#halo cut content

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

Artist Chanden Renard has "colorized" the cut ending for Halo 2 from the origin Halo 2 storyboards.

Source here. Apparently the art is several years old, but I hadn't seen it before, and it's really good.

[mvfm-25]

" Halo's incredible engine will allow for everything to take place all at once - mid-air dogfights, ground skirmishes, jeep races! "

Hyper Magazine n90 - April, 2001.

[halopedia]

Trivia Tuesday - Stalker

Did You Know that as part of the concepting process of the Elites for Halo: Combat Evolved, a monstrous enemy known as the "Stalker" was concepted? This creature would seemingly be held captive by the Covenant and used in combat roles.

[cut-content-contest]

Singing Mountain

"Singing Mountain" was a track that seems to have originally been intended to play in a cut dungeon, also likely known as Singing Mountain. It is also possible it was cut due to the song's similarity to a theme of the Studio Ghibli film Laputa: Castle in the Sky. It was added back into the game for an added area in the DS port, as well as all later ports.

multiplayer saber

It was a jet used in 1 mission, and it was a one-seater with machine guns, missiles, and a boost. It was meant to be brought into the multi-player/online, but, obviously, it was cut.

[b0tster]

this halo 2 mod that restores cut or otherwise removed content has a very interesting naming convention

[exopelagic]

i am now entering finals mode so very sorry i’m gonna be dead for approximately 12 days

[pucksandpower]

Under the Mistletoe

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando really wants you to kiss him under the mistletoe. Sounds normal enough, right? Wrong! So wrong

Warnings: 18+ content and description of an allergic reaction

The apartment is finally quiet. The muffled thrum of conversation and laughter that had filled every corner just hours ago has faded, leaving only the faint crackle of the fireplace in the living room. It smells like pine needles, spiced cider, and the faint citrus tang of your new body wash. You pad softly down the hallway in your slippers, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet.

“Lando?” You call, peeking into the dimly lit bedroom.

He’s there, of course, but the sight that greets you isn’t what you expect.

Lando is lying on his back, smack in the middle of the bed, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s wearing nothing. Absolutely nothing … except for a single, strategic adornment. Tied with what looks like a strip of red ribbon, a sprig of mistletoe dangles provocatively from his dick.

“Seriously?” You stop in the doorway, blinking. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Happy Christmas,” he says, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an invitation.” He tilts his head slightly, his curls a messy halo against the pillow. “You’ve got to kiss me.”

“Oh, I’ve got to, have I?” You fold your arms, biting back a smile.

“Under the mistletoe,” he clarifies, as if that makes it any less ridiculous. “It’s the rules. I don’t make them.”

“You absolutely made this up.”

Lando shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “Does it matter?”

You stand there for a moment, torn between amusement and disbelief. “You know, normal people just leave cookies for Santa. Not ���” You gesture vaguely at him, at the ribbon, at everything.

“Not everything has to be normal,” he says, his grin softening slightly. There’s something teasing in his tone, but there’s sincerity, too. “Come on, it’s Christmas. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it.”

There’s no point denying it. You do love him — ridiculous, over-the-top antics and all. With a sigh that’s more for show than anything else, you take a few steps closer to the bed.

“Alright,” you say, pretending to consider. “Where exactly am I supposed to kiss you? The mistletoe’s not even …” You trail off, waving a hand vaguely in the air.

Lando smirks, his eyes dancing. “Where do you think?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you say again, but you’re already climbing onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and Lando watches, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not protesting much,” he points out.

“Shut up.”

“You could have just stayed in the doorway, you know. Told me off or something. But no, here you are-”

“Lando,” you cut in, leaning over him.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Your lips are on his before he can say anything else, cutting off whatever smug reply he had planned. His hands slide instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him.

It’s not rushed. The night has been long, full of people and noise and obligations, and this moment feels like a welcome reprieve. Lando’s mouth is warm, insistent but unhurried, and you let yourself get lost in it for a while, your fingers tangling in his hair.

When you finally pull back, he looks up at you, flushed and grinning.

“Good start,” he says, his voice a little breathless.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Really?”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admits, his grin widening.

Shaking your head, you shift your attention downward. The ribbon, the mistletoe — it’s so absurd you have to laugh.

“Did you seriously tie this yourself?” You ask, running a finger lightly along the edge of the ribbon.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Fine, yes. Took me a solid twenty minutes, too. Those stupid YouTube tutorials make it look way easier than it is.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re still here.”

You meet his gaze, your laughter fading. The teasing, playful look in his eyes hasn’t disappeared, but there’s something else there now — something softer, more vulnerable. It’s the look he gets when he’s reminding you, without words, just how much you mean to him.

“Well,” you say quietly, “it is Christmas.”

“And you’ve got to follow the rules,” he murmurs.

“Right.”

The bed creaks slightly as you shift again, positioning yourself more comfortably. You lean down, pressing another kiss to his lips — gentler this time, more lingering. Then you trail kisses along his jaw, his collarbone, the faint dusting of freckles across his chest.

Lando lets out a soft, contented sigh, his hands finding your hips again. “You’re taking this very seriously,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

“Lucky me.”

You glance up at him briefly, smirking. “You’ve no idea.”

When you finally reach the ribbon, you pause, your lips hovering just above it. Lando’s breathing hitches slightly, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Merry Christmas, Lando,” you murmur.

“Best Christmas ever,” he replies, his voice low and fervent.

And then, with deliberate slowness, you kiss him under the mistletoe.

You pause for a beat, the mistletoe brushing lightly against your cheek. Lando’s breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling beneath you. He’s trying to stay still, but his fingers dig into your skin, betraying how much control he’s losing.

“You alright up there?” You ask, teasing, your voice low.

“You know I’m not,” he mutters, his words strained.

“Good.”

And with that, you continue. Deliberate. Unhurried. Every movement of your mouth is purposeful, every touch designed to unravel him. Lando groans, low and broken, the sound rumbling through the quiet room like a storm on the horizon.

“Fuck, you’re …” He cuts himself off, his head tipping back into the pillow. His hands flex against your hips, as if holding you steady is the only thing grounding him.

“Say it,” you murmur, barely pulling away for a second.

He glances down at you, his hazel eyes dark and glassy. “You’re killing me,” he manages, his voice hoarse.

You smile, the corners of your mouth curving just slightly before you return to your task. Lando’s hands slip from your shoulders, clutching the sheets instead. He’s completely undone now — his breathing ragged, his head thrown back, his body trembling beneath you.

“F-fuck … close,” he stammers, his words tumbling out like he’s barely holding them together.

You hum softly in acknowledgment, the vibration of it drawing a sharp, involuntary gasp from him. It’s all he can take.

He breaks.

A strangled sound escapes his throat as his body tenses, and you taste the telltale musky warmth on your tongue. You stay where you are for a moment, letting him ride out the high, his grip on the sheets going slack.

When it’s over, you pull back slowly, swallowing before wiping at the corner of your mouth. One drop clings stubbornly to your lip, and you swipe it away with your thumb, catching Lando’s hazy, satisfied gaze as you do.

“You alright there?” You ask softly, your tone light but full of affection.

“Barely,” he mutters, his voice thick. He exhales sharply, his chest still heaving as he lets his head fall to the side, watching you with a dazed grin. “You’re-”

“What?” You tilt your head innocently, wiping your hand on a tissue before tossing it onto the nightstand.

“Perfect,” he finishes, his voice soft and full of something deeper than just the moment.

You laugh quietly, crawling up the bed to lie beside him. He pulls you close immediately, one arm draped over your waist, the other brushing back a strand of hair from your face.

“Was this your master plan all along?” You tease, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Maybe,” he admits, still catching his breath.

“And?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

You roll your eyes but smile against his skin. “Merry Christmas, Lando.”

“Happy Christmas,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with exhaustion and contentment.

For a moment, neither of you says anything more. The only sound is the quiet crackle of the fire in the distance, and the world beyond the bedroom feels miles away.

Eventually, Lando breaks the silence. “So … same thing next year?”

You shove him playfully, laughing as his grin widens. “Go to sleep.”

And with him wrapped around you, the warmth of his love settling over you like a blanket, you do.

***

The morning light creeps through the curtains, warm and soft, a stark contrast to the frantic energy in the room. You stir awake first, stretching lazily until you feel Lando shift beside you, letting out a low, uncomfortable groan.

“Ugh,” he mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” You mumble sleepily, rolling over to look at him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just shifts again, his body stiff and tense. Then he sits up abruptly, wincing as if every movement hurts.

“Lando?” You ask, more alert now.

“It … hurts,” he says, glancing down at himself. “Like, bad.”

You follow his gaze, and that’s when you see it. The redness. The swelling.

“Oh my God,” you say, your voice shooting up an octave. You sit up fully, the sleepiness disappearing in an instant. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” He exclaims, his face a mixture of panic and embarrassment. “It was fine last night!”

“Well, it’s not fine now!” You scoot closer, carefully inspecting the irritated skin. It’s blotchy, bright red, and looks alarmingly angry.

“It’s swollen,” he groans.

“No kidding.”

“What do we do?” He asks, his voice bordering on frantic.

“First, calm down,” you say, though your own voice isn’t exactly steady. “Second … oh my God, Lando, do you think it’s the mistletoe?”

His eyes widen as the realization hits. “You think I’m allergic?”

“Do you have any idea where that stuff’s been stored? It’s probably coated in dust or pollen or something. Or-” Your voice catches. “Do you think you’ve always been allergic?”

“I’ve never, uh … put it on my cock before, so how would I know?”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, panic simmering between you.

“We need help,” Lando says finally.

“Like … a doctor?”

“No!” He yelps. “We’re not going to a doctor for this!”

“Then what-”

“Call Jon,” he blurts out, cutting you off.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. “Your performance coach?”

“Yeah! He knows, like, medical stuff. And he won’t make it weird.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow but grab your phone anyway, scrolling to Jon’s number. “Oh, this isn’t going to be awkward at all,” you mutter as it rings.

“Hello?” Jon answers, sounding far too chipper for the situation.

“Uh, hi, Jon,” you begin, exchanging a look with Lando. “It’s Y/N. Lando and I have … a bit of a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Jon asks, his voice immediately shifting to professional concern.

“Well …” You trail off, glancing at Lando, who gestures frantically for you to continue. “It’s kind of … personal.”

“Y/N,” Jon says patiently, “you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

You let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay, fine. Lando’s … area is swollen and covered in a rash.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“… Come again?” Jon finally says, and you can practically hear him trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny!” Lando shouts from the bed. “It’s serious!”

“Oh, it’s serious?” Jon repeats, his voice full of barely concealed amusement. “Alright. How did this happen?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “He … tied mistletoe to it last night.”

Jon doesn’t reply immediately, but the faint sound of him choking back laughter comes through the line.

“Can you help or not?” Lando snaps, his cheeks flushing red — whether from anger or embarrassment, you’re not sure.

“Okay, okay,” Jon says, his tone softening. “It’s probably an allergic reaction. Clean the area thoroughly, apply a topical antihistamine if you have one, and keep it elevated to reduce swelling.”

“Elevated?” You echo, frowning. “How are we supposed to-”

“Just do your best,” Jon says, clearly suppressing a laugh again. “And if it doesn’t improve in a few hours, you might need to, uh … consult a professional.”

“Thanks, Jon,” you say quickly, hanging up before Lando can yell again.

Lando groans, flopping back onto the bed. “This is the worst Christmas ever.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit from the bathroom. “Now, let me see.”

“This is humiliating,” he mutters, but he doesn’t resist as you sit beside him, carefully applying the ointment Jon suggested.

“Hold still,” you say gently, your touch careful.

He winces but doesn’t complain further, watching you with a mix of gratitude and lingering embarrassment. After a few minutes, the redness looks slightly less angry, though the swelling is still noticeable.

Once you’re done, you sit back with a sigh, your hands on your knees. “Well, that was a bonding experience.”

Lando lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, not exactly what I had planned.”

You glance at him, your lips twitching upward despite everything. “So … was it worth it?”

He grins, some of his usual confidence returning. “Next year, I’ll make sure to have an epipen ready.”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Next year, maybe let’s stick to normal traditions. Like cookies. Or matching pajamas.”

“We’ll see,” he says, smirking as he leans back against the pillows. “I’ve still got a whole year to think of something even better.”

“God help us all,” you mutter, but there’s affection in your voice.

And despite the chaos, as you settle back into bed beside him, you can’t help but think it’s still a Christmas to remember.

[johnpriceslamb]

arthur morgan + back shots🙏

suggestive content under the cut. MDNI.

The headboard of the bed banged onto the thin, hotel wall.

A rough, calloused hand muffled your mouth as his other hand grabs a fist full of your hair— practically forcing your back to be arched.

After a long train robbery, with Micah pulling at his last straws and the amount of people he had to deal with, this was his reward. The anger within him diminished into a small ball once he heard your shy, meek request in going to a hotel from the gang to have a break. What he didn’t know, was that soft laced matching set which delicately rested on your perfect figure.

“Yeah? Yeah? Feel that, sweetheart?” The hand which held the fistful of your hair travels down to where his cock shaped into you too well- the bump forming in your stomach reappearing each time he thrusted deeper into your tight, velvety walls. He presses his fingers down, hearing your muffled gasps and cries.

You sobbed into his hand when his hips slammed into yours multiple times, which lead to his fingers coming back to hold your hair to pull you back further into his touch. The tip of his drooling member reaching places you’ve never thought existed, pre-cum spilling.

The walls were thin, but so was his restraint in fucking you till you couldn’t think.

“What a— ffuu— What a real good girl you are,” he leans a down to grunt in your ear, gently nipping it. You unconsciously tighten around him at the praise, which lead to him deliciously groaning right in your ears. That sound alone could make you cum.

The bristles of his stubble graze your skin which made you softly whine. He peers down to admire your sweaty, sticky body only to bite his lip hard once seeing your plump ass. His hand travels down to roughly grab it, watching it bounce as his dick slams into you.

“Hnnn..” He grunts lowly, a slow smirk forming on his face as he feels your walls tighten. You were so close, too close. Drool escapes your mouth as his pace became slower, yet the everlasting thrusts become so much more harder. You could feel every vein on his cock drag. Your nails claw at the bedsheets below you. Finally, his hand leaves your mouth to place on both your hips to allow him to practically re-arrange your guts.

Your sweet moans were echoing throughout the walls, he ushers you to be quiet but it was far too difficult considering how he was handling you.

“P—please..” You babble incoherently, long lashes dripping with tears from the pleasure he’s giving you. You don’t have to finish your sentence because he knew all too well of what you needed. His fingers come below to find that sensitive bundle of flesh which was in need of attention, rubbing figure 8’s on it.

Your tight walls spasm around him, hands clenching on the bedsheets tightly with your doe-y eyes rolling backing— his other hand frantically grabbing your chin to turn your head around so he could see the expression etched on your delicate face. A series of cum coats his cock like a white rimmed halo, from that alone was your spend.

“Darlin’,” He kisses your cheek, “Where do i—”

“Inside,” You softly whimper, “Please, fill me.”

Whatever his baby girl wanted, she got. A few more rough slams and his climax came quickly, dripping inside of you. It filled you to the brim. Hot, wet, and sticky.

With just a few last pumps, the movement of his hips stop. He doesn’t remove it, rather he buries himself deeper inside your sensitive little hole. Any movement from him etched out a tiny whine.

A sleepy smile formed on your face as you watch his burly figure come into your vision. He handles you so delicately afterwards, watching his soaked fingers from the prepping he did beforehand cup your face to place a small kiss on your lips.

“Needed that.” He mumbles lowly.

“You’re welcome..” You quietly whisper back.

A moment of silence occurs.

His cock hardens inside you again.

<3

[velarisdusk]

Velvet Whispers, Midnight Truths

Eris x Reader, Azriel x Reader

<- part 1 word count: 9.6k content: [ explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV, eris does pull out!, casual sex, hurt/comfort, jealousy, unintentional ghosting after sex, avoidable misunderstandings ] summary: After Azriel vanishes on a mission the morning after your first night together, the silence between you grows unbearable. A reckless encounter with Eris in Autumn cuts deeper than intended. author's note: finally finally got around to this!! quite excited >:) thank u to these two lovely anons <3 <3 and thank u @halo-hanging for the beta read :D ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The memory stung more than you wanted to admit. It had been early morning when Azriel had slipped from the bed, his movements practiced and careful not to disturb you. His whispered explanation of a scouting mission had barely registered in your half-asleep haze, and by the time you’d stirred fully awake, he was already gone. No goodbye kiss, no lingering touch—just the faintest trace of him left in the sheets. You’d told yourself it was fine. That he’d come back, and everything would… shift. Settle. Finally align. 

Except it hadn’t.

When he returned a week later, you spotted him almost immediately. The heavy oak doors of the River House had swung open, and there he was, stepping through with his usual lethal grace, his shadows clinging to him like a second skin. Relief had surged through you, but instead of rushing to him, you’d chosen to wait. You’d stayed where you were, lingering near the wide windows in the sitting room, pretending to read while stealing glances toward the main hall. You wanted him to find you. Wanted him to seek you out. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he disappeared into Rhysand’s office for what felt like an eternity. When he emerged, his steps didn’t carry him to you. No, they carried him to Cassian and Feyre, who were chatting in the dining room. You could only listen as the tension from whatever mission he’d been on melted away with easy laughter. It wasn’t a hurried reunion—it was leisurely, calm. He didn’t look like a male in a rush to be anywhere. Least of all with you.

You’d waited until the knot in your chest grew unbearable before retreating to your room. Maybe he’d needed more time. Maybe he’d come to you later. But “later” had turned into another departure, another week, and still, no words had been exchanged between you. 

By the time he returned again—two weeks this time—you weren’t even there to see it. Your emissary duties had taken you to the Autumn Court. Beron’s pompous attitude grated on your nerves, but the work was important, and you were good at it. At least it kept your mind off him. For the most part. 

Your task with Beron had been routine: negotiations, discussions, nothing out of the ordinary. But as you left the meeting room, your feet carried you to the kennels. You weren’t sure why, only that the thought of seeing the hounds felt… grounding, in a strange way. The hounds, you told yourself. Definitely the hounds. 

That was when you saw him. 

Eris stood among the dogs, his polished appearance at odds with the unruly creatures surrounding him. The hounds bounded toward you the moment you stepped inside, tails wagging furiously, their excitement a stark contrast to your hesitant mood. Eris turned at the commotion, his golden-red hair catching the light, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to something softer when he realized it was you.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his usual cockiness evident, though there was a flicker of genuine warmth beneath it. “To what do I owe the pleasure, emissary?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the hounds’ boisterous antics interrupted, doing nothing to ease the anxiety knotting in your chest. Eris’s sharp whistle cut through the air like a blade, silencing them in an instant. 

“Out,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. They trotted out with military precision, their obedience almost unsettling. The space fell silent, save for the distant rustle of straw and the faint, earthy scent of hay carried on the cool air. Something about the way he held himself—the confidence, the control—made your spine tense. You tried to ignore it, but sharp eyes caught the way you stiffened. He didn’t miss the subtle change in your scent, either. 

“Careful, (y/n),” he murmured, a wicked smile curling at his lips. “You’re giving yourself away.”

Your denial was quick, but flimsy at best. “I came to see the hounds, Eris. That’s all.”

He tilted his head, studying you with a knowing look. “The hounds,” he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. He stepped closer, the hay crunching beneath his boots, and gestured toward the empty space where the dogs had just been. “Well, you’ve seen them. What now?”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “I… wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” His brow lifted, but his smile didn’t falter. “How rare.”

His teasing made your resolve waver, but you pressed on. “I need to… step away from this, Eris. From us.”

The smile vanished. For a moment, he said nothing, his sharp features unreadable. Then, as if savoring the words, he let out a low hum, laced with something between amusement and disbelief. “Step away, is it?”

Eris’s words hung in the air, heavy with challenge. His eyes—sharp, assessing—didn’t waver as he stepped closer, leaving only a sliver of space between you. 

You should leave. The sensible part of you screamed it, begged you to turn on your heel and go. But his scent—woodsmoke and something faintly spiced—clouded your judgement. Or maybe it wasn’t his scent at all. Maybe it was the knowing glint in his eyes, the cocky tilt of his mouth, daring you to deny what you wanted. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” you muttered, though the conviction in your voice wavered. 

“Maybe not,” Eris said, his tone maddeningly smooth, “but you are.” His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from your face, the lightest of touches that made your skin hum. He studied you in the silence that followed, his gaze dragging over every subtle shift in your expression. “If you’re going to leave, do it,” he said. But his voice softened on the next breath, low and knowing. “But don’t pretend you don’t want this one last time.”

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs as you stared up at him. His gaze was sharp as ever, the faintest flicker of amusement still lingering beneath the undeniable hunger. 

“You’re insufferable,” you said finally, the insult more breath than bite. 

“Mm.” He smiled, sharp and wicked. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away.”

The silence stretched between you, taut and expectant, before his gaze flicked toward the back of the kennel. Without another word, he turned, heading toward a pile of hay nestled in the farthest corner. You stayed rooted in place for a moment, watching as he crouched and ran a hand through the golden strands as if to inspect them. When he glanced over his shoulder at you, his expression was almost bored.

“Well?” he drawled, arching a brow. “Unless you’d rather the floor?”

You scowled but followed, your steps hesitant. The pile of hay looked clean enough, but still, your nose wrinkled as you neared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Eris turned, settling onto one knee as his lip curled into that smirk again. “You think I’d lay you in used hay?” His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, as though the mere suggestion was absurd. “I might be insufferable, but I’m not a brute.”

Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the way his eyes locked onto yours made the words falter. His hand extended, beckoning you forward with a confidence that left no room for doubt.

