was his phone being blown up.

she reached over to the floor, it was nailea.

“hello?”

“y/n! we’re texting you guys, what do you want?”

“i’m actually not hungry-“

“me neither!” matt interrupted and snatched the phone from her hands ending the call, eager to continue.

she giggled, soon turning into a subtle moan as he continued nibbling at her flesh.

the heat in her skin tight shorts was killing her, so she pushed him back up and straddled his lap. his eyes grew slightly wide at the action but he obliged.

before doing so, she lifted her self to remove her shorts. beginning to unbutton his jeans and tugging for him to move, “y-you gonna ride me?” he smirked, a little too excited.

she nodded with her bottom lip bitten. in swift motion his pants along with his boxers were halfway down his thighs.

he was already rock solid from all the kissing, visibly throbbing. she took ahold of it and slid her panties to the side.

she ran his tip up and down her slippery folds preparing it for entrance.

he was groaning and whining at the feeling, eyes shutting and reopening as if he was falling asleep.

finally sinking down onto him they both let out a throaty moan. he let out a few curse words as she began grinding back and forth.

“i’ve missed you..” he whispered almost like a sigh.

“m-“ she couldn’t even speak, the pleasure building up from his long size hitting her spot with each push.

it felt so good to him, but he wanted more. his long fingers gripped her hips to hold her in place as he started fucking into her from below.

“matt!” she cried out.

he wanted to release so badly, knowing the others could be back any minute, he didn’t want to be interrupted.

his head was thrown back as he grunted with each hit. her mouth was open unable to make sound as she was on edge.

“s-so good, you gonna c-cum for me just like last time?”

“fuck- yes!” she almost screamed out. with that the burning sensation of him hitting her g-spot bloomed throughout her body during her high.

she was a trembling mess, moaning and gasping for air as he kept going to reach his. she leaned down and pressed her forehead against his.

“up- i’m gonna- fuck-“ he tried to move her but it was too good he couldn’t help himself. strings of white painted her walls as if they weren’t already slimy.

he panted his way to relaxation after moaning loudly riding his high. they stood still for a moment catching their breaths. both of their eyes opening to look at eachother.

“i really like you, matt” she whispered hesitantly. still unsure of his intentions.

“yea.. i like you too. i don’t think i can just do the ‘one night’ thing with you..” they smiled and felt relieved at the mutual feeling.

she placed a kiss to his lips then hopped off to clean herself in the bathroom.

she returned to find him all fixed up, now checking out the lego set her and nailea were attempting to make.

“stop! i know you’re making fun of me” picking up the flannel from the floor and putting it back on, “also you’re not getting this back!”

“good, i love it on you”

the front door opened revealing the crew with bags of food and drinks in their arms.

“we’re back! i know you guys said you weren’t hungry but we still got you some!” nailea mentioned placing the bags on the coffee table.

“you’re literally the best,” y/n added.

sounds of moist pattering came down the stairs.

“y/n! i thought you were blow drying her!”

larray held up the still damp cat. her eyes grew wide and matt blushed.

“i forgot! i can still do it- i was too busy um.. working on the lego flowers!” she lied to not raise suspicions as everyone began to eat.

“girl-“ larray walked over to check out the progress, which there wasn’t any, “you ain’t even do anything! and why does it smell like sex in here?!”

“it’s the wet cat” matt joked through a full mouth of fries, y/n hiding her laughter in the process while he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“i’ll get the blow dryer..”

LOWKEY wrote this fast

part 2 of “tell him” coming soonnnn also happy birthday to my bae larray <33

[felassan]

Edge – The Future of Interactive Entertainment magazine, issue #401 (October 2024 issue) – Dragon Age: The Veilguard story

The rest of this post is under a cut for length.

Update: this issue of this magazine is now available to buy from UK retailers today. it can be purchased online at [this link]. [Tweet from Edge Online] also, Kala found that a digital version of the magazine can be read at [this link].

This post is a word-for-word transcription of the full article on DA:TV in this issue of this magazine. DA:TV is the cover story of this issue. When transcribing, I tried to preserve as much of the formatting from the magazine as possible. Edge talked to BioWare devs for the creation of this article, so the article contains new quotes from the devs. the article is written by Jeremy Peel. There were no new screenshots or images from the game in the article. I also think that it contains a few lil bits of information that are new, like the bits on companions' availability and stumbling across the companions out and about on their own in the world e.g. finding Neve investigating an abduction case in Docktown.

tysm to @simpforsolas and their friend for kindly telling me about the article!!