“You can’t winnow us somewhere less… rustic?” you muttered, even as your hand slipped into his. 

“And miss the chance to make this our grand finale?” Eris drawled, his lips curling into a sly, teasing smile. “No, this will make a far better story.”

When he guided you down beside him, the hay was softer than you expected, its faint scent of sun-dried grass mingling with smoky spice and a crackling fire. Eris leaned closer, his breath a soft caress against your ear as he murmured, “Clean enough for you?” he asked, his tone low, laced with that infuriating edge of mockery.

His voice rippled through you, and any complaint you might have made dissolved the moment his lips captured yours—firm and deliberate, each brush of his tongue commanding your focus entirely.

You breathed him in, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a confidence that left you reeling. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a teasing nip that sent a jolt of heat through you, and the low hum of satisfaction in his throat told you he’d felt it too.

“Still thinking about leaving?” he murmured against your mouth, his hands settling on your waist with an unyielding possessiveness that felt both infuriating and impossible to resist.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your chest heaving. “You think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

He smirked, that infuriatingly arrogant smirk. “Only because you prove me right every time.”

Before you could deliver the retort burning on your tongue, he shifted, guiding you to lie back against the hay with maddening ease. The golden strands cradled you, the faint crackle beneath you a reminder of how absurdly reckless this was—and yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

His fingers traced your jaw, trailing down the column of your throat with deliberate slowness. “You know,” he said, his voice like silk, “there’s a certain poetry to this, don’t you think?”

You raised a brow, feigning disinterest despite the way your pulse quickened under this touch. “Poetry?” Your fingers tugged at his collar, your knuckles brushing the smooth, pale skin of his neck.

He tilted his head, his smirk small but sharp. “Or maybe just irony.”

“Irony,” you repeated flatly. 

His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat, and his eyes flicked to yours, gleaming. “You, wrapped up in me. Here.”

A beat passed before you rolled your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks. “Only you could ruin this with your talking.”

That laugh that rumbled from him was low, molten. “Then stop me.”

Grabbing the lapels of his jacket, you tugged him down, crashing into a kiss that was nothing short of fierce. He met you with equal intensity, his hands steadying at your waist as if to ground you. The hay crinkled beneath you as you shifted, your grip tightening on his jacket before you pushed, rolling him onto his back. The surprised sound he made was swallowed by a chuckle as you followed, your thighs straddling his hips, pinning him down. 

The smug glint in his eyes as you settled atop him only spurred you on, your fingers threading into the fiery copper strands of his hair. You tugged, just enough to make his breath hitch, and his hands slide from your waist to your thighs, gripping with a firmness that set your skin aflame. Pressing further into the makeshift bed of hay, your breaths mingled between kisses that were nothing short of bruising.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you murmured against his lips, voice low and teasing though your own pulse raced. 

“And you aren’t?” he shot back, his voice roughened by desire, though his smirk faltered as you ground your hips down against his. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging in as if to keep himself tethered to some semblance of control. 

“Careful,” he warned, though there was no real menace in his tone—only the sharp edge of barely-held restraint. 

You leaned down, your mouth grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Make me.”

For a moment, his restraint seemed to snap, tension giving way to something raw and unapologetic. In one fluid motion, he reversed your positions, his strength evident in the ease with which he pinned you beneath him. Hay scattered around you, and the rough texture of it prickled against your back, but you barely noticed. His weight settled over you, his hands bracing on either side of your head, and his darkened gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that stole your breath. 

The world narrowed to the press of his body, the heat radiating from him, and the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare. 

“You look good like this,” he said, the gravel in his voice nothing short of smug. His weight pressed you into the hay, and though your wrists weren’t pinned, the way he leaned over you made escape seem impossible—not that you wanted one. 

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curled in a smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

His brow arched as if you’d just laid down another gauntlet. His grip on your hip tightened, the curve of his fingers possessive despite the casual tone. “I think I could.” His voice dipped lower, thoughtful. “And we both know you’ll be back—whatever this sudden need to end things is about.”

You shifted beneath him, deliberately dragging your knee up the inside of his thigh just to watch his composure slip. The sharp intake of breath was reward enough.

“That’s cute,” you said breezily. “But you’ve got hay in your hair.”

He laughed then, low and rough, as he looked at you with awe in his eyes. There was no hesitation, just a shift of his hands toward the edge of your dress. The fabric bunched beneath his fingers, and he didn’t bother with care as he tugged it upward, exposing your legs inch by inch.

You arched slightly, just enough to help him along, and his eyes tracked your every movement. There was no reverence in the way his hands skimmed your thighs, no tenderness in the way he worked the dress higher—only efficiency, only intent. 

Your hands weren’t idle either. You dragged them down his chest, nails catching briefly before reaching his belt. The buckle gave easily under your fingers, and you pulled at the leather with an impatience that matched his own. 

The dress tangled around your hips as he settled over you again, his weight pressing you into the hay. The rough texture was easy to ignore, however. Your focus narrowed to the feel of his hands and the sharp, heated pull of his mouth against yours. 

There was nothing gentle in the way you worked against each other, no lingering touches or soft gasps. Just the rustle of fabric and the scrape of hay as layers were peeled away with single-minded determination. 

His jacket hit the ground with a careless thud, and he made quick work of his sleeves, rolling them to his elbows before his hands were on you again. One skimmed up your thigh, firm and intent, while the other hooked into the neckline of your dress.

The fabric protested as he tugged it down, exposing bare skin to the cool autumn air. You exhaled sharply but didn’t stop your own hands, busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. The thin material parted beneath your fingers, the edges hanging loose as you shoved it aside just enough to splay your palms against his chest.

His mouth dropped to your neck, sharp and insistent, while your nails scraped down his torso. Every movement was quick, impatient—clothes pushed aside or pulled down just enough to clear the way,

There was nothing tender in the way his teeth grazed at your collarbone, nothing considerate about the way your fingers twisted in his hair to pull him closer. 

This was just how it always went between you. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. And it didn’t. Not really. That was what you told yourself—though it became harder to believe each time his touch lingered a moment too long.

Eris’s mouth only moved lower, lips dragging over the swell of your breasts, teeth catching just enough to make you gasp. He finally slipped a hand beneath the bunched fabric of your dress, fingers finding the thin fabric of your underwear and pulling it aside. You refused to look at him as he worked you over with maddening precision, fingers finding the spot he knew all too well. 

You bit down on a sharp sound as his thumb brushed over you in tight circles that had your hips bucking despite yourself. His laugh was soft, almost smug, as his mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw. 

“Thought so,” he muttered, and you had half a mind to shove him off you just for the audacity. But then his fingers curled, dragging another sharp gasp from your lips, and that thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, but if it bothered him, he didn’t let on—never had. He was focused, relentless, his pace unyielding until you were arching against him, his name slipping from your lips before you could stop it. 

It was only then that he pulled back, just enough for you to see his red, kiss-swollen lips in an infuriatingly satisfied smirk.

“Still think I’m cute?” he asked, his tone light, but the tension in his body betrayed the casual air he tried to keep. 

Your answer was a growled, “Shut up,” as you hooked your leg around him and dragged him back down. Your mouths clashed once more, the kiss all teeth and heat. His hand was braced against your hip now, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. His other hand worked between your bodies, undoing the rest of his belt and shoving at the fabric just enough to free himself. 

You felt him, hot and heavy against your inner thigh, and your lips curled against his when you reached between you. Wrapping your hand around him, you gave a tight tug, earning you a sharp intake of breath and a stifled groan that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight through you. 

“Don’t stop there,” he muttered against your lips, his voice edged with need. 

“Oh, I won’t.” Your tone was sweet as you stroked him again, slow and teasing just to watch the Prince of Autumn unravel beneath your touch. Eris’s hips twitched, his jaw tightening as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

One hand threaded through his silk-soft hair, tugging just enough to hear him groan. The other slid lower, guiding him into place. His hand moved to squeeze your thigh, holding you steady as he pressed forward, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs. 

It wasn’t slow—neither of you had ever been good at taking your time. A low, rumbling groan escaped him as he buried himself fully, his fingers digging into your leg as he drew back slightly and thrust again, setting a quick pace. 

There was nothing gentle in the way he moved, nothing careful in the way your lips attacked his neck. It was messy, frantic, and everything it had always been. He thrust again, the movement harsh and fast, and you couldn’t help the breathless gasp that tore from you. Your nails dug into his shoulders at the sounds of your bodies meeting, the frantic rhythm between you. 

Eris’s muscles flexed as he brushed his forehead against yours, and his words came in a low growl that sent your pulse racing. 

“You sure you don’t want this anymore?” His voice was thick with need, the edge in his tone unmistakable. He shifted his hips, pressing deeper as his lips trailed from your temple to your ear, from your jaw to your collarbone. “You don’t think about how good it is, how good we make each other feel?”

You bit back a moan, the heat building in your core as he fucked into you with relentless precision. You could feel the tension in his body, his restraint, but you could also feel the hunger—raw and desperate. The pull of his hips, the weight of his body above you, it was all consuming. 

You held his gaze as best as you could, the fire in your eyes matching the one you saw flickering in his. “Don’t make me laugh,” you managed to rasp out, hands sliding down his back to grip his ass, urging him closer. “This isn’t about feelings, Eris. You know that.”

He grinned, but it was feral, teeth flashing in the low light. “Is that so?” His pace didn’t slow—if anything, it picked up, and the change made your body jerk beneath him. “You keep saying that, but you keep coming back. You keep begging for it, same as me.”

You met him thrust for thrust, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the space between your heavy breaths. His name escaped your lips in a breathless moan, and the corners of his mouth curled into a dark, satisfied smile.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you want this.” 

“I want this,” you hissed, voice thick with need, and the satisfaction in his eyes deepened. 

His lips found your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Good girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. And in the next moment, he increased the pace, thrusting harder, drawing shamelessly loud gasps from your lips. 

Your back arched as you fought to catch your breath, his words unraveling you further. “I want you,” you choked out, your body responding to every sharp thrust with mounting urgency. “Fuck, I want you so bad.”

His lips found your neck again, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin there as he quickened his pace, forcing you to meet him with every sharp, punishing thrust. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the spot that made you shudder and gasp his name like a prayer. 

“Come on,” he urged, voice rough against your ear. “Let me feel you.” The coil in your core tightened, heat flooding through you as his fingers worked in tandem with his hips. 

“Eris,” you gasped, barely able to form the word as his name caught in your throat.

“Right here,” he growled, his lips brushing your jaw, his voice raw with need. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Now.”

His command tipped you over the edge. Your body tightened around him, pleasure crashing through you in waves that left you gasping and trembling beneath him, pulsing around him. The sound that tore from your throat was unrestrained, raw, as every nerve in your body seemed to ignite at once. 

He didn’t stop moving, riding out your climax as if to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. The smirk tugging at his lips was victorious, but there was something deeper in his eyes—a flicker of something that made your chest tighten before you could shove it aside. 

“Good girl,” he murmured again, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you fall apart beneath him. 

You barely had time to recover before his movements grew frenzied again, his control slipping as your body clenched around him. His head dropped to your shoulder as he thrust one final time, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. He pulled out in a rush, his release warm against the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the only sound the harsh rhythm of your breathing. 

And then, like it always did, reality began to creep back in. 

When you returned, the River House was silent, the darkened corridors empty, and you prayed to the Mother that it stayed that way. Each step was careful, your senses heightened as if the mere sound of your heartbeat would give you away. You moved through the halls like a shadow, avoiding the main staircase in favor of the back ones, the lingering scent of Eris on your skin and clothes enough to have you holding your breath. 

Once in your room, you locked the door behind you, your pulse finally beginning to slow. The shower was hot, almost scalding, as you scrubbed at your skin with a focus that bordered on obsessive. Soap, then lotion—anything to erase any lingering trace of him from your body. 

By the time you slipped into clean clothes, the thick scent of perfume clinging to your skin, you deemed yourself prepared. You straightened your shoulders, smoothed your hands over your sleeves, forced the tension from your face. And, noticing your soiled dress and underwear on the floor, buried them deep in your hamper.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

The walk back toward the grand staircase was steady, your destination set in your mind—Feyre, you thought. Surely she’d be in her studio or curled up somewhere with Nyx. That felt safe. Comfortable. Normal. 

But as you strode past the library, the low hum of voices stopped you in your tracks. You froze, the faint echo of a familiar cadence prickling along your senses. Azriel. 

Your pulse stuttered as you stepped closer, pressing yourself against the wall beside the door. His voice was muffled through the thick wood, but you could tell he wasn’t alone. 

“...and why shouldn’t I? You think she tells me everything?” That was Nesta, her voice sharp and unyielding. 

Azriel’s reply was quieter, a low rumble that barely carried through the wood, but it was tight—restrained. Whatever they were talking about had his temper on edge. 

You told yourself to keep walking. That whatever they were discussing wasn’t your concern. But… his shadows weren’t spilling into the hallway, weren’t warning him of your presence like you’d half-expected. 

“No right?” Nesta scoffed, and you could picture her now, sitting in one of those armchairs, spine straight, arms crossed. “I wasn’t aware she was yours to command.”

“She’s not–” His voice faltered, rough and uneven. Then, more forcefully, “That’s not the point.”

A heavy silence stretched, and you edged closer to the crack in the door, your breath caught in your throat. 

Nesta’s laugh was dry, almost mocking. “No, Azriel. That is exactly the point. You don’t want her to be with anyone else, but you’re too much of a coward to tell her to stay.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. 

“Well I didn’t tell her to go fuck other people, did I?” he ground out, his voice quieter now but no less tense. 

“No,” Nesta said, and her words were a whip crack in the stillness. “You didn’t tell her anything. Not after that night. What the hell do you expect her to do? Wait forever?”

The library went still, save for the faint crackle of the fire. 

Nesta didn’t wait for an answer. “You can’t blame her for trying to find someone who actually wants her.”

“They don’t want her, they want her body! And I never said I didn’t–” Azriel cut himself off, a sharp exhale filling the space between them. “I never said that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nesta said evenly. “Actions speak louder than words. Or in your case, inaction.”

There was no mistaking the fury that radiated from the library now. You could practically feel it bleeding through the door, but you couldn’t make yourself move. 

“Eris doesn’t deserve her,” Azriel finally said, his voice cold as stone. 

“I agree. But he’s there, and he’s made it clear what he wants. Unlike you.”

His footsteps echoed softly, pacing, before they stopped. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Nesta.”

“Nor did I ever ask you to,” she said, tone light but edged with steel. “But maybe you should explain yourself to her before it’s too late. If it isn’t already. I heard she was in Autumn today.”

Another silence followed, heavier this time, pressing against your ribs like a weight. 

You didn’t wait to hear his reply. Turning on your heel, you slipped down the hallway as quietly as you could, your pulse hammering in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or anger—or both—twisting in your chest as you hurried toward the stairs, desperate to put distance between yourself and that conversation. 

The week dragged by, a slow crawl of silence that you tried your best to ignore. After overhearing that conversation in the library, you told yourself you didn’t care. If Azriel wanted to avoid you, fine. Two could play that game.

You’d spent most of your days deliberately busy. Tasks that usually took an hour stretched into two or three as you found yourself obsessively focused on minute details. The work helped, even if it left you drained by the end of the day. It was easier than sitting still, easier than letting your mind wander back to the familiar hum of his voice murmuring through the door, or the way his shadows hadn’t so much as twitched when you’d linered just outside. 

At first, you thought he’d come to you. Surely, he’d realize how cold he’d been when he’d returned and not spoken to you—how his silence was as cutting as any sharp-edged blade. But as days turned to nights and the distance between you remained, your hope turned into something thornier. Resentment, perhaps. Bitterness. 

If he noticed your avoidance, he gave no indication. You made sure of it, slipping out of rooms the moment he entered, steering clear of shared spaces, timing your comings and goings perfectly. It felt childish, you knew that, but you weren’t going to be the one to break the stalemate.

Still, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where you thought you caught him watching you. When you’d laugh at something Cassian said, or linger too long in conversation with Rhys. You’d feel the faintest prickle of awareness, like his gaze was brushing against your skin, only to find him turned away when you looked. 

And at night, when the house was quiet and there was no one left to distract you, your thoughts inevitably circled back to Azriel. To the way he’d ignored you when he’d finally come back that afternoon. To the ghost of his scent lingering in Rhys’s office when you’d gone to discuss the standstill you remained at with Beron. To the unshakable feeling that you’d done something during your night together that turned him away entirely. 

It wasn’t just hurt that gnawed at you now, though. It was just the nagging curiosity of why. Why had he avoided you so thoroughly, not just after his mission, but even after you’d heard him in the library? What was keeping him from seeking you out, from addressing the sharp, growing rift between you?

The question twisted in your chest, unresolved and unspoken, as the week wore on. By the seventh day, your bitterness had hardened into quiet determination. If Azriel wasn’t going to come to you on his own, then you’d make him want it, and work for it. Let him stew in the silence he’d created. Let him wonder what you were thinking, what you were feeling. 

Because even though your heart ached to make the first move, your pride demanded otherwise. 

On the eighth day, the balance shifted. 

You’d been in the kitchen, slicing bread for your breakfast, when frustration finally bubbled over. The jar of preserve in your hands was stubborn, its lid refusing to budge no matter how hard you twisted.

You huffed, gripping the jar tighter as you braced it against the counter for better leverage. Still, the lid didn’t give. 

“Here.”

The deep voice, so close and unexpected, made you flinch. You hadn’t even heard him enter the room. Before you could protest, Azriel reached past you, plucking the jar from your hands. His fingers, long and sure, twisted the lid once. The seal popped with a soft, infuriating click. He held the open jar out to you with a straight face. But you knew better—knew him better. Beneath that practiced calm, he was undoubtedly biting back a smirk, emanating a smug and quiet assurance that he’d impressed you without even trying.

You met his gaze briefly, your expression cool, before taking the jar from him without a word. Setting it on the counter, you began spreading the preserve over your bread with a feigned intense focus. You didn’t hear him leave, but the weight of his presence shifted, his shadows curling away. All except one, which lurked in the doorway. With a sigh, you waved a quick hand through it and watched it dissipate like smoke in the air. 

It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Later that day, he tried again. 

You were at the flowerbeds, pulling stubborn weeds that had crept into the soil after the last storm. You heard him approach before you saw him, the soft crunch of boots on the path just loud enough to catch your attention—unexpected, coming from someone who usually moved without a sound.

Azriel crouched beside you, his wings folding neatly behind him as his shadows pooled at his feet.

“Need a hand?” he asked, his voice careful—too careful.

“I’ve got it,” you replied, keeping your focus on the weed in your grasp.

His eyes lingered on you, heavy with an unspoken question, but you didn’t offer him anything more. You didn’t even look at him. When he eventually stood and walked away, a pang of guilt twisted in your chest, but you buried it beneath the same resolve that had kept you away all week. 

Three days after that, the tension was palpable. 

Rhys winnowed you to the House of Wind at your request once you’d finished in the flowerbeds that day. Now, you were on your way to the training ring, your steps purposeful, when he appeared at the end of the hallway. He was leaning casually against the wall, but the tight set of his shoulders betrayed him. 

“Heading to train?” he asked as you drew closer. 

“Mhm.” You didn’t slow. 

“I could join you,” he offered, falling into step beside you.

“I don’t need a partner today,” you said, keeping your gaze ahead. “Thanks, though.”

The words were polite but dismissive, and you didn’t miss the flicker of frustration in his eyes as he slowed, letting you walk away without another word. Nor did you miss the shadow peeking through the door when Cassian joined you some minutes later. The faint shadow retreated, followed shortly by the sharp crash of what sounded like ceramic shattering inside. 

It became a rhythm—a dangerous, unspoken dance. 

Each attempt he made to close the distance between you, you met with calm indifference. Every small effort to bridge the silence, you countered with a measured response that kept him just far enough away. 

And as much as it pained you to keep him at arm’s length, you couldn’t deny the satisfaction in watching him falter, his control slipping as he struggled to understand the rules of the game you refused to explain. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The reports were endless. 

Azriel’s desk was a battlefield of parchment, the weight of correspondence from his network of spies pressing against his temples like a vice. Every time he completed one, three more seemed to take its place. Hours had passed unnoticed, the only signs of time’s passage the ache in his shoulders and the faint hum of the city below. 

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he pushed the papers aside and stood. Coffee. He needed coffee if he was going to finish this tonight. 

The halls of the House of Wind were silent as he made his way to the kitchen, newly purchased mug in hand. The cool stone beneath his bare feet was grounding, a relief against the tension coiling in his chest. But as he passed her door, his shadows stirred, rising like smoke around his shoulders, tugging insistently toward her room. 

He paused mid-step, jaw tightening. 

They’d been doing this for weeks now—restless, insistent, always leading him toward her. He didn’t need them to remind him where she was. He knew. He always knew. 

Still, the pull lingered, stronger tonight, their whispers curling in his ears. He stood there for a moment, staring at her door, his grip tightening around the mug in his hand. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Sure, there were her curt responses to his failed attempts at conversation, but that didn’t count. Not really. 

Azriel closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. The memory was as bitter as the now cold coffee awaiting him downstairs. He could still see her face that day, the cool indifference she’d leveled at him. And now? He could feel her icy distance in every glance, every word she refused to give him. 

It’s what you deserve.

The thought came unbidden, a sharp pang in his chest. He deserved worse, probably. For the things he thought, the conclusions he’d jumped to. For the way he’d avoided her instead of facing the storm head-on. 

The shadows tugged again, more insistent this time. His wings shifted in irritation as he shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Not tonight.”

They twisted at his ankles, reluctant to let him go, but he forced himself to move, stepping past her door without another glance. 