-----

[image source]

Article introduction segment:

"[anecdote about Edge] We were reminded of this minuscule episode in Edge's history during the creation of this issue's cover story, in which we discuss the inspiration behind Dragon Age: The Veilguard with its creators at BioWare. Notably, director John Epler remembers the studio experimenting with a number of approaches during the early phase of development before eventually locking in to what the game was supposed to be all along, above all else: 'a single-player, story-focused RPG'. As you'd expect from BioWare, though, that was really just a starting point, as we discovered on p54." BioWare draws back the Veil and ushers us into a new Dragon Age

"BEHIND THE CURTAIN BioWare's first true RPG in age age is as streamlined and pacey as a dragon in flight. By Jeremy Peel Game Dragon Age: The Veilguard Developer BioWare Publisher EA Format PC, PS5, Xbox Series Origin Canada Release Autumn

The Dragon Age universe wasn't born from a big bang or the palm of an ancient god. Instead, it was created to solve a problem. BioWare was tired of battling Hasbro during the making of Baldur's Gate and Neverwinter Nights, and wanted a Dungeons & Dragons-like setting of its own. A small team was instructed to invent a new fantasy world in which the studio could continue its groundbreaking work in the field of western RPGs, free of constraints.

Well, almost free. BioWare's leaders mandated that the makers of this new world stick to Eurocentric fantasy, and include a fireball spell - since studio co-founder Ray Muzyka had a weakness for offensive magic.

Beyond that, BioWare’s storytellers were empowered to infuse Dragon Age with their own voices and influences, leaning away from D&D’s alignment chart and towards a moral grayness that left fans of A Song Of Ice And Fire feeling warm and cozy.

In the two decades since, the world of Thedas – rather infamously and amusingly, a shortening of ‘the Dragon Age setting’ that stuck – has taken on a distinct flavor. It’s something director John Epler believes is rooted in characters.

“There’s definitely some standard fantasy stuff in Dragon Age, but everything in the world, every force, is because of someone,” he says. “The idea is that every group and faction needs to be represented by a person – someone you can relate to. Big political forces are fine as background, but they don’t provide you with those interesting story moments.”

Dragon Age: The Veilguard bears out that philosophy. The long-awaited sequel was first announced with the subtitle Dreadwolf, in reference to its antagonist, Solas – an ancient elf who once stripped his people of immortality as punishment for betraying one of their own. In doing so, Solas created the Veil, the thin barrier through which wizards pull spirits and demons invade the waking world. In other words, many of Dragon Age’s defining features, from its downtrodden elves to the uneasy relationship between mages and a fearful church, can be traced right back to one character’s decision.

“The world exists as it does because of Solas,” Epler says. “He shaped the world because of the kind of character he was. That’s, to me, what makes Dragon Age so interesting. Everything can tie back to a person who to some degree thought they were doing the right thing.”

Perhaps BioWare’s greatest achievement in slowburn character development, Solas is a former companion, an unexploded bomb who sat in the starting party of Dragon Age: Inquisition, introverted and useful enough to get by without suspicion. Yet by the time credits rolled around on the Trespasser DLC, players were left in no doubt as to the threat he presented.

Determined to reverse the damage he once caused, the Dreadwolf intends to pull down the Veil, destroying Thedas as we know it in the process. The next Dragon Age game was always intended to be his story.

“We set that up at the end of Trespasser,” Epler says. “There was no world where we were ever going to say, ‘And now let’s go to something completely different.’ We wanted to pay off that promise.”

Yet almost everything else about the fourth Dragon Age appears to have been in flux at one time. In 2019, reporter Jason Schreier revealed that an early version, starring a group of spies pulling off heists in the Tevinter Imperium, had been cancelled two years prior. Most of its staff were apparently moved onto BioWare’s struggling Anthem, while a tiny team rebooted Dragon Age from scratch. That new game was said to experiment with live-service components.

“We tried a bunch of different ideas early on,” Epler says. “But the form The Veilguard has taken is, in a lot of ways, the form that we were always pushing towards. We were just trying different ways to get there. There was that moment where we really settled on, ‘This is a singleplayer, story-focused RPG – and that’s all it needs to be’”.