The kitchen was dimly lit, the faint hum of faelights casting a soft glow over the counters. Azriel barely had time to set his mug down before he noticed the figure rifling through the cabinets. Cassian, shirtless, with a grin so smug Azriel wanted to throw something at him. His hair was a mess, his chest littered with fresh hickeys. 

Cassian turned, two pastries in hand, and smirked. “Don’t start.”

Azriel sighed, moving to the coffee pot. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m fed.” Cassian leaned against the counter, clearly in no hurry to leave. “What’s your excuse for still being awake? Don’t tell me you’re still working.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, pouring his coffee in silence.

Cassian shrugged, still grinning. “Suit yourself. But if you’re going to spend all night brooding over reports again, maybe spare a thought for (y/n) before she leaves.”

That made Azriel take pause, his grip tightening on the mug. He turned slowly, shadows curling tighter around him. He had to force his hand to relax—this was the second mug he’d nearly crushed in as many days. “What do you mean, before she leaves? Where is she going?”

Cassian raised a brow, stuffing a bite of the pastry into his mouth. “Told me she was heading to Autumn tonight.”

Azriel’s shadows surged violently, a cold fury igniting in his chest. His voice was sharp, cutting through the kitchen’s quiet. “Why?”

Cassian swallowed before responding. “You didn’t know? Some spymaster you are.”

He didn’t stay to hear the rest, his coffee forgotten as he stormed toward her room. Azriel’s steps echoed through the hall, his shadows whipping violently around him. The calm he usually wore like armor had shattered, fury burning hot beneath his skin.

What the hell was she doing? She hadn’t told him she was leaving, hadn’t said a word. Not a glance, not a hint. Who the hell did she think she was? His shadows surged ahead of him, eager, insistent. He should have stopped, should have thought this through. But the image of her in the Autumn Court, of her with him… He could practically see it—she’d show up to the Forest House in the dead of night, meet him at some poorly illuminated side door, and he’d guide her inside with a hand far too low on her back. They’d speak in hushed voices all the way up…

It twisted in his chest like a knife. Eris. The name alone was enough to send a fresh wave of anger coursing through him—even without considering the history between Night and Autumn.

He didn’t knock.

The door slammed open, and there you were.

You froze, standing by the bed, your hands mid-motion as you smoothed down a deep red gown. You wore nothing but a black bra and matching underwear, the soft glow of the room’s faelight casting golden light over your skin. 

Your lips parted in shock, but you recovered quickly, your expression hardening into cool indifference. You straightened, your gaze cutting as you regarded him. “Do you mind?”

Azriel jerked his head to the side, his jaw clenching as he forced his focus on the wall. His wings flared behind him, agitation rippling through every inch of him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting dressed,” you replied smoothly, your tone infuriatingly calm as you turned to your wardrobe to find some shoes.

“You didn’t think to tell me you were leaving?” His voice was a growl, his shadows whipping around him in an erratic storm. “Not a word?”

Your hand stilled for just a moment, but you didn’t look at him as you resumed your task. “Why would I? It’s none of your concern.”

“None of my–” Azriel’s voice rose, the incredulity in his tone making you glance at him from the corner of your eye. He shook his head, the anger simmering in him threatening to boil over. “Do you have any idea how this looks? After everything?” His voice dropped, hard and cutting. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

You let out a soft scoff, picking up a pair of heels and setting them aside. “I’m not doing this,” you said coldly. 

“Fucking listen to me!” Azriel roared, the sound echoing through the room like a thunderclap. His chest heaved as he finally forced his eyes to you—lingering on bare skin for only a breath too long before snapping to your face. His fists clenched at his sides as he took a step forward, his wings twitching with barely contained frustration. “You’re not going, not tonight, not ever. And you sure as hell aren’t–” He cut himself off, his teeth gritting. “You’re not doing this.”

“Doing what, Azriel?” you challenged, your voice like ice.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His voice dropped, rough with anger, and you realized he couldn’t hold your gaze for long before his eyes flicked to the wall behind you. “You think you can just–”

“Oh, please,” you interrupted, your tone mocking as you strode to your bed and picked up the gown. “You’ve already seen far more of me than this. Face me like a real male, Azriel.”

His gaze snapped to yours, golden eyes narrowing in fury. “You really don’t get it, do you? You think you can just waltz in there and–” 

His words faltered when you lifted the dress, stepping into it. His chest tightened, but not from anger. The fabric slid over your hips and settled around your figure like it was made for you, clinging in all the places he didn’t want to notice.

“–and come and go from here as you please?” he forced himself to finish, though his tone lost some of its earlier edge.

You turned your back to him and gathered your hair. “If you’re going to stand there and yell at me, at least make yourself useful. Fasten this.”

Azriel hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze drawn to the smooth line of your back. His fingers twitched at his sides as the memory hit him—weeks ago, pressing his mouth to that very spot, dragging his tongue along your spine as he thrust into you. 

“Go on,” you prompted, your voice sharp enough to cut through his reverie. 

His jaw tightened, his shadows curling around his wrists. “No.” The word came out low, quiet, but final.

You turned your head, frowning over your shoulder. “No?”

He stepped closer, his wings shifting, his voice a low rasp of barely restrained anger as he gripped your shoulder and turned you to face him. “You can’t seriously expect me to tie you with a bow so you can look pretty when he tears into you.”

You blinked, your frown deepening as you searched his face. “I’m sorry, what?”

Azriel’s composure cracked, frustration and something sharper spilling into his words. “You’re not leaving this room, let alone this Court. You’re not going to Autumn. And you’re definitely not going to fuck Eris.”

The sheer audacity of it stole the breath from your lungs for a moment—but only a moment. The tension of the past weeks, every unspoken word, carried over through the poison in your tone.

“You’re right about one. I am leaving this room, I am leaving this Court, I am going to Autumn.” Your voice held steady. “But I’m not going for him. You think this is about him? That I’d go through all this to, what? To punish you? You don’t even know why I’m going, Azriel. You didn’t even ask.”

His jaw clenched, shadows writhing like smoke around his wrists. “Why would I? So you can tell me all the things he’s going to do to you?”

Your chest heaved as you sucked in a sharp breath. “No!”

“Then tell me.” His words were a growl, his gaze burning into yours, daring you to deny him. 

“Beron called for a fucking meeting in an hour,” you shot at him. “He’s got us by the balls with this godsdamned trade agreement, so I don’t really have a choice but to go.” You crossed your arms, shifting your weight. “Not that it even matters! You don’t get to stand there and act like you have any say in my choices just because we fucked one time.”

Azriel flinched, the words striking deeper than you’d intended—or maybe exactly as you had. His shadows recoiled, curling tightly around him, but his wings flared slightly, tension rippling through every line of his body. 

“You think that’s all this is to me?” His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “That you’re just another–” He broke off, shaking his head as though to banish the thought. 

“You’ve made it very clear that’s all it is,” you spat back, your voice kraken under the weight of the weeks of silence and thoughts unspoken. “So don’t you dare stand here and–”

“It’s not.” The words ripped from him like a confession, his golden eyes blazing as he stepped closer, the distance between you vanishing. “You think I could stand here and watch you leave—watch you walk into his arms—without wanting to burn that entire court to the ground?”

His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the weight of his admission hanging heavy between you, the room charged with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. But the anger bubbling beneath your skin boiled over at that, and you let it loose, the dam breaking. 

“Oh, don’t you dare try to play the victim here!” you snapped, your voice shaking with rage. “Do you even hear yourself? You think I want this? You think I wanted to be standing here, screaming at you, because you couldn’t be bothered to talk to me for over a fucking month?”

His eyes widened slightly, but you were too far gone to stop now. “I waited for you, Azriel. After you left, after everything that happened—I waited. Days. Weeks. I thought, surely, when you came back, you’d at least have the decency to fucking acknowledge me.” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to keep going, every word a sharp blade aimed at him. 

“I was home. You had to have known. I wasn’t hiding, if that’s what you think! I was waiting. For you! And what did you do? Nothing. Not a word. Didn’t even call out for me. But you had all the time in the world to talk to Feyre and Cassian, didn’t you? So don’t you dare stand here now and act like you care where I go or what I do, because clearly, you didn’t care enough to do anything when it actually mattered! Gods, we talked about this that very night!” you exclaimed, dragging a hand over your face in frustration. 

His jaw worked, the muscle ticking as though he was struggling to find words, but you didn’t let him. “And now, now, you want to burn courts to the ground? Where was this a month ago, Azriel? Where was it when I was waiting for you, wondering if it had all been some horrible mistake? If I’d done something wrong?”

Quietly, timidly, “No, you could never–”

“You don’t get to pick and choose when you care—you don’t get to swoop in now and act like I’m yours, when for weeks, you made damn sure I knew I wasn’t!”

Azriel’s lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, he looked like he’d been struck, your words hitting him harder than any blade raised against him. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands fisting at his sides before he dragged them through his hair. 

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice rough, like the words had to claw their way out. “I should have come to you. I should have said something the moment I got back.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you demanded, your anger unrelenting. “Why couldn’t you have just–”

“Because I was terrified,” he snapped, his voice rising enough to make your pulse stutter. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and unguarded. “I’ve never had this, whatever this is, with anyone. And I didn’t know how to… I didn’t want to ruin it.” He exhaled sharply, his wings shifting. “So I convinced myself I’d wait until I’d figured out the right thing to say, the right way to… to explain how I feel.”

Your brows furrowed, your anger giving way to confusion. “And that somehow took over a month?”

His jaw worked. “No. The day you got back from Autumn, I was going to talk to you. I’d made up my mind.” He hesitated, his expression hardening, though there was something broken in his voice when he said, “But then I walked toward your room and the closer I got, the more I fucking smelled him.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him. “You scented him and what? Assumed I brought him to Rhys and Feyre’s house to screw him?”

Azriel flinched, but he didn’t back down, his voice sharpening once again. “It was so strong; I couldn’t think. All I could imagine was him touching you, having you, and I–” He cut himself off, pacing a few steps before rounding back on you. “Did you?”

“Did I what?” you snapped, your voice dripping with exasperation.

“Did you fuck him that night?” His eyes bored into yours. 

The air between you crackled, thick with the weight of his questions. You inhaled sharply, your pulse hammering in your ears. 

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin defiantly. “I did.”

His breath hitched, a flicker of something indescribable passing over his face—hurt, anger, confusion—before his features hardened back into that mask of his. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious,” you bit out. “You want to know why? Because you weren’t there, Azriel! You left. For nearly a month, I heard nothing from you. Not a single word, not a single sign.”

“I was on a mission,” he shot back, his tone defensive, but his eyes betraying the storm within.

“And I don’t blame you for that,” you said. “But when you came back, you didn’t come to find me. You didn’t say anything. You left me waiting, wondering if any of it even mattered to you.”

“It mattered,” he said, his voice cracking, but you were too far gone to stop now. 

“So yeah,” your voice trembled with anger and pain. “I slept with him. Because at least he didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t worth the effort. At least he didn’t make me feel like I was nothing.”

Azriel reeled, the shadows around him seeming to droop. His wings shifted restlessly. “I did come to you,” he muttered, so quiet you almost missed it. 

“What?” you demanded, brows furrowing. 

His gaze flicked to yours, a flash of guilt shadowing his features. “When I scented him… I went into your room.”

Your jaw dropped, a combination of fury and disbelief coursing through you. “You went into my room? What the fuck, Azriel?”

“I thought he was there,” he said defensively, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought—I thought he was there, with you.”

“Well, he wasn’t!”

“I know that now! I barged in, ready to…” He trailed off with a sigh. “But he wasn’t. And you were in the bath. So I left.”

“You didn’t think to, what? Knock? Speak to me?”

“I couldn’t. Not when I was ready to tear him apart for even thinking about touching you,” he admitted, his voice tight, his shadows twisting violently. Some darted forward, flickering toward you, before he sharply reined them back. “I stormed past the library and Nesta…” He paused, rolling his neck. “She called out to me, asked what had me so worked up.”

You realized this must have been the conversation you’d partially overheard, but you gave no indication. “And?” You asked him, eyes narrowed. 

��And I asked her if she knew you were still seeing Eris,” he said, his voice self-loathing now. “Because clearly, that’s what it seemed like you were doing.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t tell her everything, Azriel, for the love of the Mother–”

“I know,” he interjected. “I already heard it from her, I don’t need it again. I know how it sounds now, but at the time, it felt… justified.” His gaze met yours, blazing with intensity. “The idea of him anywhere near you, let alone touching you…” He trailed off, shaking his head. 

You stared at him, caught between wanting to scream and laugh. “So let me get this straight. You thought Eris was with me, and instead of asking me, you stormed into my room? Then asked Nesta?”

His mouth opened as if to argue, but then he closed it again, exhaling heavily. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, his wings drooping slightly in defeat. “Yes, I did. I barged into your room that night. I had to know if he’d been with you. If I’d…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “If I’d lost you.”

Your eyes widened again, but the understanding of his actions sent a pang through your chest. Not anger, but a deep, aching sadness. “And?” you prompted once again, softer this time. 

Azriel’s gaze lifted, his eyes locking with yours. “And I realized it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d still want you. Even if it killed me.”

You reached a hand out, your fingers tightening around his arm as the weight of his words crashed over you. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the tension and longing neither of you could suppress any longer. 

“What am I supposed to do with that, Azriel?” you asked, your voice trembling, tears threatening to spill. “What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

He stepped closer, his hand lifting hesitantly before it cupped your cheek, his touch featherlight. “Let me prove it,” he murmured, his voice a quiet rasp before he cleared his throat. “Let me prove I’m not going to lose you again.”

For a moment, you stood frozen, caught between the anger that still simmered somewhere deep inside you and the pull of the male standing before you, raw and open in a way you’d never seen before. And then, slowly, you leaned into his touch, letting yourself believe that maybe he was telling the truth. 

Azriel’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free. The tenderness in the gesture only made your chest ache more fiercely, a tangled knot of emotions you couldn’t begin to unravel. 

“You think you can just say that and fix everything?” you whispered, your voice breaking recalling your conversation at the family dinner. “We already–”

His hand trembled slightly, the only betrayal of the storm of emotions raging behind his steady gaze. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t expect that. I know it’ll take more than words. More than this.” His thumb stilled, his hand falling away, leaving your skin cold in its absence. “But I’ll spend every day proving it to you if you let me. I’ll fight for you, even if you never let me close again.”

You took a breath, a sob threatening to escape before you swallowed it down. The sincerity in his words tore at you, but the weight of your pain and anger still held you firmly in place. 

“What if I don’t know how to let you back in?” you asked, barely audible. “What if I’m too scared to even try?”

His expression softened, the hard lines of his jaw at last easing. “Then I’ll wait,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering. “As long as it takes. I’ll wait for you to be ready, even if it’s years. Even if it’s never.”

You couldn’t stop the tears this time, couldn’t stop the way his words cracked something open inside of you. It wasn’t fair—this male who had shattered you offering to piece you back together again. But there was something in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen in so long: hope.

And it scared you as much as it comforted you. 

“I don’t know where to start,” you finally said, your voice barely audible. 

Azriel’s lips curved into the faintest, softest smile. “Then let me.”

And, with infinite gentleness, he reached for your hand, his scarred fingers brushing against yours, tentative and warm. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him thread his fingers through yours, his touch grounding you even as your heart threatened to break free of your chest. 

His fingers brushed yours, tentative, and for a moment, all the noise in you stilled. Not in resolution, not in some grand, sweeping relief—just quiet. Heavy and unyielding, like the space between breaths. You didn’t reach for him, and he didn’t push. You stayed there, caught in a fragile uneasy balance, and for now, it was all either of you could offer. 

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

Want more to read? Check out my masterlists.

[w4ndal0ver]

Good Old Fashioned Lover Girl (rockstar!agatha x fan!reader)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: rockstar!daddy!agatha x fan!sub!reader

summary: You find yourself in the bed of the one and only Agatha Harkness, the lead singer of your all time favourite band.

content warnings: drug use in build up, shameful daddy kink, gagging, slapping, praise and degradation, slut shaming, spit play, fingering, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, choking, strap sex, throat fucking, spanking (minimal), power imbalance considering reader is a fan, only read if you wanna be railed by rockstar agatha

word count: 10k, sorry but it is shameful smut, I'm ovulating <3

You could hardly believe the night you’d had as you walked the streets alone at midnight. The concert you’d just been to was the best you’d ever been to, the lights blazing hot and harsh against the smoke that filled the room, neon halos on top of each member of the band's head. The Coven had been your favourite band for years, so when you found yourself in the middle of the heaving crowd, your brain half-euphoric, you could hardly believe who was standing in front of you. 

Agatha Harkness stood centre stage, as she always did, owning the space with the kind of effortless power that seemed too raw, too real to be anything but magic. The Coven had made a name for themselves in the music industry, their sound something darker, more visceral than any other you’d heard and at the heart of it was her. 

She was wearing another version of the same outfit she always wore, her hair wild and untamed, nothing but a black headband around her forehead. She didn’t just sing, she commanded, snarling lyrics into the mic that she grasped with such intensity. Her voice had a honey gravel to it, carrying a rough edge that cut right through you. 

After a while, your brain still awestruck as you found yourself at the doors of a dive bar not too far from the venue. This place looked like it had been standing here forever, soaked in beer from the outside, and stale smoke encompassing the inside. The wallpaper was peeling, faded posters from bands that had long since faded away hung over the top. 

The bar was small and dimly lit, just a few lowlights casting a dull amber glow over worn out tables and booths. A jukebox sat in the corner, glowing softly, though it was clear nobody had bothered to feed it quarters in a long time. Behind the bar, a bored looking man with a cigarette between his fingers was polishing glasses with a rag that looked as though it might be dirtier than the glasses themselves. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, cigarettes, and spilled whiskey, mixed with the indefinable mustiness that clung to the room. 

In one corner, a small group of regulars huddled over their drinks, murmuring quietly to each other, their faces shadowed and weathered. So you decide to slide onto a stool at the bar, ordering a drink and letting the strange, comforting grime of the place settle around you. It wasn’t at all glamorous, but it was real, a welcome change from the chaos of the concert. The drink was cheap, but strong, and as you took a sip the buzzing in your brain started again. You’d taken everything you had at the concert but now you looked around eagerly in an attempt to see anyone doing any type of drug that you could befriend just to continue your high. 

That was when you saw her. 

You didn’t think it would happen, nowhere near a place like this, a dive tucked away from the spotlight, a world removed from the stage. But there she was: Agatha, who took centre stage even here, as if the universe had conspired this moment itself. She was perched on the edge of a booth in the corner, surrounded by a shifting circle of friends, hangers-on, industry types, all vying for her attention as she leaned back, one arm slung over the seat like she owned the entire bar. 

A glass dangled from her fingers, half filled with something dark, and her other held a cigarette, a thin wisp of smoke curling up toward the ceiling. She looked utterly magnetic, her hair still tousled from the stage, her eyes sharp as she surveyed the room through half lidded eyes. You couldn’t help staring, even though you knew you should look away. You could see the way her eyes flickered to the small folded up bill tucked in the palm of her hand. It was all too subtle, like a well worn habit, but you noticed. She unrolled it slowly, taking the time to expertly cut the line on the table, the sharp scent of it lingering in the air to you even from across the room. 

You zip up your jacket, hiding the Coven logo branded across your chest, but you feel your gaze stray back to her again and again, like a pull that you couldn’t resist. She seemed to glow in the low, smoky light. You watched her lean forward slightly, legs still spread, the sharp click on the lighter cutting through the noise as she held up the rolled up bill to her nose, inhaling deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a brief moment of bliss, before she straightened back up, licking her lips with a satisfied smile. Even in this rough dimly lit bar, she looked untouchable, like she could have the entire world if she wanted it. 

As she looked up again, her eyes met yours across the room and you felt your face go warm, the thrill and panic hitting all at once, as if you’d been laid bare under her piercing gaze. You quickly looked down, pretending to focus on your drink, and took a long, shaky sip, hoping to drown the strange tension in your chest. Even as you stared at the scratched surface of the bar, you could feel her eyes on you, lingering like heat on your skin. You laughed at your situation, before downing the rest of your drink, slamming the empty glass against the bar and waving at the bartender once more. 

“Whiskey, rocks.” You say, but somehow, impossibly, she was there beside you, moving so smoothly that you didn’t realise it until she was close enough that you could feel her presence, like a dark star drawing you into her orbit. You felt one of her hands pressed firmly against the small of your back, a strong, grounding touch that made you catch your breath, while the other reached up to signal to the bartender. 

“All her drinks are on my tab.” She drawled, her voice rich and low, a quiet command that made it clear she was used to getting what she wanted. 

“You don’t have to do that.” You protest, swallowing deeply at the way her fingers pressed just a little too hard into your back, possessive in a way that made your pulse race. She turned toward you, and there was a smirk playing at the corner of her lips, a knowing glint in her eye.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening, clearly amused by your protest. “Oh, but I insist,” she murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath grazed your cheek, warm and tinged with whiskey and something sweeter. “It’s the least I can do for a fan.” Her gaze flickered down, lingering on the way you fidgeted with the hem of your jacket, the subtle nerves you were trying so hard to mask.

“Fan? Who says I’m a fan?” You tried for nonchalance, but the way her hand lingered against your back made it hard to focus, like she was rooting you in place with the barest of touches.

Agatha chuckled, a low, velvet sound that seemed to resonate through you. “Don’t play coy,” she teased, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and challenge. “It’s adorable, but it doesn’t suit you.” Her gaze slipped down your form, slowly, her eyes dragging over every detail. Her fingers pressed a little harder, her thumb tracing a lazy circle over the small of your back, sending a shiver up your spine.

You tried to play it cool, shrugging one shoulder, but your heart was pounding. “I didn’t realise you were so charitable,” you shot back, lifting your glass and taking a steadying sip, hoping the whiskey would help ground you, help steady the thrill building in your chest.

She laughed softly, a flash of teeth in that knowing smirk of hers. “Only to the ones who catch my eye,” she replied, her voice dipped in honey, slow and deliberate. She let her gaze linger on you a beat too long, making her meaning unmistakable. “And you, well you’ve been looking at me all night, haven’t you?”

You felt your cheeks flush, caught off guard by her directness. “Maybe,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made it impossible to keep up the facade. “Or maybe you’re just used to people looking.”

“True,” she admitted with a shrug, her hand sliding from your back to the bar beside you, her presence enveloping you as she leaned in. Her face was close, her voice barely a murmur. “But I don’t usually notice them.” She let that hang in the air, a faint smirk playing at her lips as her eyes drifted down to your mouth, just for a heartbeat, before flicking back to meet your gaze. 

The air between you was thick, electric, and you had to steady yourself, gripping your glass tighter. “So what’s someone like you doing in a place like this?” you asked, tipping your head toward the dive bar’s worn booths and the crowd that was beginning to dissipate, leaving the two of you in a quiet, unspoken bubble.

She shrugged, glancing around with a lazy, amused smile, as though the place were her personal playground. “I like the grime,” she said, her fingers idly tapping the bar. “It’s real. Cuts through the polish.” She tilted her head, studying you like you were part of her scenery, something curious and worth examining. “Besides,” she added, “I thought I’d find something interesting here tonight.”

“Something interesting?” you echoed, and she nodded, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Or maybe,” she purred, her voice soft and edged with challenge, “someone interesting.”

She was close enough now that you could feel the faint warmth of her skin, smell the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with smoke. You swallowed, barely able to hold her gaze, feeling like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling. She reached for her own drink, her fingers brushing against yours for just a moment, her touch electric.

“Come sit with me,” she said, tipping her head toward the booth in the corner where a glass, a small mirror, and a familiar rolled-up bill waited. Her invitation was as much a challenge as it was a command.

Your breath caught as she turned, her fingers slipping from your back in a way that left you feeling almost cold without her touch. But you didn’t hesitate. Her gaze stayed locked on you, even as she made her way to the booth, the air between you thick with anticipation. You could feel every eye in the bar turn as you followed her, but Agatha walked as if she was born to be watched. Heads turned; glances lingered, but she was utterly unfazed, her attention fully on you as she slid into the dark leather seat.

The booth was tucked in a shadowy corner, half hidden from the rest of the bar. You slid in across from her, feeling the cracked leather beneath your fingers as you settled in. She leaned back, one arm draped casually along the booth’s edge, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm as she watched you. The tension in the air thickened, like a coiled spring, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were in a game you didn’t quite know the rules to.

She reached for the mirror on the table, her movements smooth, practised, almost mesmerising. With a practised flick of her wrist, she cut a line, her fingers graceful and sure. She caught your gaze as she leaned down, taking her time, her eyes glinting with something wild as she inhaled. The scene felt surreal, like you were suspended between reality and some hazy dream, the sounds of the bar fading as she lifted her head, exhaling with a slow smile.

“You want one?” she asked, gesturing to the mirror, her voice low and edged with mischief.

You hesitated for a beat, but then nodded, feeling the adrenaline humming in your veins. You weren’t about to back down now, not with her eyes fixed on you like that, daring you to take the plunge. She slid the mirror toward you, a hint of approval in her gaze as you leaned forward, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You took the line, feeling the sharp rush as it coursed through you, heightening everything, the smoky lights, the hum of the bar, the way her gaze seemed to burn into you.

“Not bad,” she murmured, her smirk widening, clearly satisfied as she watched you settle back, your senses tingling from the rush.

Conversation drifted between you, each exchange a slow burn, full of glances that lingered too long, subtle touches that seemed to spark against your skin. Her fingers grazed yours as she reached for her drink, her knee pressing against yours under the table, each point of contact like a flicker of static. The intensity in her gaze never wavered, her eyes dancing with amusement every time you tried to play it cool.

At some point, her hand slipped over yours on the table, her fingers tracing lazy circles along your knuckles, the touch so subtle it was almost maddening. You could feel yourself leaning closer, caught up in the gravitational pull between you, until her face was inches from yours. Her thumb brushed over your hand, her eyes flicking down to your mouth, and you barely had a second to react before she closed the space between you, her lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was fierce, almost desperate, her mouth hot and demanding, like she’d been holding back until now. You felt a rush of vulnerability, exposed and yet anchored by her touch. Her fingers tightened over yours as she deepened the kiss, her other hand sliding to the back of your neck, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head backwards as she took your bottom lip between your teeth. The world blurred, the sounds and lights of the bar fading into nothing, leaving just the heat of her mouth and the taste of her lingering on your lips. 

When she finally pulled back, her lips hovered just above yours, her breath warm against your skin. She looked at you with a raw intensity, her fingers slipping down to the collar of your jacket. 

“Come with me, pet.” She growls into your ear, her voice a quiet demand that leaves no room for argument. 

“I’m not your pet, and I’m not just going to go anywhere-”

“Now, last chance.” She smirked into your lips as the pads of her fingers graze the skin of your throat.

Your heart pounded as she helped you off the booth by your hips, leading you down the narrow hallway to the back of the bar, her hand firm around yours, fingers intertwined as if she couldn’t risk letting you slip away. She pushed open the bathroom door, pulling you inside and locking it behind her with a decisive click.

In the small, dim space, the air felt even more charged, thick with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid. She pressed you against the wall, her fingers tracing along your collar, slipping down to your jacket’s zipper. She looked up at you, her eyes dark and unyielding, a smirk playing at her lips as she began to tug it down, slowly, drawing out every inch.

The moment the zipper gave way, her eyes flicked down, catching sight of the faded band logo on the shirt beneath. She froze, her expression flickering between surprise and satisfaction, her fingers tracing over the familiar emblem. Her gaze lifted, and a grin spread across her face, filled with a mix of pride and something darker, a glint of triumph in her eyes.

“So, you really are a fan,” she whispered, her voice thick with amusement, as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “I like that. So you really will do whatever I want hm?”

Her words curled around you, low and smoky, settling over you with a teasing weight. You swallowed, your pulse racing as she traced the band logo with her fingertips, a lazy, possessive touch that sent a shiver down your spine. She was so close, every breath she took brushing warm against your neck, her fingers just hovering there, making it clear that she was savouring every second of this reveal.

Her smirk deepened, eyes locked on yours, searching for that flicker of hesitation that never came. You could feel yourself melting into her, caught up in the heady mixture of her touch and her scent, the unmistakable pull she seemed to have over you. “You don’t mind, do you?” she murmured, her voice a velvet-soft purr that seemed to echo in the dim, tiled room.

You felt the words catch in your throat, but the defiance flickered in your gaze for a brief moment, just enough to make her laugh softly, a dark, satisfied sound that only pulled you further under her spell. She let her fingers slide up to your shoulder, resting there with a possessiveness that made it impossible to pull away even if you wanted to.

"Good," she whispered, her lips tracing a feather-light line down to the side of your jaw. "Because I don't intend to be gentle."

“I don’t like it gentle.” You smirk, feeling the confidence hit you as her hands roamed your clothed skin. This seemed to rile Agatha up to the highest degree, her hand grasping your jaw, tilting your head roughly upwards, her thumb pressing against your bottom lip before her lips collided with yours again, her hands obsessed with wrapping themselves in your hair and pulling you about and into the positions she wanted your mouth in. 

She angled your head to just the right position, her lips moving against yours with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. Every motion was a reminder of exactly who was in control, and somehow, that only made your pulse race harder.

The roughness of her touch sent a thrill through you, her nails grazing your scalp as she pulled you even closer, moulding you to her with an urgency that left you dizzy. The cool tile pressed against your back, grounding you, a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. Her thumb swept over your bottom lip again, lingering there for a tantalising moment before she deepened the kiss, taking exactly what she wanted. You felt her smile against your mouth, a sly, knowing curve, as though she was savouring every bit of control she held over you.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes roamed over you, dark and pleased, her lips curled in that signature smirk. "There’s a good little girl," she murmured, her voice low and taunting, her gaze raking over you like she was cataloguing every response, every tell. Her fingers stayed buried in your hair, keeping you close, her eyes searching yours, relishing in the effect she had on you.

"Not so cocky now, are you?" she teased, her voice edged with satisfaction as she took in your slightly dazed expression. "Let’s see if you’re still this bold by the time I’m done with you."

“Please Agatha.” You couldn’t believe those words were tumbling from messy lips as your chin covered in her saliva, the way she kissed was rougher than anything you’d ever experienced before and each brush of her lips against your neck sent chills to your core and you could feel your arousal pooling at the cloth of your sheer underwear.

Agatha’s smirk widened, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement as she ran her thumb over your swollen lower lip, silencing any further plea with a dark satisfaction. “Begging already?” she murmured, her voice a low, sultry taunt that only made the heat pooling in your core throb harder. Her grip on you was firm, unyielding, her fingers tangling through your hair with a control that left you feeling both held and exposed. She tilted your head back slightly, her lips grazing your neck in maddening, fleeting touches, each one calculated, leaving you breathless.

“Patience,” she whispered, dragging her thumb down over your chin, tracing a line through the glisten of her own lingering kiss. “I need to know what I’m working with.” Her lips ghosted over your collarbone, her hands roaming, exploring, as if mapping out every sensitive inch with deliberate care. Each press of her fingers was possessive, each touch purposeful, a silent reminder of the control she had over you.

You swallowed, chest heaving, trying to keep up with her pace, her confidence, the edge in her gaze that promised you were just getting started. She seemed to drink in your reactions, her smirk only deepening as her lips moved back up to your ear, her breath hot against your skin.

“You don’t disappoint so far,” she purred, her voice low, wicked, as her fingers traced over the thin fabric clinging to your hips, teasing just enough to make you ache for more. “But let’s see if you can keep up with me, hmm?”

“I can, I will.” Your voice is laced with desperation, her lips cutting you off again, the burning sensation that spread across your entire body as she pressed you harder into the wall.

“So desperate to please, you’re ticking all the boxes.” Agatha hums, her lips grazing your ear lobe before biting down hard, eliciting a sharp moan from your lips as your head falls back against the tiles, “Such pretty noises, god you might be perfect.” Even that allowed for another moan to fall from your lips.

A dark, satisfied glint lit up Agatha’s gaze as she took in every sound, every tremble that escaped you. Her teeth dragged down the curve of your neck, marking her path with enough force to make your breath hitch, as if staking her claim on each inch of your skin. The pressure of her body kept you pressed against the wall, her hands never leaving you, roaming with a practised assurance that left no room for doubt, she knew exactly the effect she was having on you.

She pulled back just enough to watch your reaction, the intensity in her eyes searing into you. Her fingers traced slow, tantalising circles over the thin barrier of fabric at your hips, her smirk widening as she watched you bite your lip, barely able to stifle another moan. “I think I quite like you like this,” she murmured, her voice a velvet drawl, “all needy, waiting on me.”

Her lips found yours again, rough and consuming, a heady mix of possession and challenge as if daring you to keep up with her relentless pace. The kiss left you dizzy, her hands tightening around you, pulling you in closer until there was nothing between you but the heat and tension building with every breath.

“Tell me,” she whispered, her tone teasing, her thumb pressing firmly against your jaw to hold you there, “how long have you thought about this, hmm? Standing there in my crowd, wishing you were closer, wishing you could have this?” Her words were low and knowing, stoking the fire that was already blazing through you, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, her breath warm against your skin.

She didn’t need you to answer. The truth was written all over you, and from the look in her eyes, she was revelling in every moment of watching you unravel. “On your knees pet, now.” 

Her eyes held yours, sharp and unwavering, a quiet but unmistakable demand as her fingers traced down your jaw, guiding you downward with a touch that was both gentle and unrelenting. Heart pounding, you sank to your knees, feeling the rough tile beneath you as Agatha’s smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering across her face like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

She took her time, savouring each second, watching with dark amusement as you settled, as though you were exactly where she’d intended you to be all along. Her hand stayed on your jaw, firm but caressing, fingers brushing your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. Her thumb traced your cheek, slow and deliberate, her gaze warm with both pride and anticipation.

“There we go,” she murmured, her voice a low hum that washed over you, making you feel completely at her mercy. She tilted her head, studying you like a masterpiece she was in the midst of creating, her smirk widening as she took in your flushed cheeks, the way you looked up at her, completely caught in her orbit.

“You look good like this,” she mused, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip, her fingers tilting your head up just enough to meet her gaze. “Desperate, willing, exactly as I imagined.” Her eyes glittered with satisfaction, and she leaned down, her lips ghosting over yours in a barely-there kiss, keeping you aching for more. “Now,” she whispered, a wicked glint in her eye as she leaned back, “show me just how much of a fan you really are.” As she said this, her fingers were unbuckling the gold belt that kept her flowing trousers up. 

You decided to take some initiative, your hands reaching up the back of her thighs, grabbing her ass with two firm handfuls before slowly pulling her trousers down her legs, placing kisses along the length of her skin, your hands trembling as she stepped out of the leg holes. 

Her smirk deepened as she watched you, clearly relishing every moment of control and every tremor that ran through your fingers as you traced her skin. The dim light cast shadows over her, adding to her untouchable aura, but here she was, letting you peel away the layers. Your lips brushed her thigh, feather-light, trailing upward as you took your time, savouring the feel of her beneath your hands. She hummed in approval, a low, satisfied sound that sent a thrill through you, her fingers tangling into your hair to guide you exactly where she wanted.

She pressed herself against you, one leg between your knees, steadying you with a possessive hand at the nape of your neck. Her grip tightened, firm yet teasing, as though she were testing your resolve, testing just how far you’d go to please her. Each kiss, each touch, seemed to stoke the fire between you both, her gaze dark and knowing as you looked up at her, taking in the raw, magnetic presence that she commanded so effortlessly.

“Keep going,” she murmured, her voice low, dripping with authority, as she looked down at you with that signature smirk. “Show me that you’re worth taking home.” The words were laced with challenge, her tone daring, yet there was an undeniable hint of satisfaction in her eyes, as if she’d known all along you’d be here, right in her hands. 

In the rush of her impatience, she pulled her lilac underwear down, stepping out of them and putting them in her pocket, pressing her leg between yours, putting pressure against the heat of your core in a gesture of getting you to hurry up. You looked up at her cunt, your hand reaching up to touch her but she batted your hand away, grabbing your hair and pushing your face towards her. You obliged immediately, the grip she had within your hair way too strong to disobey her. 

You sweeped your tongue through her folds, sliding gracefully across her glistening skin, with the first contact her grip tightened in your hair and you moaned deeply into her cunt as she placed her other leg over your shoulder, allowing for you to get the best angle. You couldn’t help but devour her, the clear view of her pussy reacting to every breath you took near her, lying your flat tongue against her entire slit, feeling her hips slip underneath you, finally gaining a level of contact that made her weak in the knees. 

Her light groans against your tongue quickened as you dragged your tongue from her entrance, encircling her clit with sharp strokes that made her grip tighten as you heard a thump from where her other hand fell against the wall, holding herself up. You took her clit between your lips, sucking gently which made her gasp in a way that surprised even Agatha herself. 

You were eagerly watching and feeling for her body to react positively to each new way you swiped your tongue against her clit, wanting to remember how you made her tremble beneath your mouth. You wanted to know what made her grip your hair tighter, more desperate for your tongue to drive her into that desperate release that you didn’t think she was expecting from a bar goer that she’d dragged into the bathroom. 

Her hips started to grind against your tongue, her low groans sometimes slipping into sharp moans, but once you hardened your muscle against her clit, she groaned a list of expletives for anyone in the entire bar to hear that sent a rush of arousal to your already dripping core. The way her leg was wrapped around your body, gripping your body closer to her cunt, not letting you pull away even if you wanted to.  

You continued your movements and there she was, moans tumbling from her lips as her climax reached its peak, her breathy groans forcing you to push away the feeling of your jaw beginning to clamp up, but there was no way you were going to stop now with her hips uncontrollably bucking against your mouth, her arousal lacing your lips and seeping in against your tastebuds. 

You continued light gentle circles until Agatha removed her leg that was tightly wrapped around you. She looked down at you, her eyes saying everything without her needing to speak a word. You knew you looked irresistible to her, she wasn’t expecting you to make her cum in the bar's bathroom, you got the feeling she wanted to humiliate you when you couldn’t, but you showed her. Her thumb stroked your lip, your face covered in her glistening arousal. She prised your lips open, allowing a long string of saliva to fall from her lips and land against your worked out tongue. You immediately swallowed, your mouth still open and she couldn’t help but smirk down at you. 

“Well you’re an experienced whore aren’t you.” She said and your immediate nod told her everything she needed to know, she needed to take you home. She grabbed her trousers off the floor, slipping back inside of them quickly, grabbing you by your hair and guiding you off your knees. She captured you in another kiss, “You’re coming with me, I need to use you like you deserve.” You whined into Agatha’s lips, nodding desperately as you could feel your own arousal leaking from your underwear. “You’d like that wouldn’t you pet.” 

“Please Agatha.” That was all you needed to say, she pinched your hardened nipple that had suddenly arisen through your Coven t-shirt and you groaned in desperation as she led you out of the bathroom and immediately out of the bar. 

As soon as the cool night air hits you, the taste of Agatha still on your lips as her driver turns the corner and stops right in front of you. The car was massive, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the dim street lights as the door swung open. Agatha’s driver gave a polite nod, allowing you to step inside. The interior was everything you’d expect, rich leather seats, polished wood accents, and soft lighting that gave the whole cabin a warm, intimate glow.

Agatha’s presence was magnetic as she followed you into the car, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. She slid into the seat next to you, her hand resting briefly on your leg before she reached for the partition, smoothly lowering it with a subtle press of a button. The car’s low hum enveloped you both in a private space, shutting out the outside world.

She leaned back, her eyes glinting with amusement as she studied you. “Comfy?” Her voice was smooth, like velvet, making your skin tingle.

You nodded, trying to calm the rush of emotions swirling inside you. Agatha’s presence was overwhelming, and being this close, in the intimate confines of the car, only made everything feel more intense.

The car began to move and Agatha lent forward, shutting the divider between your section and the drivers, unclicking your seatbelt with a chuckle. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap.” You swallow in shock at the title she’d crowned herself, not that you were complaining. You shuffle off of your seat, straddling over her lap, burying your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. She smelt like smoke covered in vanilla, a smell that you couldn’t help but need. 

You were wearing a short black skirt, your Coven t-shirt still on show, now directly in Agatha’s eyeline as her hands fell to your bare thighs. You arched your back into her touch as you kept your head against her shoulder. You could feel how desperate you were, your legs being spread over her lap constantly reminding you of how your arousal was dripping down your thighs. 

“I need you Daddy.” You whimper into her ear, sucking lightly against her earlobe. You were trying to pull on every one of her strings, you’d imagined this moment in your head for years, ever since you heard her first song. You never thought you’d ever be sitting on her lap in the back of her car, so you weren’t going to pass up on the opportunity. 

“Oh I know you do, pet.” Agatha grins, her palm cupping your clothed cunt, licking her bottom lip at the damp fabric. You whimper at the slight contact, unconsciously grinding your hips against her hand. “Behave.” You comply, stilling your hips and allowing for her finger to push your underwear to the side, just the tip of her finger grazing your arousal. She isn’t prepared to do much more, just gently allowing your arousal to seep into her skin, letting you get used to not getting what you want. 

After a few more minutes of relentless teasing, the car pulls up to the entrance of her estate. The mansion looms in front of you, a towering structure bathed in soft light, the large windows reflecting the night sky. The grand, wrought-iron gates open slowly, and the driver steers the car down the long, winding driveway. 

“You have a beautiful house.” You say, awestruck at the sight of it. 

“Thank you,” Agatha replies, her voice as cool and controlled as always, though there’s a flicker of pride in her eyes. She watches you with a knowing expression. “ I take care of it, and those who walk through its doors.”

The car stops at the front steps, and as the engine quiets, you can hear the sound of crickets in the distance, adding an eerie but peaceful touch to the atmosphere. You’re still trying to process the vastness of the estate, the grandeur of the house—its stone pillars, the delicate arches of the windows, and the perfectly manicured gardens that line the path.

Before you can say another word, the door opens, and Agatha steps out of the car, her coat billowing around her. She doesn’t look back, but her posture is commanding, as though she knows exactly how you’re looking at her.

“You coming?” she asks, her voice low and smooth.

You quickly follow her, stepping out onto the cold marble steps, your breath visible in the night air. Agatha walks ahead, her heels clicking on the stone as she leads you to the massive oak doors. The faint scent of something floral lingers in the air as she opens the door with a practised ease, and the interior of her home is revealed.

Rich tapestries hang from the walls, the faint glow of candlelight illuminating the elegant furniture, casting shadows that dance across the room. It’s opulent, but in a way that feels lived-in, comfortable, inviting.

She turns to face you as she closes the door behind you, her lips curling into a slow, amused smile. Agatha steps toward you, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she stops just in front of you. The temperature seems to rise just slightly, the intensity of her gaze holding you captive. She lifts a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, her fingers grazing your skin with a touch that feels like it could set you alight.

"This way," she murmurs, her voice smooth, yet carrying a subtle authority. She walks toward the door at the far end of the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the floor before she opens it with a graceful motion.

The room she reveals is everything you'd expect and more, a serene, almost ethereal space. The soft, golden light from a chandelier above illuminates the room, casting warm shadows across the floor and highlighting the luxurious details of the décor. The walls are lined with plush velvet curtains in deep, rich tones, and the polished wood floors gleam beneath the thick, patterned rug that stretches across the room.