Epler imagines a block of marble, from which BioWare was attempting to carve an elephant – a character- and story-driven game. “We were chipping away, and sometimes it looked more like an elephant and sometimes it didn’t”, he says. “And then we eventually realized: ‘Just make an elephant’. When we got to that, it almost just took shape by itself.”

2014’s Dragon Age: Inquisition was an open-world game commonly criticized for a slow-paced starting area which distracted players from the thrust of the plot. The Veilguard, in contrast, is mission-based, constructed with tighter, bespoke environments designed around its main story and cast. “We wanted to build a crafted, curated experience for the player,” Epler says. “Pacing is important to us, and making sure that the story stays front and center.”

Epler is very proud of Inquisition, the game on which he graduated from cinematic designer to a lead role (for its DLC). “But one of the things that we ran into on that project was an absentee antagonist,” he says. “Corypheus showed up and then disappeared. You spent ten hours in the Hinterland doing sidequests, and there wasn’t that sense of urgency.”

This time, The Veilguard team wants you to constantly feel the sword of Damocles dangling above your head as you play – a sense that the end of the world is coming if you don’t act. “There’s still exploration – there’s still the ability to go into some of these larger spaces and go off the beaten path to do sidequests,” Epler says. “But there’s always something in the story propelling you and the action forward, and allowing you to make decisions with these characters where the stakes feel a lot more immediate and present. And also, honestly, more real.”

No sooner have you finished character creation than Dragon Age: The Veilguard thrusts you into a choice. As your protagonist, Rook, steps into focus on the doorstep of the seediest bar in town, you decide whether to threaten the owner for information or make a deal. Brawl or no, you’ll walk out minutes later with a lead: the location of a private investigator named Neve Gallus, who can help you track down Solas.

You proceed into Minrathous, the largest city in Thedas and capital of the Tevinter Imperium – a region only alluded to in other Dragon Age games. It’s a place built on the backs of slaves and great mages, resulting in tiered palaces and floating spires – a kind of architecture unimaginable to those in the southern nations.

“When your Dragon Age: Inquisition companion Dorian joins you in Orlais, in one of the biggest cities in Thedas, he mentions that it’s quaint and cute compared to Minrathous,” Corinne Busche, game director on The Veilguard, says. “That one bit of dialogue was our guiding principle on how to realize this city. It is sprawling. It is lived-in. Sometimes it’s grimy, sometimes it’s bougie. But it is expansive.”

Immediately, you can see the impact of BioWare’s decision to tighten its focus. Around every other corner in Minrathous is an exquisitely framed view, a level of spectacle you would never see in Inquisition, where resources were spread much more thinly. “When you know that you’re gonna be heading down a canyon or into this plaza where the buildings open up, you have those perfect spots to put a nice big temple of Andraste or a mage tower,” art director Matthew Rhodes says. “You get those opportunities to really hit that hard.”

BioWare’s intention is to make strong visual statements that deliver on decades of worldbuilding. “People who have a history with Dragon Age have thought about what Minrathous might be like,” Rhodes says. “We can never compete with their imagination, but we can aim for it like we’re shooting for the Moon.”

The people of Tevinter use magic as it if were electricity, as evidenced by the glowing sigils that adorn the dark buildings – street signs evoking Osaka’s riverfront or the LA of Blade Runner. They’re just one of the tricks BioWare’s art team uses to invite you to stop and take in the scene. “A lot of what you start to notice when you’re the artist who’s been working on these big, beautiful vistas and neat murals on the walls is how few players look up,” Rhodes says. “We design props and architecture that help lead the eyes.”

For the really dedicated shoegazers, BioWare has invested in ray-traced reflections, so that the neon signage can be appreciated in the puddles. There are also metal grates through which you can see the storm drains below. “The idea behind that is purely just to remind the player often of how stacked the city is,” Rhodes says. “Wherever you’re standing, there’s guaranteed to be more below you and above you.”

One of BioWare’s core creative principles for The Veilguard is to create a world that’s actually worth saving – somewhere you can imagine wanting to stick around in, once the crises of the main quest are over. To that end, the team has looked to ground its outlandish environments with elements of mundanity.