In the centre of it all stands a grand four-poster bed, its towering wooden pillars reaching toward the ceiling. The bed is draped in luxurious linens, plush, silken sheets in shades of deep cream and gold that shimmer slightly in the soft lighting. The canopy above is sheer, cascading down in delicate folds, adding an almost dreamlike quality to the space. The posts are intricately carved, their designs subtle but elegant, giving the bed an air of grandeur without being overwhelming.

A large vanity mirror stands across from the bed, its surface covered with a scattering of perfume bottles, fine brushes, and a few other personal items.  Agatha stands by the window for a moment, her figure framed by the soft light pouring in from outside. Then, with a slight glance over her shoulder, she turns to face you, her lips curling into a slow, confident smile.

"Make yourself at home," she says, her voice laced with both invitation and command. You try to listen to her order, perching yourself on the bed. “By that I mean strip.” The soft light from the window creates a halo around her, enhancing her presence as she stands across from you.

There’s no mistaking the implication in her voice. She watches as you slowly take in the room, the elegance of it, the softness of the bed beneath you, yet the quiet authority in her gaze makes you feel almost like an open book.

You hesitate for only a moment before standing, feeling the subtle weight of her eyes as you begin to unbutton your jacket, the fabric slipping from your shoulders. Each movement seems deliberate, and yet, there's a strange sense of freedom in it as you follow her quiet, unspoken guidance.

Agatha watches you silently, her eyes never leaving yours as she steps closer, the distance between you two narrowing. She reaches out, her hand brushing against your arm lightly, the touch almost reassuring in its gentleness, yet it carries an unspoken promise that makes your heart race just a little faster.

"Relax," she murmurs, as her presence seems to fill the room even more, her every movement calm, but purposeful.

You glance back at her, a slight tension still present in the air, but there's an unspoken understanding that whatever this moment brings, it's going to be entirely on her terms. And somehow, that feels just right.

“Let me help you.” Agatha’s voice is low, almost like a murmur, but it carries weight, pulling your attention completely. She steps closer, the subtle click of her heels on the floor the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. Her presence fills the space, each step deliberate, each movement calculated, yet graceful. You can’t help but be drawn to her, the way she commands the room without a word.

She stops just in front of you, her eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. Her hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, as if testing your reaction. Her touch is soft but firm, a clear signal that she’s in control, but she’s patient, letting you decide how to respond.

"Let me help you," she repeats, her words steady and calm, but there's an underlying edge to them, a subtle demand you can’t ignore. She unbuttons your skirt, yanking it down quickly, leaving you in nothing but the band tee and your soaked underwear, a sight that was making Agatha drool all over you. 

You cross your arms over your shirt, reaching the hem before trying to reach it over your head. She stops you, grabbing your wrists. You cock your eyebrow at her refusal to remove her band's logo from your chest. “You want me to keep it on?”

She holds your wrists firmly, her eyes never leaving yours. The air between you feels charged, thick with unspoken words and a subtle challenge. Her grip is forceful, just enough to let you know she's in control. Her lips curl into a slight smile, almost teasing, as if she’s waiting for you to respond.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, her tone soft but with an edge that makes you wonder if she's testing your limits.

You stand there, caught between defiance and curiosity, feeling her presence loom larger with every passing second. You shake your head, her grip on your wrists never loosening. You look up at her, knowingly allowing your desperation to seep through your pupils as they lock with hers. 

“Come on, you've got work to do.” She smirks at you, laughing in the face of your desperation to be touched by her.

“What work?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed, not quite getting on the same wavelength as the older rockstar. 

“What work?” She mocked, her finger tracing your jaw, “You give me another orgasm and I’ll fuck you, make you cry, work you out until you’re begging me to stop.” She orders and you gulp in nervous anticipation. 

“I can do that for you.” You say, silence falling again and for a moment she expected you to turn and run away, but you didn’t. You stayed still, wanting so desperately to please her. 

“Good, c’mon then pet.” She gets herself on the bed, trousers removed in the process, her shirt unbuttoned allowing you to see the outline of her cleavage. She rested her back against the headboard and you weren’t prepared to waste any time. 

You shifted yourself across the bed, kneeling down in front of her. For the first time she wasn’t looking at you but instead straight in front of her. In curiosity, you turn to see what she was looking at, to which you saw the reflection of your ass in the mirror that she was looking directly into. You turn and purposefully arch your back lower so she could get a better view. 

Your lips gravitate back towards her inner thighs, her underwear had already been removed in the bar bathroom, but she wasn’t appreciative of your teasing judging by her hand on your head. In response, your tongue grazed her clit and a moan left her lips as you looked back up at her.   

“That's a good girl, show Daddy how good that tongue of yours is.” She orders through panting breaths as you hum against her cunt, making her squirm slightly beneath your mouth. You were determined to make her cum quicker than before, one hand slipping between your body and hers as you spread her lips apart giving yourself more room to work with. Her moan that escaped was much louder this time, a sound that was doing nothing but doubling the arousal between your own legs. 

“You’re getting Daddy close, pretty girl.” 

“Already, god I must be really impressing you.” You smirk against her folds and she delivers a quick and sharp slap to your ass, making your body fall against her. 

“Three strikes and you’re done.” She warns, your whimper ricocheting around the room, her spank leaving a harsh bright red mark. 

You were gasping desperately against her pussy, the vibrations of your humming rippling through her body as you could feel all the muscles touching you tense. This was a moment of confidence surging through you as you continued to move your tongue in the same tangled circles that were driving her crazy beneath you. You began to make sloppier movements with your tongue, allowing her to hear the way your tongue moved gracefully against her folds. 

“Oh fuck baby, you’re gonna make me-” She curses, a hand flying into your hair, gripping tightly as she grinded down on your face as her orgasm ripped harshly through her body, her entire body convulsing beneath you.

It didn’t take her long to recover, she pulled your head up and admired your skin, glistening with her arousal and it was a picture perfect image that was forever branded in her brain. You hum into a gentle kiss, her lips gently touching yours in an attempt to not remove any of her fluids from your face, wanting to see you drowning in her wetness. She brings her hand up to the base of your throat, grasping around you tightly making you dizzy as she swipes her tongue against yours. 

“Please can I give you one more.” You plead, wanting to touch her with your fingers, desperate to see how the woman would fold beneath your touch. There was a slight selfishness to your begging, knowing that you would get exactly what you wanted if you showed her the respect she so desperately wanted to see from you. 

She laid herself back down, pulling you around her body, your chest resting on her arm with one leg hooked over hers as you pushed her legs apart with your foot. “Such a people pleaser hm?” Agatha quizzed, but not complaining, she was usually happy enough to not receive anything, but from someone who could bring her to orgasm so quickly, she wasn’t going to pass it by. 

“I just want to please you.” You say, a faux innocent smile on your face as your fingers carefully brushed against her clit. She whimpered with sensitivity but you carried on with your movements, but her pussy was dripping, coating your fingers with natural lubricant before you moved her shirt out of the way, allowing your tongue to carefully circle her nipple until it hardened against your mouth. 

As you began to make wide circles around her clit with your two fingers, she shifted her arm so it was stretched just enough to be able to brush your clit every time you grind your hips at the correct angle. It was like fireworks inside of you so you began to suck against her nipple, quickening and narrowing the circles you made with your fingers around her clit but soon enough she matched your movements. 

You let out a whimpery moan, desperate for so much more than she was giving you, yet the contact alone interrupted your movements against her clit. She slapped your ass again. “Second strike sweetheart, focus on your Daddy.” You nod at her words, knowing you had to carry on. It didn’t take too much longer before her hips began to buck when you sped up your circles. 

Her breathing laboured as you sucked the other nipple between your teeth, you spare hand playing with the other, overstimulating her in the best way possible as she started to grind down on your fingers. 

“You want me to cum again baby?” 

You nod, her nipple still loosely placed between your lips as she added another finger worth of pressure to your clit, mirroring exactly what you’d done to her. “Yes,” You gasp, “Please.”

The sound of your broken panting voice, whimpers tumbling from your lips made everything too much and she couldn’t help herself as her second orgasm fiercly crashed through her body, growling at the sensation as she let go of you, her back arching away from your relentless touch.  

She stilled your hand as she recovered, looking desperately into your eyes and you could feel her domineering persona washing straight back over her as she yanked your shirt from your abdomen, chucking it onto the floor by the bed. She hungrily attacked your breasts with her mouth, making you moan desperately at the sudden contact. 

“You did such a good job,” She smiles, “Looking so pretty while you did it too, that deserves a reward only good enough for whores like you.” With that, she flips you over her body, planting your back against the mattress with an insane level of strength that you didn’t expect. She wasn’t planning on wasting any time, needing to taste you as you glistened directly in her eye line. “God you’re already so wet, I don’t think I even need to warm you up for my cock huh.”

You gasped at her words, but before they processed her tongue licked one long stroke up your clit, before replacing it with her fingers, circling your clit with one hand, the other trailing around your quivering opening. 

You were nothing but desperate, aching for the feeling of her inside of you, but she repeatedly teased you with circles around your entrance, until eventually, she slipped them in, just one at first, gently stretching you out with her expert, well practised hands. 

“Taste yourself on my fingers pet.” She demanded and Agatha’s fingers pressed in and out of you, gathering enough of your arousal to place in your open mouth, but she didn’t. You watched her eagerly as she sucked you from her own fingers, prying your jaw open with her other hand and spitting your arousal from her mouth, holding your mouth open and continuing to spit against your tongue, knowing your skill from earlier you swallowed as much as you could, but you were still left with a mix of Agatha’s saliva and your arousal dripping down your chin. 

She couldn’t help but groan at the sight of you, before she slid her fingers down your throat until you choked against her, saliva bubbling from your mouth now. She continued to fuck your throat until you were a spluttering mess. Her lips pressed against yours now, her soaked fingers sliding between your folds as your entrance begged for them inside of you, and you took them so much easier now. 

She pumped her fingers relentlessly inside of you, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing it aggressively, stretching you out and you couldn’t help but squirm and moan against her hold, but she kept you still. “You sound so pretty, Daddy needs to fuck you now.” She demanded, pulling her fingers from you and you couldn’t help but feel fucked out already, but you weren’t giving in now. 

“Play with yourself while I put this on.” She orders, shuffling over and reaching for the strap which she kept in her bedside drawer. You could barely see it, but you could tell it was way bigger than you were used to, but you weren’t surprised in the slightest. One that matched the size of her enormous ego. 

You did as she said, pressing two fingers against your clit, carefully applying pressure that didn’t match up to the way Agatha made you feel, but watching her pull her legs through the harness you couldn’t help but squirm and moan as you waited in anticipation. 

“Show me that pretty pussy baby.” She hummed as she turned around, the sheer size of the nine inch dildo attached to her waist making you moan let alone her words. Your hands spread your cunt apart right in front of her. She crawled up to you on her knees until she was between your legs, the position allowing her to tease you, dragging the head of her dick through your wet folds, watching as your body prepared for her. 

She locked eyes with you before she slid straight inside of you, gasping at the feeling of every inch of her forcing its way into your entrance, purposefully making you feel every single centimetre of her cock as it pushed you closer and closer to the edge. 

“Oh fuck Agatha.” You whined, her hands spreading your thighs further apart, her strokes becoming deeper as she aimed to hit every spot inside of you. You couldn’t stop the whiney gasps and high pitched pornographic moans that were escaping your lips. You wrapped your legs around her, pulling her into you, leaving her flush against your sweat painted skin. 

“Aw you’re so wet for Daddy aren’t you.” You nod in response, actually you don’t stop nodding as she pulls out of you, rubbing the head against your aching clit, before pushing herself back into you quickly, pinning your waist against the mattress and pounding into you. You couldn’t take much more of her thrusts, each one hasher than the last, something which you didn’t think was possible but she proved you wrong with every buck of her hips. 

You grip onto her shoulders, arching your back off the bed so you could press your chest against hers. This allowed her to draw messy circles around your clit and it was like she could feel you clenching around her cock. 

“Daddy, I’m gonna-”

“No you’re not.” She commands, pulling out of you and spinning you round by your hips, pressing your head into the mattress, moulding you into the position she wanted you in. “You’re mine, pet, you take what I give you and you cum when I ask you to.” Her voice was a continuous growl as one hand gripped your waist, the other spreading you apart before she spat against your entrance before pushing her cock back inside of you. 

This angle changed everything, your moans jumbled into the duvet as you felt your body being forcefully moved with every rapid thrust, her rhythm never faltering once. 

“Please Daddy, I need to cum.” You beg, turning your head so she could hear your pleas more clearly. Her relentless thrusting of her hips had you so close to the edge and you knew you couldn’t hold it anymore. Just as your cunt clenched around her dick, she could see it in your body language. 

“Cum now on my cock you fucking slut.” You did exactly that, your hands gripping against the covers as Agatha refused to slow down her pace. Your orgasm coursed through you harder than any you’d ever felt before, your moans became screams against each pounding thrust she delivered into your dripping, aching cunt. With a string of expletives and breathy moans you fell flat against the mattress, whining as you felt the emptiness consume you as Agatha pulled out of you. 

“Agatha, that was something else.” You spoke, your eyes only just opening from how hard they’d scrunched shut at the peak of your climax. When your eyes opened, the strap was hovering over your mouth, your arousal glistening in front of your face. 

“You’ve got to clean Daddy up, look at all the mess your slutty hole has made.” You moaned at the deep husk in her voice as you did nothing but open your mouth as wide as you could, allowing Agatha to guide her cock into your mouth, only the head was filling you up to the back of your throat. You began to suck, holding the base between your hands, not letting Agatha thrust her hips into your mouth. You let it go deeper, but not as much as Agatha wanted. 

“You can do better than that, I thought you wanted to be my little cock whore.” Agatha teased and you opened your throat as wide as you could, thrusting your own head into the length of her cock, allowing her to harshy thrust into your choking and spluttering mouth. Her nails deep into your scalp now, as you started coughing she went easy on you, slowly pulling out of your throat as your head fell back in sheer tiredness. 

“Oh sweet girl, you did such a good job.” Agatha praises, loosening the harness and tossing it towards the end of the bed, reminding herself to deal with it after she’d given you the praise you deserved. 

“I’ve never been fucked like that in my life.” You admit honestly. 

“Didn’t seem like it.” Agatha teased before she pulled your naked body into a deep embrace, her body cocooning you between hers. “I’m joking, I only perform best for my fans.”

“Oh shut up Agatha.” You laugh, the reminder of who she actually was came flooding back to you and you couldn’t help but feel the flush of scarlet red beam at your cheeks. 

“Well you’re the prettiest little fan I’ve ever had the honour of fucking.”

[11keu]

SHOULD’VE | S.JY

SYNOPSIS. From high school into college, you had your heart set on Jake. Frustratingly hot, popular with the ladies, potentially the love of your life… And not willing to sleep with you. At least, it seemed that way. In actuality, he was desperate for you.

PAIRING. Sim Jaeyun x Fem! Reader (Park Sunghoon x Fem! Reader)

GENRE. Smut. Mostly p with a little bit of plot, kinda abrupt ending. Weird dynamic of mutual hating and mutual pining. Sunghoon is not a full feature. Reader is a little bit (healthily) obsessed with Jake. Jake feigning nonchalance. University au. Miscommunication trope.

WARNING. Smut under cut, minors do not interact.

CONTENT. Alcohol, talk of virginity and loss of virginity, profanity, dry humping, fingering, spitting / saliva, reader calls Jake a slut, big dick Jake, oral (m and f rec.), cum eating, vocal Jake, nipple play, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it up), praising, choking, corruption but not really, kinda jealous sex, creampie, hint of aftercare.

First Year

Your heart was beating so fast, you were sure Jake could hear it. Feel it, even. Against his chest, as he pressed you down into the shitty mattress already used by your university's past first-years. You could taste the whisky on his tongue, the lime on his lips from tequila shots. And yet, he tasted incredible. Sweet, and clean. Just as you had imagined.

Your hand was cupping the back of his neck, your fingertips scratching delightfully against his freshly shaven fade. It made shivers run down his spine.

One of his large hands gripped the back of your thigh, his short nails pressing into your skin. He pulled you closer, bringing your hips and chest flush against his own. He groaned softly against your mouth as his other hand slid up the slope of your back, pressing you more firmly against him. His lips moved against yours hungrily, his tongue brushing against your own and tasting every part of your mouth. His teeth lightly nipped at your lower lip, earning a gasp from you.

‘Tight little thing, aren’t you?’ He whispered against your mouth, his tone low. He pulled your hips up against his own, letting you feel just how hard he’d gotten for you. He leaned back far enough to look down at you, his eyes taking in the way you looked beneath him. Your hair a messy halo against his pillows, lips kiss-swollen and parted, chest heaving.

Tight? He could feel how nervous you were under his touch?

‘Why’d you stop?’ Your voice was barely above a whisper as you looked up at him. He smirked back down at you, appreciating your desperation to have his lips on yours.

‘’Cause,’ he started, his hand sliding further up your thigh before coming down to grip the underside of your knee. ‘You’re acting like a little virgin.’ His voice was low and teasing, a hint of a laugh on his lips, only helping to turn you on further.

You felt like an idiot. A transparent idiot.

You avoided his gaze, glancing around his room. It was still pretty bare, like he'd given up on decorating, or hadn't yet finished. Very likely. After all, classes hadn’t even began yet. You looked back up into his eyes, feeling a lot smaller than you would have liked under his dark gaze.

Jake studied your face silently, watching every little change in your expression. He could feel the nerves and anxiety coming off of you in waves, and seeing you look away only confirmed his suspicion of just how inexperienced you were.

"You've never done this before," he stated matter-of-factly. It wasn't a question, more of an observation said with absolute certainty.

Confusion washed over you as he dropped his hold on your thigh and placed his hand beside your head instead. His other hand grabbed your arm, unwrapping it from around his neck and watching it fall back against his bed. Your eyes narrowed further as he sat back on his knees, running a hand through his hair and wetting his lips.

‘What are you doing?’ You raised a brow, sitting up on your hands.

"You're a virgin," he said bluntly. "I don't fuck virgins."

‘What?’ You spat. ‘What do you mean you don’t fuck virgins? I never said I was a virgin.’

He hummed, his smirk widening. ‘Yeah, but I can tell you are one,’ he let his eyes glance over you once again, unabashedly, his gaze taking in the sight of you with your hair all tousled and your top hanging off of one shoulder. ‘I don’t do virgins. Too many expectations, too much commitment.’

You rolled your eyes and got up off his bed, picking your reddish-brown leather jacket up from the floor. You slid it on, untucking your hair and then putting on your boots, zipping them up quickly. The ones that Jake had slowly unzipped as you’d kissed him, before tossing them onto the floor. With your bag on your shoulder, you left his bedroom with a slam of his door.

He sat there in stunned silence, the door slamming making him cringe. It was at least three in the morning. He was sure his housemates would hate him for that one.

He didn't expect you to react the way you did. He figured at most, you’d be shocked and a little embarrassed, maybe annoyed. But that you’d still ask — beg, even — to be an exception to his stupid rule. A rule he’d made up on the spot just to make sure you were still comfortable with him taking your virginity. He hadn't thought you’d just leave like that.

You’d known Jake since high school. You were well aware of his reputation, that he’d raked in quite a high body count. But none of that mattered to you, because as your naive teenage self believed, he was going to fall in love with you one day. He wouldn’t care that he would be your first, because you intended for him to be your last. Safe to say, you were a little delusional and maybe a little too obsessed with Jake Sim.

It was a cold September night as you walked back to your own accommodation, hugging yourself for warmth. The walk of shame, for sure. An embarrassing story that was going to stick with you for the rest of your life.

Second Year

Luckily for you, not everybody was as stupid as Jake.

No, Park Sunghoon would never turn you down. Within weeks of your sad excuse of a hook-up with Jake, you lost your virginity to one of his friends. Albeit, they weren’t that close anymore.

He was a sweet guy on the university’s ice hockey team, and you’d fallen for his pretty smile and shy personality at another fresher’s party. A selfie of yourself wearing his ‘23’ jersey sat deep in your camera roll, taken as he was grabbing you a glass of water from his communal kitchen. Although you never really talked to him again, you weren’t regretful. He was just your key to the flood gates. And soon, the stereotypical college experience of drunken hook-ups and short-term relationships became your reality.

As for Jake, you positively hated his guts.

Somehow, you ended up taking one of the same classes in both semesters last year. He was so nonchalant about the fact that you’d almost slept together that it majorly pissed you off. And you were always arguing with him in class, two pairs of eyes narrowed as you debated over whatever the professor had just been talking about.

Maybe it was more on your side than his, but he still bit every time and retaliated. Really, he couldn’t fully understand your temper towards him. So what that he didn’t sleep with you? He was trying to be respectful, as terribly as that came across. But for you, the guy whose name you used to scribble into your notebooks had turned you down rather harshly. It should’ve been him. You wanted it to be him, and you hated that it hadn’t been. Not because you regretted sleeping with Sunghoon, but because things not turning out your way just never sat right with you. The anger you felt towards your delusional timeline being messed up manifested itself as snapping at a clueless classmate who could barely recall that drunken night.

Well, maybe that was just what he told himself to help him sleep better at night. Because here he was, cupping your jaw and kissing you sensually atop a stranger’s mattress.

‘I hate you,’ you hissed against his lips, and he just moaned into your mouth, pressing his hardened cock against your thigh.

‘Feeling’s mutual,’ he murmured, sliding his knee between your thighs. He smirked as your hips jerked against his knee, seeking out some sort of friction.

You gripped at his t-shirt, holding him impossibly closer as he began to rock his knee against your bare core. Panties would be a stretch, considering your thong was too tiny to be covering up anything. Your hips rolled in time with the movement of his knee, breathless moans tumbling from your lips, each one swallowed by his perfect kisses. God, he was just pissing you off even more.

His hands moved to grip your thighs, parting them so that he could slot himself between them. You moaned as you felt his hard-on through his jeans, your clit bumping against his bulge every time either of you rocked your hips. Soft groans formed in the back of his throat, gently slipping into your mouth as you sucked on his tongue.

He wanted to hate you, he really did. But right now he was finding it difficult, with your body quivering underneath him, your thighs clenching around his hips every time he rutted against you. He wanted to hate you for ruining his classes with your incessant arguing last year. He wanted to hate you for making his heart ache in an odd sort of way, but he couldn’t. Not in the midst of your sweet, addictive taste and the feel of your hips grinding against his.

His teeth sunk into your bottom lip before he pulled away breathlessly. His hand on your thigh moved to grip at your tiny skirt, bunching the fabric up around your waist just so he could get a look at you. An audible groan followed as he looked at you. The way your thong was soaked through and barely covering you, the way your hole clenched around nothing just because he was looking at you.

‘Fuck, I wanna fuck you so bad,’ he gasped out, almost desperately. He gripped your waist and flipped you onto your stomach. You gasped as his nails dug into your hips, pulling your ass flush against him. He rubbed his clothed erection against your ass, smirking as you pressed back against him. ‘Yeah? You want me to?’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ you groaned.

‘No need to snap at me,’ he chuckled darkly, sliding a finger along your soaked thong. ‘So fucking wet. Thought you hated me, hm?’

You nodded weakly against the pillows.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and let them snap against your skin. And then he yanked them down your thighs, forcing you further forward on the bed. He tested the waters by pushing his middle finger into your dripping hole, pleased that you sucked him right in. You moaned, clenching around his finger.

His finger moved slowly at first, bottom lip between his teeth as he watched your slick coat his finger. And then he began to pump it in and out of you, adding a second when he was sure you could take it. He took pride in the way you shuddered and clawed at the bedsheet, moans and whimpers muffled against this stranger’s pillows. Whose apartment even was this? He had no idea, he just hoped that he’d remembered to lock the door before he had you pressed up against it.

‘No oh-so-witty comebacks now, hm?’ He smirked, watching your hips rock back in time with the way he was thrusting his fingers into you. ‘Only way to shut you up is to make you moan, huh?’

You grabbed a pillow from beside your head and tossed it behind you, attempting to take him out. Of course, it completely missed. ‘I still hate you,’ you breathed out shakily.

‘Stop fucking yourself on my fingers then,’ he chuckled. ‘Go on, tell me you hate me again.’

He dipped his head down, letting saliva drip from his tongue and onto his fingers so that he could add a third. You cried out softly, clenching around his fingers once more.

‘I hate you,’ you whined. He groaned at the sound of you, his free hand cupping his rock hard cock through his jeans.

‘Shit, baby, cry like that again for me,’ he teased, squeezing himself harder.

He stopped touching himself in favour of wanting to make you cum. He spread your legs wider, making you fall flat against the bed. But he was quick to pull you back up and pull his fingers out of you, using your slick and his saliva to rub at your clit. You jerked forward, the sound leaving your lips so pornographic that Jake swore he could cum hands-free in his pants if you made that sound for him again. He rubbed your clit until your thighs tensed and shook, and then his fingers were back, buried deep in your hole and curling against your sweet spot.

‘Oh fuck, oh shit—’ You moaned out against the pillows, his other hand gently rubbing your clit to help you through your orgasm. Your hand came behind you and yanked his wrist away when it became too much, a soft sigh leaving your lips as you slumped fully forward against the bed. ‘Asshole.’

‘Can make a girl cum so good, and she’ll still call you an asshole,’ he spoke, gripping your thigh to pull you back against his hips. ‘Maybe she’ll forgive me if I fuck her like she wanted me to last year.’

‘Stop fucking talking like that,’ you moved your hips away from him. ‘And no, you’re not fucking me here.’

‘Why not?’ He reached out for you, but you were already dodging him in an attempt to find your underwear. ‘No way you’re going to leave after I just made you cum all over my fingers.’

‘Yeah, well, thanks for the orgasm,’ your feet planted against the floor, and your shaky legs carried you over to the door. ‘Good luck fucking your fist.’

Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable. He collapsed onto his back with a frustrated groan, light seeping into the room through where you’d left the door slightly ajar.

You swatted Jake’s hand away as he reached for the mouse. His own mouse, in all fairness. It was his computer, in his dorm. But this was your project.

‘Seriously, Y/N?’ He glared at you. ‘Didn’t realise you were so anal about all of this.’

‘Oh, funny word from the funny man,’ you rolled your eyes. ‘Seriously, do you think this is all some big joke?’

‘What, university?’ He snorted.

‘Hah, university,’ you mocked. ‘I mean, the fact that you keep taking the same class as me.’

‘Complete coincidence,’ he shot back. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘Just let me do it, and I’ll stick your name on it at the end,’ you huffed as you swatted at his hand again.

‘Relax, I was just going to correct your spelling,’ he gently nudged you away. ‘Idiot. How’d you even spell ‘because’ wrong?’

‘Your keyboard is slippery,’ you glared, burning a hole into his side profile. His perfect side profile.

He laughed at that, almost as if he knew something you didn’t, and took his chance to take over the keyboard and mouse. You shoved him away, almost making him fall off the chair he’d borrowed from his communal kitchen.

‘I’m still mad at you, by the way,’ he spoke, watching as you typed away.

‘Mad at me?’ You repeated back to him. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Come on, don’t be dense,’ he was smiling as he looked at you. Your grip on his mouse tightened. ‘Leaving me all high and dry at that party.’

‘You do have a hand,’ you shrugged.

‘Yeah, but you have a perfect pussy,’ he smirked. You almost choked as you inhaled, coughing lightly.

‘Jake,’ you warned. ‘Focus.’

‘On what? You’re not letting me do anything!’ He threw his hands up in the air to get his point across, leaning back in his seat. His thighs were spread, and you had to avert your gaze to stop yourself from salivating. ‘Wanna take a break?’

‘No,’ you spoke firmly. ‘Go sit on your bed or something, you’re bothering me.’ Your hand shooed him away, and he forced a mocking pout up at you.

‘I was gonna order takeout or something later, you wanna get it now?’

‘No,’

‘Come on, Y/N. Play with me, I’m bored.’

‘Play with yourself,’

‘Oh, you wanna watch?’

‘Sim fucking Jaeyun!’

‘Hey, you owe me,’ he grabbed your face in one hand, turning you to face him. He squished your cheeks further together, finding you adorable. ‘Suck me off or something in return for me making you cum.’

You grimaced, pulling your face away from him. ‘Gross, Jake,’ you huffed.

‘Mm, okay, so you’ll be fine if I play with myself instead,’ he smirked. You immediately shot him a glare. ‘Oh, come on. This is my bedroom.’

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to see that. Badly. ‘Okay, I’ll leave,’ you stood, pushing his desk chair back as you did so. He grabbed your wrist, stopping you before you could move.

‘Stay, I’m just messing with you,’ he rolled his eyes.

‘I’m tired, and my brain hurts from doing all of the work,’ you huffed.

‘Then, let’s take a break,’ he pressed. ‘No funny business, I swear.’

How did Jake convince you to get up on his bed and lie down beside him? Your totally normal need to be close to him at this very moment, of course. Even if he did constantly piss you off.

‘Scoot over,’ you sighed, eyes drifting away from his laptop screen to see him already looking at you. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘You’re pretty,’ he shrugged, his hand moving to land atop your thigh. He gently rubbed at your bare skin with a smirk on his lips. ‘Have I ever told you that?’

‘No, and I don’t wanna hear that bullshit again,’ you swatted his hand away.

‘Come on,’ he grabbed your thigh again, pulling you closer. ‘Stop pretending you’re not into me.’

‘You’re insufferable,’ your brows furrowed together in disdain.

‘Mm, yeah, but you like it,’ he smirked, his head propped up by his elbow. ‘Come on, kiss me. I know you want to. You’re a good kisser, I won’t mind.’

Your eyes rolled almost automatically. But still, your hand cupped the back of his neck before you pulled him down into a kiss. And he groaned into your mouth. God, did he turn you on.

He wasn’t letting you get away this time. He looped his arm around your thigh and pulled you flush against him. Was he ever not hard? The thought crossed your mind as he licked into your mouth, making you moan at the taste of the gum he’d been chewing earlier that night. The answer was simple. No, not when you were around.

You gripped the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it upwards to get a feel of his bare torso. He smiled against your lips, his own hand coming up to help you peel it off him. The kiss broke for mere seconds before his lips were back on you, not even giving you the satisfaction of seeing his bare chest and abdomen in all their glory.

Thanks to him, your leg was hooked over his hip in the perfect position for you to straddle him. So you did, knocking the wind out of his lungs as his back met the mattress. Much more comfortable than last year’s, you noted. He groaned as you placed hurried kisses along his jawline, neck and down to his bare torso, his hands slipping from your body as you made your way down to the buckle of his belt.

‘You want me bad, huh?’ He teased.

It took everything in you not to scream.

‘You want your dick sucked or not?’ You glared down at him. ‘Because I could just go home.’

‘You’re so cute when you’re mad,’ he leaned up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. ‘But yeah, I want it. Badly.’

‘Slut,’ you joked.

You moved quickly to unbuckle his belt. He groaned every time your hand brushed against his clothed erection, as if he was some touch-deprived singleton incapable of finding some regular pussy. Which was untrue, as far as you knew. You unclasped the button on his jeans and unzipped them, eyes landing on his bulge beneath his boxers.

‘Don’t tell me you’re backing out now,’ he groaned with frustration at your pause, hands coming up to rub down his face.

‘Shut up, will you?’ You gritted out, tugging down the waistband of his boxers. His hips shifted in an attempt to help you, and then his cock came springing up, rock hard against his abdomen. Tip perfectly red and aching, leaking precum onto his skin. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’ He mocked. ‘First time you see my dick and you say ‘oh’?’

‘You make it so fucking easy to hate you,’ you breathed out.

‘Fine, whatever, I’ll shut up,’ he relaxed back against his bed. ‘Leave you to do your thing.’

You thought back to the party. How good it had felt when he touched you, how quickly he’d made you cum. Unsurprisingly, that fact got under your skin. It was almost like a challenge now. You wanted to do even better than he had.

Your hand wrapped around his length without hesitation, his body tensing at the contact. His tip was dripping precum, and you just had to taste it. Your lips met his leaking tip in a kiss, and then wrapped around it, your tongue chasing every drop of his precum.

‘Mm, fuck,’ he moaned.

Your mouth pulled away and you spat into your hand before jerking him off with a tight grip. Did he just whine? His head tilted back against the pillows, and you felt arousal pool in your panties. Cocky, confident Jake taken down by the mere touch of a woman. Well, not just any woman — you.

When you knew he was looking, you spat onto his tip, using more of your saliva to lube him up. He felt dizzy with delight. And then your lips returned to him, sucking him into your mouth.

‘Shit,’ his fingers wove their way into your hair. ‘Shit, your mouth feels so fucking good.’

Whether that was true or not, you didn’t care.

You took him all the way, gagging before he could even hit the back of your throat. He was big, but you weren’t going to make a deal out of it. His ego was in no need of inflation, and you didn’t want to be teased for not being able to take it. So you pushed further, nose pressing against his pelvis before you pulled off of him, breathless and eyes watery.

‘You good?’ Your eyes shot up to meet his gaze, a look of genuine concern on his face.

‘What, like I’m weak or something?’ You scoffed.

He quickly shut up when you went back to sucking him off. Cheeks hollowed, tongue against the underside of his shaft. Your hand wrapped around the rest of him, moving in tandem with your mouth as you really got into it.

Jake was a writhing, moaning mess under your touch. His hand was still in your hair, but he didn’t make a move to push your head. He was on thin ice around you, all of the time. Pushing your head would just be pushing his luck.

The way he moaned and cursed was doing a real good job of getting you wet. You wondered if it was for show, if he moaned like that because he knew women were into it. Curse him for apparently being some sort of sex god. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that sucking him off was getting you wet.

You’d given hook-ups and exes head for them. It was a way to make them feel good. Not once did you ever imagine soaking through your panties at the way you were making a man feel with your mouth. But here you were, shifting uncomfortably as you bobbed your head up and down on Jake Sim’s perfect cock.

His fingers tightened in your hair as you doubled your efforts. Your pace picked up, the sound filthy and lewd as you sucked him. The sound so wet that it made him moan even louder. You hummed and moaned around him, gripping him tight with the hand that was jerking off his base.

‘Holy fucking shit, Y/N,’ he whimpered, bucking up into your mouth. ‘You’re so good at sucking me.’

He twitched in your mouth as you moved to suck at his tip, your tongue gently swiping over his slit. A weak groan left his lips and he pushed you back down on him, his hot cum immediately shooting down the back of your throat. You tried not to gag. His moans were whiny and breathy as you swallowed around him, letting him hold you there until he went limp. So this is what he sounds like when he cums.

You pulled your mouth off him and caught your breath. Well, only for a moment before he was grabbing your face and bruising your lips in a kiss. The force of it pulled your body forward, making you stumble on your hands and knees up towards him. A sound of surprise left your lips as your hips landed flush against his own, his softening cock rubbing against your now-damp mini shorts.

Like a man possessed, he lifted your shirt up over your tits and hooked his fingers in the cups of your bra, tugging it down. You gasped into the kiss and his fingers moved to pinch your nipples. Your hips jerked forward and he whimpered, sensitive from the orgasm that was still thrumming through him in all honesty.

Both breasts exposed, he broke the kiss roughly to attach his lips to your nipple. Your back arched and you almost fell on top of him, needy moans falling from your lips.

‘Jake, what are you—?’ You gasped, hips jerking forward again.

He pulled away with a pop. ‘M’sorry,’ he breathed out. ‘Been thinking about your tits all week.’

Third Year

In your ideal world, it wouldn’t happen this way. But in the real world, it was going to.

‘Oh, fuck, don’t stop,’ you whimpered, two of Jake’s fingers pumping in and out of you as he licked at your clit. Side to side, every swipe pushing you closer and closer to the edge. ‘Jake, m’so—’

His fingers curled against your sweet spot and you moaned mindlessly, thighs tightening around his head. He didn’t let up, needing to make you cum at least once before he would let himself have you.

You never imagined your first time with Jake being at a time when you were both intoxicated, but then again, this was the third time you’d been drunk and involved in the motions of foreplay with him. Considering that was three out of four times… It was almost written in the stars that you’d be drunk when you and Jake finally hooked up.

After the incident in his bedroom last year, with the forced proximity of working on an assignment together, things just… Died off again. A phone call from a friend cut your time short and you left despite his weak protests. The assignment was completed via back-and-forth emails and when the semester was up, you had no more classes with Jake. You were disappointed, kind of hoping he’d switch a class out in search for one with you, but he didn’t. So things ended there.

And even though you were sure you had to have him, as the time went by, you realised he was literally just a guy. Even your high school self couldn’t bring you back into that obsessive need you had been feeling before he turned you down in your first year of university. You did want to sleep with him, but you weren’t the type to chase and beg. If the universe was against it, then so were you.

Right until he bumped right into you at the bar, knocking your drink over before you could even reach for it. He bought you another one, and then continued to eye-fuck you from across the room after you parted ways.

You were still you. A girl he knew in high school that seemed way too far out of his league. The girl he didn’t want to take the virginity of without her being completely sure. (Look how well that turned out.) The girl that made his heart incredibly weak, and his dick incredibly hard, but one of those facts would be taken with him to the grave. Jake decided on the spot, under flashing lights and booming music as he was nursing a whisky cola, that there would be no more waiting. No more bullshit, no more chances for you to physically shove him away. You were coming home with him.

‘Hey,’ he’d practically yelled over the music as he’d stopped in front of you. When your face fell into a disappointed frown, he’d felt a little bit nauseous with worry that you’d say no. He’d leaned in closer, talking directly into your ear. ‘Wanna come back to my place?’

The question was straight-forward and you were a simple girl. Yes, of course. When you’d taken his hand and followed him out of the club, you’d had the expectation that this would be it. One and done, once and for all. But your high school self bolted to the forefront of your mind and began to warm you up in a sing-song voice, about how this was it. The beginning of your love story.

‘So, what’ll it be?’ You spoke, as Jake hovered just inches above you now. His eyebrows furrowed with confusion as he looked down at you. His lips glistened with a mixture of his saliva and your juices.

‘What?’ He breathed out, diving in to press kisses along your chest. His hands cupped your tits through your dress, thumbs swiping over your clothed nipples and making your hips jerk up into his own.

‘What position do you want to feel me in for the first time?’ You rolled your eyes, as if it had been the most obvious question in the world.

‘Can’t we do all of them?’ He whined into your neck, his clothed dick humping against your inner thigh.

‘Did you even listen to me?’ If he wasn’t so cute, you would have already been out the door at his stupidity. ‘I said first.’

‘Oh, um,’ he pulled back to look down at you. ‘Would you get on top?’ For him? Anything.

Jake laid back and shuffled himself out of his jeans and boxers, then helping you out of your dress as your hips hovered just above his. Your hips landed flush with his own and you began to roll them, your slick coating his cock as you rocked back and forth. He couldn’t help but moan, having a death grip on your hips as he pulled you along.

But then he gently coaxed you back and spat into the palm of his hand, before jerking himself off for a few seconds. Your gaze was dark and hungry as you watched him, your hole clenching around nothing in anticipation. He asked you to lift your hips and then rubbed his head back and forth between your slit, the two of you gasping in unison as he did so. You looked down at him, and he was already looking back up at you. Silently asking for confirmation. A short nod was all it took.

‘Oh shit,’ he groaned, after pushing his tip into you. A shaky breath left your lips. He used a soft thrusting motion to push all the way into you, hand on your hip to keep you upright, or maybe grounded.

‘Mmph— Fuck—’ You slumped forward against his chest when he bottomed out, breathing heavily into the crook of his neck.

Maybe it had been a while since you last had sex, maybe Jake was just big and you had to come to terms with that. Either way, he was groaning in your ear every time you squeezed him, and it was impossible not to when he left you feeling so full.

‘You okay?’ His voice was strained with the effort of holding back.

‘Just give me a second,’ you nodded.

‘Alright,’ he gently squeezed your hip.

A year or two ago, Jake may have laughed in your face and felt his ego inflate in this very moment. But he wanted you. No, he needed you at this point. He wasn’t going to fuck it up by acting like an asshole just using you for the sex. Well, he sure was happy to be getting laid, but this was you. Infuriating, frustrating you. The girl who slammed his door on the way out without even questioning him when he rejected you. The girl who bit his head off for the first two semesters of his university career every time he was in the same classroom as you. Who snuck away with him at a party only to deny him and leave him embarrassingly hard in a stranger’s bedroom, who gave him the best head of his life and then hurried off to play saviour for a close friend. Who also got him a high grade in that assignment you did ‘together’. And who he hadn’t seen up close in almost a year, even though he’d desperately wanted to be around you.

But most importantly, the girl who he caught scribbling his name into the freshly opened the notebook one time. Who’d watched him play soccer without ever speaking to him, who’d blushed when he asked to sit next to you in math.

He’d seen you there at some party when university first started up, looking way more carefree and less tense than you did in high school. You were laughing with your friends and holding a red solo cup, and he smiled to himself when he recognised you. He didn’t even know you were going to attend the same university. You seemed to forget about how he approached you at the party, catching up with you briefly before telling you just how gorgeous you were. Like something out of a movie, the supposed love of your life leaned in to kiss you.

But what scared him was that he didn’t really know you. He knew you liked him, and he knew you were willing to sleep with him, but that was as far as his knowledge went. And taking advantage of your lingering high school crush felt wrong. He wanted to know you. Maybe he should have been nicer, told you he’d like your number before he told you he wouldn’t fuck you. Did first year Jake even have that in him?

But hey, good things come to those who wait.

You sat back, his glossy eyes following your movements. You attempted to move your hips, gripping at his shoulder at the sensitivity. With a huff, you buried your face in his bare chest in defeat.

‘Don’t think I can ride you,’ you mumbled.

‘Okay, uh… Missionary?’ His voice was slightly panicked. He did not want to let you go. Again.

‘Yeah,’ your voice was still muffled against his chest.

He prompted you to lift up and lie down, him hovering over you once more as he grabbed your thigh and tugged you closer. He rubbed your clit with his tip, smiling as he heard you moan weakly. You wanted to whack him and tell him to stop teasing, but you felt too relaxed from the alcohol and your own arousal to do so.

He pushed back into you slowly, watching your expression for any sign of discomfort.

‘You feel so fucking good,’ he praised as he hooked your thigh over his hip. ‘So tight, squeezing me so good.’

You clenched around him, and that he smirked at.

‘Oh, you like that?’ He teased, sliding his hips back. You moaned out as he thrusted back into you nice and slow. ‘Like hearing how good your pussy sucks me in?’

You threw your arm over your eyes and laughed softly. The sound of your laughter only served to bring a smile to his face.

‘Don’t get shy on me, baby,’ he pressed a kiss to your neck. ‘I’m literally inside of you.’

Your arms came up to loop around his neck and shoulders to hold him there. He began to move, slowly at first. But when you made no move to stop him, he began to pick up the pace.

He was loud, but not whiny like last time. He groaned in your ear, nails biting into the skin of your thigh. Before long, the room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and the wetness pooling between your legs. Your moans grew in volume as he pounded into you, his breathless gasps and groans getting you impossibly wetter. You knew that cumming from penetration alone was rare, which is why you’d never been disappointed by the fact that you couldn’t. But with Jake, oh boy…

He pulled out and sat back on his knees, tugging you down the bed. He slid a pillow under your hips before he pushed back into you, gripping your thighs tightly.