“A guy’s normal everyday life walking down the streets of this city is more spectacular than what the queen of Orlais is seeing, at least in terms of sheer scale," Rhodes says. “One of the things we’ve tried to strike a balance with is that this is actually still a place where people have to go to the market and buy bread, raise their kids, and try to make it. It’s a grand and magical city, but how do you get your horses from one place to the next? Where do you load the barrels for the tavern? It’s really fun to think of those things simultaneously.”

Normal life in Minrathous is not yours to behold for long, however. Within a couple of minutes of your arrival, the very air is ripped open like cheap drapes, and flaming demons clatter through the merchant carts that line the city streets. A terrible magical ritual, through which Solas intends to stitch together a new reality, has begun.

“We wanted the prologue to feel like the finale of any other game we’ve done,” Busche explains. “Where it puts you right into this media-res attack on a city and gets you really invested in the action and the story right away. When I think back to Inquisition, how the sky was literally tearing open – the impact of this ritual really makes that look like a minor inconvenience.”

Our hero is confronted by a Pride demon, imposing and armored as in previous games, yet accented by exposed, bright lines that seem to burst from its ribcage. “They are a creature of raw negative emotion,” Busche says. “So we wanted to actually incorporate that into their visual design with this glowing nervous system.”

When a pack of smaller demons blocks Rook’s route to the plaza where Neve was last seen, battle breaks out, and The Veilguard’s greatest divergence from previous Dragon Age games becomes apparent. Our rogue protagonist flits between targets up close and evades individual sword swings with precision. In the chaos, he swaps back and forth between blades and a bow. He blends light and heavy attacks, and takes advantage of any gap in the melee to charge up even bigger blows.

“Responsiveness was our first-and-foremost goal with this baseline layer of the combat system,” Busche says. Unless you’re activating a high-risk, high-reward ability such as a charged attack, any action can be animation-cancelled, allowing you to abort a sword swing and dive away if an enemy lunges too close. “We very much wanted you to feel like you exist in this space, as you’re going through these really crafted, hand-touched worlds,” Busche says. “That you’re on the ground in control of every action, every block, every dodge.” Anyone who’s ever bounced off a Soulslike needn’t worry: The Veilguard’s highly customizable difficulty settings enable you to loosen up parry windows if they prove too demanding.

Gone is the overhead tactical camera which, for some players, was a crucial point of connection between Dragon Age and the Baldur’s Gate games that came before, tapping into a lineage of thoughtful, tabletop-inspired combat. Epler points out that the camera’s prior inclusion had an enormous impact on where the game’s battles took place. “We actually had a mandate on Inquisition, which was, ‘Don’t fight inside,’” he says. “The amount of extra work on getting that tactical camera to work in a lot of those internal environments, it was very challenging.”

Gone, too, is the ability to steer your comrades directly. “On the experiential side, we wanted you to feel like you are Rook – you’re in this world, you’re really focused on your actions,” Busche says. “We very much wanted the companions to feel like they, as fully realized characters, are in control of their own actions. They make their own decisions. You, as the leader of this crew, can influence and direct and command them, but they are their own people.”

It's an idea with merit, albeit one that could be read as spin. “It’s not lost on me,” Busche says. “I will admit that, on paper, if you just read that you have no ability to control your companions, it might feel like something was taken away. But in our testing and validating with players, what we find is they’re more engaged than ever.”

There may be a couple of reasons for that. One is that Dragon Age’s newly dynamic action leaves little room for seconds spent swapping between perspectives. “This is a much higher actions-per-minute game,” Busche says. “It is more technically demanding on the player. So when we tried allowing you full control of your companions as well, what we’ve found is it wasn’t actually adding to the experience. In fact, in some ways it was detrimental, given the demanding nature of just controlling your own character.”

Then there’s The Veilguard’s own tactical layer, as described by BioWare. Though the fighting might be faster and lower, like a mana-fuelled sports scar, the studio is keen to stress that the pause button remains as important to the action as ever. This is, according to Busche, where the RPG depth shines through, as you evaluate the targets you’re facing and take their buffs into account: “Matching elemental types against weaknesses and resistances is a big key to success in this game.”