‘Oh, god, Jake,’ your back arched, hand finding his shoulder to clutch onto. His thrusts hit your G-spot repeatedly, sometimes sliding to knock into your cervix right after. Your body was jolting and jerking, expression twisted with pleasure. ‘Think you’re gonna make me cum—’

‘Shit, really?’ He smirked. He was enjoying this far too much. The way your lips parted, the way you moaned for him, your face scrunching up in pleasure.

You groaned weakly, gently pushing your palm against his chest.

He brought one hand down to toy with your nipple, his other pressing on your lower abdomen. A soft whine left your lips and your hips bucked, the build-up becoming more and more intense. He wanted to kiss you as he made you cum, but it would fuck with the position and potentially ruin your orgasm.

Your thighs squeezed around his waist and you arched up, panting breathlessly. You fisted the bedsheet beneath you, legs trembling as you came. Your walls pulsed around him, squeezing him and making him groan. ‘Fuck, m’cumming—’

‘Fuck, baby, cum all over my cock,’ he gritted out, his thrusts softer as he simply watched you. His hand fell down to your clit, gently patting against it and making you cry out before you jerked away from his touch. ‘Shit, that was so hot.’

He pulled out of you again, making you whine. His gaze burned into the way the creamy fluid of your orgasm dripped out of you and all over his shaft. It was like his wettest dream became a reality.

‘You can keep going, right?’ He was already tossing the pillow aside.

‘Yeah— Jake!’ He flipped you flat onto your stomach, lying atop you. You didn’t get a second to process before he pushed into you from behind, forcing your mouth to drop open at the new angle. ‘Mmm, fuck.’

His hips repeatedly snapped against your ass, the sounds of skin on skin working to become louder as he grunted and groaned in your ear. ‘I would’ve done it, you know,’ he murmured, hand gripping your waist to push you further down into the bed.

‘Hm?’ You turned your head. He was quick to loop an arm around your neck, just barely choking you but forcing your head to remain straight.

His paced picked up, your moans turning into cries and near-screams as he repeatedly abused your hole. You were sure your ass would hurt in the morning from the way his hips were slamming against it.

‘Would’ve fucked that clueless look right off your face,’ he panted beside your ear. ‘But no, you just walked right out. Barely even questioned it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Your eyes narrowed in confusion, but he tightened his arm around your neck in attempt to shut you up.

‘And Sunghoon, really?’ He groaned. ‘I bet he didn’t fuck you like this.’

Where was all of this coming from?

‘Jake—?’ You gasped as he released his hold on your neck. Instead, his fingers wrapped around it, squeezing harder. You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling back into your head.

‘Should’ve been me,’ his thrusts slowed. He fucked into you deeper, harder. Your body jerked forward every time he pressed into you. ‘Should’ve made this perfect pussy all mine from the start.’

He must’ve lost his mind. Oh well, you were enjoying him lay out his regrets for you.

His hand released your neck and he moved to hold himself up with one hand. The other gripped your waist again, pushing you down as he picked up his pace. When he started moaning breathlessly, you knew he was getting close. But you couldn’t do anything to help get him there, except lie there and take it. It being his jealousy- or maybe anger-fuelled pounding that had you clawing at the bedsheets and crying out for— Mercy?

‘Fuck, I’m so close,’ he gritted out, nails digging into your waist. ‘Gonna let me pump you full of my cum?’

‘Y-Yes,’ you gasped, noting how his thrusts stuttered and his cock twitched inside of you.

‘Fuck, Y/N,’ he moaned, forehead falling to your shoulder as he came deep inside of you. His thrusts continued, slow and soft as he groaned into your skin. You shuddered, his hot, sticky cum coating your walls. He pulled out then, watching until it began to drip out of you.

He could hardly help himself, stuffing two fingers back into you. You yelped, clenching around his fingers and attempting to scoot away from him. His coated fingers slid out of you and then tapped against your lips, silently ordering you to suck them clean.

‘How do we taste, baby?’ He teased as your lips wrapped around his fingers with a hum.

You grabbed his wrist and pulled his fingers away, gasping for air as you glared up at him. ‘I hate you,’

‘Seriously?’ He huffed, wiping his fingers on his sheets.

‘Yes, seriously,’ you groaned, shoving your face into the mattress.

‘Come on, I just fucked you so good,’ he tried to push you onto your back, but gently as to not provoke you.

‘Yeah, that’s the problem,’ you swatted his hand away.

‘The problem is that I fucked you so good that you hate me even more now?’ He raised a brow as you rolled onto your back.

‘Yes,’ you spat. ‘You’re telling me we could’ve been fucking like this for years now? And what was all that about you wishing it had been you? Ever heard of communication? You acted like it had never even happened in that first class we had together—’

‘C’mere,’ he chuckled softly, smothering you in a hug as he pulled you into his side.

Published by 11keu on Tumblr, 22nd January 2025.

first fic on here!! lmk if u liked it or if u hated it and i should just deactivate alr.. kidding but i appreciate feedback good or bad so idk just interact w me :)

also lmk if u want a part 2 bc i like their dynamic so i’d be willing to do a continuation

[reidmoony-toast]

Angel. - sr x reader

Reader gets shot and Spencer is there to comfort her

content: fem reader, established relationship, angst/comfort, ambiguous ending, no use of y/n, takes place in 15x01-02

cw: canon compliant violence, blood, guns, dying (they're going to be fine dw)

wc: 966

an: Hey, so this is my first ever published Spencer fic, so I'm really nervous lol! This will get zero to no engagement and I'm accepting that now, but if ya'll want a part 2 I'm happy to oblige!! Enjoy lovelies <3

Part 2

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

Everything happened so quickly, yet it felt like a millennia before I hit the ground–free falling through life and death in turn, the descent ending on the dingy floor of a parking garage. My vision cut in and out through the surges of white-hot agony that were coursing throughout my entire body, ears ringing.

I saw a blurry figure pile into a car, before peeling out of the parking space, kicking up dust as it raced out of the building. I tried to move to grab my gun that was lying a few feet away, but it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on me, causing me to become prone and forcing me to accept the fate that was laid before me.

As I coughed up blood, I had the inexplicable urge to laugh. The irony, that this was the way I would go out–lying defenceless and helpless on the cold concrete, synthetic LED bulbs flickering incessantly above me.

The pain was becoming too unbearable, paralysing any coherent thoughts. There was one word that was repeated over and over again:

Spencer.

I didn't know if it was a prayer to some higher being, or merely a mantra, but it was the only single word I could make out in the haze of my dying mind. I wished I was the one with the eidetic memory, so that I could at least see his face one last time.

Blood pooled steadily around me as it left my body, never to return. The ringing in my ears steadily grew louder while the garage was dead silent, besides for the wet sounds of me choking on my own blood.

The bitter silence was cut off by the frantic shouting of a name. My name. The person neared, skidding to a halt and dropping to their knees beside me. The blurry figure hovered over me, obscuring the too-bright lights from view.

They came into partial focus, and I choked out a sob when I realised my pathetic prayers had been answered. Spencer was here. He shushed me soothingly, stroking my hair with shaking hands. "It's okay, baby. You're gonna be okay, okay?" He cradled my cheeks with his hands, trying in vain to wipe the blood from my face with his own bloodied hands. I sobbed again, squeezing my eyes shut.

"No, no, no, no," Spencer chanted, "Keep your eyes open, love, please. Look at me," He pleaded, gently shaking me so that I would open my eyes again. They landed on his face, screwed up in worry and pain. I vaguely wondered if he was hurt, if that's why he looked as though he too was in agony.

My eyes studied his face as best as they could, mapping out every detail, desperate to memorise it. They landed where they–without fail–always did. His eyes stared back with tears, frantic and pleading. I would gladly study these eyes for hours on end–and I did–so much so that he would often make fun of me for the incessant staring.

It didn't stop me though, not while those deep brown eyes with the ring of pure gold in the centre were there for me to look at. That's where my gaze now rested, on those gorgeous, breathtaking eyes.

"Spencer." My voice was foreign to me–shaky and so unbelievably small. "You- you came." I strangled out. He nodded, pushing my hair back off of my face.

"I'm here, baby. I'm here." His voice cracked and trailed off. He never let go of me as he radioed in, asking for an immediate ambulance. I didn't hear the response. Spencer carefully repositioned me, laying my head and shoulders in his lap as he searched for the source of the bleeding.

I gazed numbly up at Spencer, the lights causing a halo around his head with his messy curls. I thought that it was fitting. By all accounts he was an angel. My angel. I let out a shaky and ragged breath. How many more of those would I have? I could most likely count them with one hand.

Spencer stopped his quick search when he found what he was looking for, immediately putting pressure on the wound. I cried out at the added agony. "I know, I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry." He kept chanting, cradling my head with his free hand. I whimper in pain.

"Spencer?" I breathed out, voice wobbling. He stroked my cheek lovingly, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Yes?"

My face crumpled in pain. "It hurts."

He drew in a sharp, pained breath. "I know, baby, I know." He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Help's coming, okay? Hang in there, love." Another shaky breath. "Stay with me." His sentence tapered off to a barely audible volume, bloodied hand shaking violently on my face, tears dripping down his cheeks. "Please."

I started coughing again, more blood spraying over my face, some of it even ending up on Spencer's. It made me disproportionately angry–that his face was tainted with my dying blood. I wished I could wipe it off, but I didn't have the strength to lift my arm.

My vision swam as I started to lose what was left of my consciousness as what felt like the last of my blood left my body. My eyes fluttered closed.

"No, no, no, hey!" Spencer gently tapped my cheek. "Don't close your eyes. Stay awake until the ambulance arrives, please," He begged, but my lids were incredibly heavy.

"I-I feel–," I sucked in a shallow breath. "So cold."

He bundled me tighter against him, trying to sooth me with whispered comforting words. The last thing I remembered before I slipped out of consciousness was Spencer's calming voice and the sound of approaching sirens.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[halopedia]

Check out the newest Canon Fodder by @ur-haruspis Halopedians! Giving lore to many of Digsites finds in the cutting room floor!

Yes even the slugmen get discussed!

Side note: Be sure to check out the Halo: Outcasts previews that are linked in article! We swear they are fantastic reads that will get you pumped for the book releasing August 8!

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Love Bites

A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Word Count: 6,956

Content Warning: mentions of blood and biting.

The rain poured steadily, creating rivers along the curbs and a persistent rhythm against the asphalt. Y/n pulled her coat tighter around her, the cold seeping through the damp fabric. The dim glow of streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, casting distorted halos that barely lit the way. Her shoes squished with every step, water seeping through the soles as she navigated the uneven sidewalk.

She glanced around, the city that never sleeps unusually subdued in the downpour. The occasional car splashed by, headlights cutting through the darkness, but the streets felt eerily empty. Her apartment was still several blocks away, and the thought of the warmth inside kept her moving despite the chill that gripped her.

The rain masked the usual cacophony of the city, leaving only the sound of water and her own breathing. As she rounded a corner, a faint light from a bodega sign flickered, offering a brief sense of orientation in the endless maze of shadows and slick surfaces.

“Almost there,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. But with every step forward, the night seemed to grow darker, the path more uncertain.

Y/n barely noticed the bodega’s door swinging open until a figure stepped out into the rain. She flinched slightly, startled by the sudden movement. A man stood there, pulling up the hood of his coat, his face half-lit by the flickering neon sign above.

“Bit of a miserable night, isn’t it?” he said, his accent soft and distinctly British, cutting through the rain like a warm thread.

Y/n blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The man’s green eyes seemed to hold an unusual brightness despite the gloom, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges where it peeked out from under his hood.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she replied, clutching her coat a little tighter, the chill biting at her fingertips.

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile, the kind that didn’t quite belong on someone standing in the middle of a downpour. “You alright? Look like you’ve had a bit of a rough one.”

Y/n hesitated, unsure why she felt compelled to answer. There was something disarming about him, his tone unassuming, as if they’d crossed paths a thousand times before. “Just trying to get home,” she finally said, her voice soft but steady.

He nodded, glancing down the street as if considering her path. “Not too far, I hope?”

“A few more blocks,” she said, motioning vaguely in the direction she’d been heading.

He tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. “This time of night, in this weather… mind some company? At least until you’re closer to home?”

Y/n studied him for a moment, weighing her options. He didn’t seem threatening—just someone caught in the same rainstorm, maybe trying to make it a little less lonely. After a pause, she gave a slight nod.

“Alright,” she said, her voice quieter now. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, I’m Harry by the way,” he replied, falling into step beside her. The rain continued its steady rhythm, but somehow, the darkness didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The rain softened to a mist as Y/n and Harry walked side by side, their footsteps splashing lightly against the wet pavement. The quiet lull of the city made their conversation feel intimate, as though the rest of the world had faded away.

“So,” Y/n began, sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye. His hood had slipped back slightly, revealing more of his damp curls. “What were you doing out so late in this weather?”

Harry smiled faintly, his hands buried in his coat pockets. “Needed a walk. Clears my head, y’know? And the rain… well, it’s peaceful in its own way.”

Y/n hummed in agreement, noting the melodic lilt of his voice. She found herself glancing at him more often than she meant to. There was something otherworldly about him—his pale complexion almost luminous under the faint glow of the streetlights, his features sharp but softened by a kindness in his eyes.

“And you? What’s got you out here braving the elements?” he asked, turning his gaze toward her.

“Long day at work,” she admitted, sighing. “I usually take the subway, but it was packed, and I just… needed some air.”

Harry nodded, as if he understood completely. “Fair enough. Sometimes the chaos down there feels worse than the storm up here.”

As they walked, Y/n noticed how his presence seemed to ease her nerves. She didn’t normally trust strangers—especially not in a city like this, and especially not on dark, rainy nights. But with Harry, it felt different. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt safe, as though he was someone she’d known for years rather than minutes.

They reached the corner of her street, and she glanced at him again. His coat clung to his frame, and she realized he wasn’t shivering despite the cold. In fact, he seemed entirely unaffected by the weather, like he belonged to the rain and the darkness surrounding them.

“You live nearby?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

He nodded, gesturing vaguely down the street. “A few buildings that way. Looks like we’re practically neighbors.”

She smiled, a small warmth blossoming in her chest. “Small world.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, a softness there that made her cheeks heat despite the cold. “It is,” he said quietly, his tone almost wistful.

As they stopped in front of her apartment building, Y/n hesitated, unsure of what to say. She didn’t want the moment to end, even though they were still practically strangers.

“This is me,” she said finally, gesturing toward the door.

Harry nodded, his smile faint but genuine. “Glad I could walk you home, Y/n.”

She blinked, her heart skipping. “How did you know my name?”

For a split second, his expression flickered—something unreadable passing across his face—but then his smile returned. “You told me earlier, didn’t you?”

Y/n frowned, certain she hadn’t. But before she could question it further, Harry gave a slight nod.

“Get inside before you catch a cold,” he said gently. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the misty rain, leaving Y/n standing there, heart racing, wondering why she felt so drawn to him. 

The next day

The bell above the bookshop door jingled as Y/n worked behind the counter, the steady hum of espresso machines and soft chatter creating a comforting background noise. She loved her job, it was the perfect blend of cozy and bustling, surrounded by books and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

She glanced up as a familiar figure caught her eye. Harry was sitting at a corner table in the café, a book open in front of him. His damp curls from the night before were now dry, but he still had that same ethereal look about him—pale and strikingly beautiful, like he’d stepped out of a painting.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, then decided to approach him. She grabbed a clean cloth and pretended to wipe down the nearby table before stopping beside his.

“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms with a teasing smile. “Are you following me now, or is this just a coincidence?”

Harry looked up from his book, his lips curving into a small smile. “Caught me,” he replied, his tone playful. “Couldn’t resist the coffee.”

Y/n chuckled, leaning slightly against the back of a chair. “You know, most people come here for the books and the coffee. It’s kind of our thing.”

He raised a brow, amusement dancing in his green eyes. “Is that so? What if I’m just here for the company?”

She rolled her eyes, suppressing the grin tugging at her lips. “Smooth.” Gesturing to the menu board, she asked, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry? We’ve got these killer croissants today.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t really eat…”

Y/n blinked, her smile faltering. “Oh. Uh… okay. Just coffee, then?”

He shook his head, his gaze steady but kind. “I’m good with this.” He tapped the book in front of him, avoiding her curious stare.

A strange vibe settled between them, and Y/n felt a small prickle of unease. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the way he’d said it—so casual, yet so odd—stuck with her.

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m just over there,” she said, forcing a smile as she nodded toward the counter.

“Thanks, Y/n,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying that same calm warmth that had put her at ease the night before.

She walked away, glancing back once to find him already immersed in his book again. The unease lingered, though, as if there was more to Harry than he was letting on.

Y/n lingered behind the counter, her hands busy with a towel as she wiped down the espresso machine. But her thoughts kept drifting to Harry, sitting so calmly at his table like he belonged there, as if their encounter last night hadn’t been strange at all. The question that had nagged her since then resurfaced, and before she could overthink it, she walked back over to his table.

“Alright,” she said, stopping in front of him, her arms crossed over her apron. “I need to ask you something.”

Harry looked up from his book, his brow lifting slightly. “Go on.”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his calm, steady gaze. “Last night, when you walked me home, you said my name. But I never told you what it was. How did you know?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You sure you didn’t tell me?” he asked lightly, though there was something unreadable in his tone.

“I’m sure,” Y/n said firmly, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not exactly something I forget.”

Harry tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe I overheard someone else say it.”

“There was no one else around,” she countered, crossing her arms tighter.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”

“It’s a fair question,” she pressed, feeling a mix of curiosity and frustration. “It’s not every day a stranger magically knows your name.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly, his gaze softening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

Y/n felt her breath hitch at his tone, the way it seemed to hold more weight than his casual demeanor suggested.

“So?” she prompted, leaning closer. “How?”

Harry glanced down at his book for a moment, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages. Then he looked back up at her, his green eyes almost glowing under the café’s warm lights.

“Let’s just say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m very good with names. Especially when they belong to people I’d like to remember.”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his words. There was something cryptic in his answer, something that left her feeling like she was only scratching the surface of a much larger mystery.

She straightened, unsure of how to respond. “That’s… vague.”

Harry smiled again, softer this time. “Maybe some things are better left that way.”

Y/n studied him for a moment longer, her unease mixed with an undeniable curiosity. Finally, she nodded, stepping back. “Alright, mystery man. But don’t think I’m letting this go.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said, his smile returning, though his eyes seemed to hold a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share.

The days slipped by, and the bookshop settled back into its usual rhythm—customers browsing shelves, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine, the steady hum of conversations drifting through the café. But Y/n’s thoughts kept wandering to Harry.

She hadn’t seen him since that day. No quiet figure tucked into the corner with a book, no knowing smiles or cryptic comments. She found herself glancing toward the door whenever the bell jingled, half-expecting him to walk in with that calm, unreadable expression. But he didn’t.

“Everything okay?” her coworker, Ellie, asked as she restocked a display of mugs.

Y/n blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the café’s empty corner table for too long. “Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just zoning out.”

Ellie gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been weird lately. Is this about the guy who was here the other day? The tall one with the curls?”

“What? No,” Y/n said, maybe a little too defensively.

Ellie smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Y/n sighed, brushing a stray hair from her face. “It’s not like that. He’s just… interesting. And I haven’t seen him around. I might’ve scared him off.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “What’d you do? Grill him on his life story?”

“Maybe,” Y/n muttered, heat rising to her cheeks.

Her coworker laughed. “Relax. If he’s worth it, he’ll come back. Guys like that always do.”

But as the hours ticked by and the café emptied out for the night, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry wasn’t just any guy. There was something different about him—something that made her want to figure him out, even if she couldn’t explain why.

Later, as she locked up the shop and stepped out into the crisp evening air, she found herself looking down the street toward the direction of his building. The thought crossed her mind: What if I went to see if he’s around?

She shook her head, pushing the idea away. It was silly. He was a stranger, practically. But even as she walked home, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d see him again or if she’d scared him away for good.

The rain had stopped earlier in the evening, leaving the streets slick and shining under the glow of the streetlights. Y/n pulled her jacket tighter around herself as she walked, the familiar route past the bodega feeling strangely empty tonight.

She hadn’t planned to take this way home, but her feet had carried her here anyway, as if some part of her was hoping to see him again. The corner bodega’s neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a pale light on the pavement. The door was open, a faint clink of glass bottles and low conversation spilling out, but Harry wasn’t there.

Y/n lingered for a moment, pretending to check her phone as she glanced around. The street was quiet except for the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the dimness.

What are you even doing? she thought, feeling a little ridiculous. It wasn’t like Harry had promised to meet her here or even hinted at being nearby. For all she knew, he was off doing something completely unrelated to her.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something—or someone.

With a sigh, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking again, her shoes clicking softly against the wet pavement. The night felt heavier than usual, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

When she finally reached her apartment building, she paused on the steps, casting one last glance down the street. Nothing. No sign of him, no flash of dark curls or the quiet intensity of his gaze.

Maybe he really is gone, she thought, a pang of disappointment settling in her chest.

As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she resolved to let it go. Harry was just a stranger who had crossed her path briefly—nothing more. 

The weeks passed in a blur of routine. Y/n poured herself into her work at the café, stacking books, crafting perfect cappuccinos, and chatting with regulars. But her mind often drifted to Harry—his mysterious air, his cryptic comments, and his sudden absence. Every night she took the same route past the bodega, hoping for even a glimpse of him, but the streets remained empty of him.