You pick between rogue, warrior and mage – each role later splitting again into deeper specialisms – and draw from a class-specific resource during fights. A rogue relies on Momentum, which is built up by avoiding damage and being highly aggressive, whereas a warrior is rewarded for blocking, parrying, and mitigating damage.

Those resources are then used on the ability wheel, which pauses the game and allows you to consider your options. The bottom quadrant of the wheel belongs to your character, and is where three primary abilities will be housed. “Rook will also have access to runes, which function as an ability, and a special ultimate ability,” Busche says. “So you’re bringing five distinct abilities with you into combat.”

The sections to the left and right of the wheel, meanwhile, are dedicated to your companions. Busche points to Lace Harding, the returning rogue from Inquisition, who is currently frozen mid-jump. “She is her own realized individual in this game. She’s got her own behaviors: how she prioritizes targets, whether she gets up close and draws aggro or stays farther back at range. But you’ll be able to direct her in combat by activating her abilities from the wheel.”

These abilities are complemented by positional options at the top of the wheel, where you can instruct your companions to focus their efforts on specific targets, either together or individually. Doing so will activate the various buffs, debuffs and damage enhancements inherent in their weapons and gear. “So,” Busche explains, “as you progress through the first two hours of the game, this full ability wheel is completely populated with a variety of options and different tactics that you can then string together.”

BioWare has leaned into combos. You might tell one companion to unleash a gravity-well effect that gathers enemies together, then have another slow time. Finally, you could drop an AOE attack on your clustered and slowed opponents, dealing maximum damage. The interface will let you know when an opportunity to blend two companion abilities emerges – moments BioWare has dubbed ‘combo detonations’.

“I like to think about this strategic layer to combat as a huddle,” Busche says, “where you’re figuring out how you want to handle the situation, based on the information you have on the encounter, and how you and your companions synergize together.”

Deeper into the game, as encounters get more challenging, Epler says we’ll be spending a lot of time making “very specific and very focused tactical decisions”. The proof will be in eating the Fereldan fluffy mackerel pudding, of course, but Busche insists this shift to fast action isn’t a simplification. “What really makes the combat system and indeed the extension into the progression system work is that pause-and-play tactical element that we know our players expect.”

The autonomy of The Veilguard’s companions doesn’t end with combat. BioWare’s data shows that in previous games players tended to stick with the same two or three beloved comrades during a playthrough. This time, however, you’ll be forced to mix your squad up at regular intervals.

“We do expect that players will have favorites they typically want to adventure with,” Busche says, “but sometimes certain companions will be mandatory.” Others may not always be available – part of the studio’s effort to convince with three-dimensional characters. “They do have a life outside of Rook, the main character,” Busche says.

"They'll fall in love with people in this world. They’ve had past experiences they’ll share with you if you allow them in and get close to them.”

Being separated from your companions, rather than collecting them all in a kind of stasis at camp, allows you to stumble across them unexpectedly. Busche describes an instance in which, while exploring the Docktown section of Minrathous, you might bump into Neve as she investigates an abduction case. “If I go and interact with her, I can actually stop what I’m doing, pick up her arc and adventure with her throughout her part of the story,” Busche says. “What’s interesting is that all of the companion arcs do ultimately tie back to the themes of the main critical path, but they also have their own unique challenges and villains, and take place over the course of many different intimate moments.”

Some parts of a companion’s quest arc involve combat, while others don’t. Some are made up of large and meaningful missions – as lavish and involved as those along the critical path. “While they are optional, I would be hesitant to call them side content in this game,” Busche says. If you choose not to engage with some of these companion-centered events, they’ll resolve on their own. “And it might have interesting implications.”

The Veilguard promises plenty of change, then, even as it picks up the threads of fan-favorite characters and deepens them, honoring the decades of worldbuilding that came before it. This is perhaps the enduring and alluring paradox of Dragon Age: a beloved series which has never had a direct and immediate sequel, nor a recurring protagonist. Instead, it’s been reinvented with each new entry.

“It’s a mixed blessing to some degree,” Epler says. “The upside is always that it gives us more room to experiment and to try new things. There are parts of the series that are common to every game: it’s always an RPG, it’s always about characters, and we always want to have that strategic tactical combat where you’re forced to make challenging decisions. But at the end of the day, I think what makes Dragon Age Dragon Age is that each one feels a little bit different.”"

Q&A Matthew Rhodes Art director

Q. Early BioWare RPGs were literary, with the emotions and detail mostly happening in dialogue boxes. How have you seen the studio's approach to visual storytelling evolve? A. This has been my entire career. When I first showed up at BioWare, it was at the tail end of Jade Empire, and then I was working on Dragon Age: Origins and early Mass Effect. The games had taken that next step out of sprites and 2D models, and it was like: 'How do we say more? How do we communicate more clearly?' During those early days, a lot of games depended on words to fix everything for you. As long as your character was talking bombastically, you could lend them everything that they needed. But as time went on it also became a visual medium, and it's been this long journey of trying to establish art's seat at the table. I've worked with some great writers over the years, and art is also an essential part of the storytelling. From Dragon Age: Inquisition on, I've been trying to stress with my teams that we are a story department.

Q. Is part of that also letting writers know that your storytelling assistance is available, to help them show rather than tell? A. On The Veilguard, that principle has been operating the best I've seen it. Where you would need a paragraph of dialogue in one of those exposition moments where a character just talks to you, we could sell that with a broken statue or a skeleton overgrown with vines. We've had more opportunities to do that on The Veilguard than most of the projects I've ever worked on combined.

To a hammer, every problem looks like a nail, and so in every department, writing will try to solve it with more words, and art will try to solve it with more art. I've bumped up against moments where it's like, 'As much as we could keep hammering on this design, I think this is actually an audio solution.' And then you take it to audio, and you don't get that overcooked feeling where each team is just trying to solve it in their silo. It's a really creatively charged kind of environment.

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Additional from throughout the article --

Image caption: “Spotlights shine down from the city guards’ base as they pursue you through the streets of Minrathous.”

Image caption: “While most of your companions can be sorted into comfortingly familiar RPG classes, The Veilguard introduces two new varieties: a Veil Jumper and a private investigator.”"

Image caption [on this Solas ritual concept art specifically]: “The name previously given to the game – Dreadwolf – was a direct reference to Solas. Your former companion, now on his own destructive mission, still features, despite the name change.”

Text in a side box:

"RATIONAL ANTHEM The hard lesson BioWare drew from Anthem was to play to its strengths. “We’re a studio that has always been built around digging deep on storytelling and roleplaying,” Epler says. “I’m proud of a lot of things on Anthem – I was on that project for a year and a half. But at the end of the day we were building a game focused on something we were not necessarily as proficient at. For me and for the team, the biggest lesson was to know what you’re good at and then double down on it. Don’t spread yourselves too thin. Don’t try to do a bunch of different things you don’t have the expertise to do. A lot of the people on this team came here to build a story-focused, singleplayer RPG."

Image caption: “In combat you no longer control your companions directly – this is a faster-paced form of fighting – but you are able to direct them in combat, and can even blend their abilities in ‘combo detonations’.”

Image caption: “You’ll be exploring new regions across Tevinter and beyond – Rivain is a certainty, and that’s only accessible via Antiva travelling overland.”

Image caption: “There are three specializations per character class; on the way to unlocking them you’ll acquire a range of abilities.”

Text in a side box:

"MEET YOUR MAKER “Full disclosure: Dragon Age has traditionally not done skin tones well, especially for people of color,” Busche says. “We wanted to do a make-good here.” In The Veilguard’s character creator, you can adjust the amount of melanin that comes through in the skin, as well as test various lighting scenarios to ensure your protagonist looks exactly as you intend in cutscenes. “Speaking of our first creative principle – be who you want to be – we really feel these are the kinds of features that unlock that for our players,” Busche says. “We want everyone to be able to see themselves in this game.” For the first time in the series, your body type is fully customizable too, with animations, armor and even romantic scenes reflecting your choices."

Image caption: “Your companions are a mix of old and new – Lace Harding is a familiar face. Veil Jumper Bellara is new, with a new occupation, while Davrin is a new face with a familiar profession – he’s a Warden.”

Image caption: "Arlathan Forest is home to the ruined city of the elves, now a place of wild magic, Veil Jumpers and (allegedly) spirits".

Image caption: "Bellara is driven by a desire to learn more about the elves, rediscovering the shattered history and magic of her people."

[source: Edge – The Future of Interactive Entertainment magazine, issue #401 (October 2024 issue) - it can be purchased online at [this link].]