Until one night.

The air was biting as she walked, her breath visible in the faint glow of the streetlights. The bodega’s sign buzzed faintly in the distance, and she was about to pass it when a shadow shifted in her peripheral vision.

“Y/n.”

The voice was unmistakable—low, soft, and tinged with something that made her heart skip. She turned quickly, and there he was.

But he wasn’t the same Harry she remembered. His usually radiant complexion looked pale and dull, his dark curls messier than before. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders seemed to sag as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“Harry,” she breathed, a mix of relief and concern flooding her. “Where have you been?”

He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Around.” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken much in days.

Y/n took a hesitant step closer, her worry growing. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering down the street as if he were debating whether to stay or leave. “I’ll be fine,” he said finally, though the words felt hollow.

She frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s not convincing.” Without thinking, she added, “Come back to my place. You look like you need… something. Rest, food, whatever.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers, wide with surprise. For a moment, he seemed frozen, as if the idea of being taken care of was foreign to him. “Y/n, I—”

“No arguments,” she interrupted, her voice firmer than she expected. “It’s cold, and you look like you’re about to keel over. My apartment’s just a few blocks away.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening as if he were about to refuse. But then something in his expression softened, and he gave a small nod.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Lead the way.”

The walk to her apartment was quiet, the sound of their footsteps the only noise between them. Y/n kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to piece together what had happened in the weeks since she’d last seen him. He looked strung out.

When they reached her building, she opened the door and gestured for him to follow her inside. “It’s not much,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “but it’s warm.”

Once inside, she flipped on the lights, casting the small living room in a cozy glow. Harry stepped in hesitantly, his gaze sweeping over the space.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, shrugging off her coat. “I’ll grab you something to drink.”

He nodded, sinking onto the edge of her couch as if he didn’t quite belong there. As Y/n moved to the kitchen, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him and why, despite his mysterious nature, she felt so compelled to help him.

Y/n filled a glass with water in the kitchen, the sound of the tap running filling the quiet apartment. She glanced toward the living room, where Harry sat on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.

“Here,” she said, walking over and holding the glass out to him. “You look like you could use this.”

Harry glanced at it but didn’t move to take it. “I’m not thirsty,” he said softly, his tone calm but firm.

Y/n frowned, lowering the glass slightly. “You sure? You look—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupted gently, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She hesitated, the glass still in her hand. The refusal wasn’t rude, but there was something about it that felt… off. Her instincts prickled again, the same way they had back at the café when he’d made that odd comment about not eating food.

To ease the tension building in her chest, she forced a nervous laugh and said, “What, are you a vampire or something?”

The room fell silent.

Harry’s faint smile vanished, and his gaze locked on hers, unblinking and intense. The air seemed to shift, the cozy warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling.

Y/n’s heart thudded in her chest as the seconds stretched on, her own laugh fading into the stillness. “I was just kidding,” she said quickly, her voice quieter now.

Harry’s expression softened slightly, but there was something guarded in his eyes. “That’s an interesting guess,” he said finally, his tone measured.

The way he said it sent a chill down her spine. She tried to laugh again, but it came out shaky. “Well, you’re pale, you don’t eat, you’re… mysterious. You kind of fit the stereotype.”

Harry leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And would it scare you if I were?”

Y/n froze, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not—and that uncertainty was the most unsettling part of all.

“Harry,” she said carefully, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re kidding, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting hers again. “Maybe,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The room felt heavier now, the unspoken tension crackling in the air. Y/n clutched the glass tighter, her mind racing. She couldn’t decide if he was messing with her or if there was something she was better off not knowing.

Y/n blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “What?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady.

Harry tilted his head slightly, his green eyes steady and unreadable. “If I were a vampire,” he said softly, his tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather, “would you let me… drink your blood?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she continued to tighten her grip on the glass of water, unsure whether to laugh, run, or… stay. The question was absurd, yet the way he asked it—so direct, so quiet—made her pulse quicken in a way she couldn’t quite define.

“I—uh…” Y/n stammered, shifting on her feet. She tried to gauge his expression, but it was impossible to tell if he was serious or just teasing her.

“You’re nervous,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. His voice was low, but it wasn’t threatening. If anything, it sounded… curious. “But you’re not afraid.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her breath catching as she realized he was right. Her nervousness wasn’t from fear—it was from something else entirely. A strange mix of curiosity and anticipation coursed through her, leaving her unsure of how to respond.

“Well,” she said finally, trying to keep her voice light, “I think most people would be nervous if someone asked to suck their blood, Harry. Hypothetically or not.”

His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though his gaze remained fixed on her. “Fair point,” he murmured, his tone almost playful. “But you haven’t answered the question.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind racing. Was he joking? Was he testing her? Was this just another layer of his cryptic nature, or was there something more?

“I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “Would it hurt?”

The question escaped her before she could stop it, and her cheeks burned as she realized what she’d just said.

Harry’s smile grew slightly, the intensity in his eyes softening just a fraction. “Not as much as you’d think,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Y/n’s mind screamed at her to break the silence, to laugh it off, to do something—but all she could do was stand there, caught in the strange pull of his gaze.

Harry’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a faint, almost predatory smile. “So,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Would you let me do it?”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her pulse pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, but after a moment, she nodded—slowly, hesitantly.

His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite place, and before she could second-guess herself, Harry closed the distance between them. His hands cupped her face with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air, and then his lips were on hers.

The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, but it quickly deepened, his fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her closer. Y/n felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them, every thought and worry drowned out by the electric connection sparking between them.

Before she realized it, Harry’s lips left hers, trailing a line of featherlight kisses along her jaw, down to the curve of her neck.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm and sending shivers down her spine.

Y/n barely had time to process his words before she felt the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth breaking the surface of her skin. The pain was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a strange, heady warmth that spread through her like liquid fire. Her knees wobbled, and she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, her mind spinning.

Harry held her firmly, his grip strong but careful, as if he were afraid of breaking her. She could feel the pull of his mouth on her neck, the sensation both terrifying and intoxicating.

When he finally drew back, his lips red and his breathing heavy, Y/n swayed slightly, her vision hazy.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

Y/n blinked up at him, her hand instinctively going to her neck. She nodded, though her words came out shaky. “Yeah… I think so.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hand brushing her cheek. “Good,” he murmured. But there was something in his eyes—an intensity, a hunger—that made her heart race all over again.

Y/n leaned back against the armrest of the couch, her hand still pressed lightly to her neck. The room felt brighter, sharper—her senses alive in a way they had never been before. She wasn’t scared; if anything, she felt a strange, almost blissful calm.

“Is this…” she began, her voice dreamy, “going to turn me into a vampire or something?”

Harry let out a low laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he said, his tone amused but gentle. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s a bit more… complicated than in the stories.”

Y/n tilted her head, her curiosity piqued despite the haze of euphoria swirling through her. “So, how does it work?”

Harry’s eyes softened as he looked at her, though the faint hunger lingering in them hadn’t entirely disappeared. “You’d have to drink from me, for one,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “But it’s not something I’d let happen. Not to you.”

She frowned slightly, her fingers absently tracing her neck where she could feel the faint warmth from the bite. “Why not?”

He smiled faintly, leaning closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Because I like you the way you are,” he said simply, his voice carrying an honesty that made her heart skip.

The faint flush in her cheeks deepened, and she looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re… different,” she murmured, unsure if it was a compliment or an observation.

“So are you,” Harry countered, his voice soft but serious. “More than you know.”

Before she could respond, he added, almost to himself, “You taste… sweet. Like nothing I’ve ever had before.” His gaze met hers, his lips curving into a sly smile. “I could find myself addicted to you, Y/n.”

Her heart thudded at his words, a mix of excitement and trepidation flooding her. “Is that… a bad thing?”

Harry’s smile faltered for a moment, and his expression grew darker, more thoughtful. “It could be,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “For both of us.”

The weight of his words hung between them, but Y/n found herself unable to look away from him. Despite everything—his mysterious nature, his cryptic answers, and now, the undeniable truth of what he was—she didn’t feel afraid.

Instead, she felt drawn to him even more.

Harry’s gaze held hers, an intensity in his expression that made Y/n’s breath catch. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his tousled curls as if weighing whether or not to speak.

Finally, he sighed, his voice low and deliberate. “The first night I saw you… outside the bodega,” he began, his green eyes locking onto hers, “it wasn’t by chance.”

Y/n tilted her head, confusion flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, a faint flicker of guilt flashing in his expression. “I… I caught your scent,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “As I walked out, it hit me like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.”

She blinked, stunned by his words. “You smelled me?”

Harry gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “It’s a… heightened sense. Part of what I am. Your scent—it was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. I couldn’t help myself. I followed it.”

Y/n’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing. “You followed me?”

“To your apartment,” he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “And then… to your job the next day. I couldn’t stay away. I needed to understand why I felt so drawn to you.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind swirling with questions. “So… when you showed up at the café, that wasn’t a coincidence either?”

He shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “No. It was intentional. But when I met you, when we talked… it wasn’t just your scent anymore. You were…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “You were magnetic. I was… enamored.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her stomach flip at his confession. “Then why did you stop coming around?”

Harry looked away, his jaw tightening briefly. “Because I was afraid you’d catch on. That you’d figure out what I am, or worse… that I’d lose control.” He met her gaze again, his voice softer now. “But when I saw you taking that same route every night, I knew you were looking for me. And I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. “You came back… for me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “I tried to stay away, but you… you make that impossible.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, the weight of his words settling over her. She should’ve been frightened—by the revelation, by the intensity of his feelings but instead, she felt a strange sense of relief, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Y/n,” Harry continued, his voice low, almost reverent. “But you’ve pulled me in, and I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to.”

Y/n took a shaky breath, her hand still resting on her neck where his teeth had pierced her skin. Her heart was racing, but not from fear. She looked at him, meeting his gaze, and finally admitted, “I feel it too. Like… there’s some kind of connection between us. I can’t explain it, but it’s there.”

Harry’s eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’ve felt it from the moment I saw you,” he murmured.

She hesitated, her fingers curling into her lap as she worked up the courage to ask the question lingering in her mind. “Do you… do you drink from other people?”

Harry shook his head, his expression turning serious. “No,” he said firmly. “We have other ways to get blood. Hospitals, banks, sources that… don’t involve hurting anyone. Feeding directly from someone—it’s rare for my kind, and we don’t take it lightly.”

She studied him for a moment, her chest tightening as a strange mix of emotions swirled within her. “But you drank from me,” she said quietly.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “I did. I shouldn’t have, but… I couldn’t resist. You’re—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching slightly before he continued. “You’re different, Y/n. I’ve never wanted someone’s blood like I wanted yours. But it’s not just that. It’s you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away, unsure how to process his words. After a moment, she looked back at him, meeting his gaze directly. “So… you’re a vampire.”

Harry blinked, and then a low laugh rumbled from his chest. He leaned back slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “That’s such a dramatic word,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow, her nervousness fading slightly as his humor eased the tension in the room. “I mean, it is what you are, isn’t it?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “It just sounds… cheesy, doesn’t it? Like I’m straight out of some old gothic novel.”

“Well,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “you did just bite me and drink my blood, so… maybe the label fits.”

Harry grinned, his fangs briefly flashing in the light, and Y/n couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

Y/n shifted on the couch, her curiosity burning brighter than ever. She tucked her legs beneath her, leaning forward slightly. “I have so many questions,” she admitted, her voice trembling just a little, but more with excitement than fear.

Harry smirked, resting his arm on the back of the couch as he watched her. “Then ask,” he said smoothly. “I’ll answer—within reason.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Within reason? That sounds suspicious.”

His smirk grew, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “There are some things you might not be ready to hear yet, love. But I’ll do my best.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Fine. First question: how old are you? Like, really?”

Harry laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Straight to the point, I see. I’m… older than I look. A little over a century.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but lean back in disbelief. “A century? You’re over a hundred years old?”

“Give or take a decade,” he said, his tone light. “Though I stopped counting after the first fifty or so.”

Y/n shook her head, trying to process that. “Okay, next question: can you go out in the sun, or is that a no-go?”

Harry chuckled. “I can, but I don’t recommend it. It’s uncomfortable—think of it like a really bad sunburn that happens almost instantly. That’s why you usually won’t find me out during the day unless I absolutely have to be.”

She nodded, her mind buzzing with possibilities. “Do you sleep in a coffin?”

That earned her a full laugh, Harry throwing his head back slightly. “No, I don’t. I have a perfectly comfortable bed, thank you very much.”

Y/n grinned. “Alright, what about garlic? Crosses? Holy water?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Garlic’s just food. Crosses don’t bother me unless someone shoves one in my face, which is just rude. And holy water? Let’s just say it’s not my favorite thing, but it’s not going to make me burst into flames either.”

She laughed, relaxing a little more as she listened to him. “Okay, serious question now,” she said, her tone softening. “Is it… lonely? Living so long?”

Harry’s expression grew thoughtful, the teasing edge fading from his features. “It can be,” he admitted quietly. “You watch people come and go. You lose people. It’s part of the deal, but it doesn’t make it easier.”

Y/n felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. “That sounds… hard.”

“It is,” he said simply. “But then, sometimes you meet someone who makes it worth it.”

Her breath caught at the way he looked at her as he said it, his gaze steady and warm. She quickly diverted her attention to her next question, her cheeks flushing. “Alright, last one—for now. Why me?”

Harry smiled softly, leaning closer. “I wish I knew,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “But whatever it is, Y/n, I’m not sure I want to question it.”

Y/n hesitated before asking her next question, her voice barely above a whisper. “Would you ever… turn someone? So you could stay with them?”

Harry’s expression softened, his gaze dropping to his hands as he thought about her words. The air in the room grew heavy with the weight of the question, and Y/n could see the conflict flickering in his eyes.

He finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “It’s not a decision I’d take lightly,” he admitted. “Turning someone… it’s not as simple as just giving them eternal life. It changes everything—your body, your mind, your world. There’s no going back.”

Y/n watched him carefully, her heart thudding as she tried to read his expression. “But if it meant being with someone you loved… forever?”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze. “I’ve thought about it,” he said honestly, his tone raw. “And I won’t lie—it’s tempting. But it’s also selfish.”

“How is it selfish?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Because it’s not my life I’d be changing. It’s theirs. I’d be asking them to give up so much—the sun, the ability to grow old, to live a normal life. It’s a lot to ask of someone, and it’s not something I could do lightly. Especially to someone I care about.”

Y/n felt a lump form in her throat at the sincerity in his voice. “So… you wouldn’t do it?”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes piercing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’d want to say no. To let the person I love live their life the way they were meant to. But if I knew I was going to lose them…” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to let go.”

Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, and she reached out, placing a hand over his. “Harry,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside her, “I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

He gave her a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But with you… I think I’d have to be.”

Y/n’s hand lingered on his, her touch grounding him. She looked at him, her eyes soft but filled with determination. “I want to see you again, Harry.”

His jaw tensed, and he glanced away, as though wrestling with his thoughts. “Y/n,” he started, his voice low and measured, “this… this might not be a good idea. For you.”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Why not?”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair. “Because the more time you spend with me, the harder it’ll be for both of us to walk away. And you might have to one day. For your own good.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but she shook her head, her voice unwavering. “I don’t want to walk away. I don’t care how complicated this is—I want to see you. I feel… connected to you, Harry. I can’t just ignore that.”

His green eyes met hers, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing through them. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said softly, almost sadly. “Being close to me… it’s not safe. It’s not normal.”

“I don’t want safe or normal,” she replied firmly. “I want you. Whatever that looks like.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, as though trying to steady himself, before opening them again. “You’re making this harder than it already is,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension in his voice.

Y/n leaned closer, her hand still on his. “Then stop fighting it. You want to see me again too, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but the way his gaze softened told her everything she needed to know. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

Her lips curved into a small, hopeful smile. “Then let’s not overthink it. Just… let’s see where this goes.”

Harry’s expression remained conflicted, but he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “But we take it one step at a time. No promises, no expectations.”

Y/n nodded, her smile widening slightly. “One step at a time,” she echoed.

Y/n’s heart was racing, but she didn’t hesitate. Slowly, she leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. Harry’s breath hitched, his conflicted expression softening as she closed the distance between them.

Her lips met his, soft and tentative at first, but the electricity between them was undeniable. Harry responded almost immediately, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as he deepened the kiss. There was a gentleness in the way he touched her, as though he was afraid she might break, but there was also an intensity—an unspoken longing that neither of them could deny.

The kiss was slow but full of meaning, every moment stretching as though time itself had paused for them. When they finally pulled back, Y/n’s cheeks were flushed, her breathing unsteady.

Harry’s green eyes searched hers, a mix of wonder and restraint in his gaze. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing against his. “Maybe,” she whispered, “but you’re worth it.”

For a moment, Harry looked like he might protest, but instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re making it impossible for me to stay away,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, her confidence growing. “Because I don’t want you to.” 

[lowpolynpixelated]

Bloodborne PSX One of the best fanworks on the web

Though the PS4 boasted and still boasts an impressive library of releases, for many (myself included) the system served to be bought for initially one purpose, to be the Bloodborne Machine. Most of the people in my life who had a PS4 during its generation either bought one exclusively to play Fromsoftware’s Nightmare Hunting Adventure or had initially got one solely to play the game and ended up getting more games afterward. It’s a phenomenon the game industry sees time and time again, with previous generations having swathes of fans buying entire consoles for one or two games. As far as games go though, Bloodborne is at the very least worth the price of entry. At the time, it was heralded as Fromsoftware’s most cutting-edge and impressive game to date. A gorgeous gothic world filled with creatures ripped straight out of H.P Lovecraft’s nightmares, a haunting soundtrack showcasing beautifully composed choral scores and a combat system that incentivized aggression and speed to achieve brutal and bloody efficiency. It’s no wonder then why Bloodborne still has such a large following behind it. Fans of Fromsoftware have hoped for a sequel or PC port year after year to largely disappointing results. But where the community shines is in its fanworks. 

From fanart, comics, music, animations, and even fan-made video game spinoffs, the game has been shown a monumental amount of love since its debut in 2015. One of these fanworks was released back in 2022 and has since become one of the most famous pieces of fan-made content surrounding the game, this of course, being BloodbornePSX by LWMedia. An incredibly impressive feat of coding and art direction, the game serves as a “Demake” of Bloodborne’s first Yharnam segment, made to look like and play as if it were made on the very first PlayStation console. With some custom-made areas and an entirely unique boss to boot the perfectly paced experience is both a treat to fans who have been orbiting the game since its earliest days and new fans looking for the best and brightest fanworks to interact with. 

The game has since gone on to be covered by a variety of news outlets all over the web, along with its creator receiving much-deserved attention for her efforts. One Lilith Walther (AKA b0tster on social media) holds the title of developer for the project. A long-time video game enthusiast and FromSoftware fan herself, she’s had quite an impact on the community I’m sure she’s very proud to be a part of. Later in the article, we’ve got an interview with Lilith herself about both Bloodborne PSX and her current project, “Bloodborne Kart”, but first, let’s talk a bit more in-depth about BBPSX.

(Official launch trailer for Bloodborne PSX, uploaded January 31, 2022 by LWMedia on Youtube)

Bloodborne PSX:

So, what exactly is Bloodborne PSX? To start, let’s answer what precisely a “Demake” is first. Demakes often have the goal of remaking the likeness of a game either stylistically, mechanically, or both, as if it was developed on retro/outdated hardware. Famous examples of Demakes include “The Mummy Demastered” developed by Wayforward as a sort of tie-in to the 2017 film “The Mummy” in the stylings of a 16-bit run and gun adventure against armies of the undead, and “Pixel Force Halo” by Eric Ruth games which take the prolific XBOX franchise and shrinks it down to a Mega Man-esque platformer reminiscent of the NES’ 8-bit days. Demakes are intensely attractive looking, not only into the past of video games and their developments but just how creative developers can be with games that they love and appreciate. Bloodborne PSX hits as hard as a Demake can in my opinion, blending masterfully recreated graphics with perfectly clunky early PSX gameplay quirks that go above and beyond to make the game not only LOOK like it belongs on the nearly 30-year-old console but feel right at home on it as well.

(A screenshot depicting the player character “The Hunter” facing off against two fearsome Werewolf enemies. Screenshot sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Gameplay:

Starting off with the masterfully recreated clunk in the gameplay, Bloodborne PSX “shows its age” by hearkening back to a time when being seamless just wasn’t an option. Much like adventure action games of the past (and much UNLIKE its modern inspiration), you’ll be cycling through your inventory delightfully more than you’d expect. Equipping keys, checking items, and even the trademark weapon transformations are all done through the wonderfully nostalgic menu and inventory screens. Taking one of the foundational parts of Bloodborne’s combat system and making it such a more encumbering mechanic is nothing short of sheer genius when it comes to ways to really make you feel like it’s 1994 again. On top of this, the Hunter’s movement itself has been made reminiscent of classic action titles. Somehow, both stiff enough to feel dated and fluid enough to make combat that same rush of bestial fun found in the original, it goes a long way towards the total immersion into that retro vibe the game sets out to give the player. Anyone who grew up with Fromsoftware’s earlier titles like Armored Core and the King’s Field series will be very familiar with this unique brand of “well-tuned clunk”.

(A delightfully dated looking diagram showing off the controller layout for Bloodborne PSX’s controls. Image sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Graphics:

Speaking of old Fromsoftware games, though, let’s talk about the absolutely bit-crushingly beautiful graphical work on display. As I’m sure you’ve seen from the videos and screenshots included in the article, BBPSX’s art style and direction are nothing short of perfect for what it aims to be. While playing, I couldn’t help but notice every little detail (or lack thereof) in the environments meant to emulate the experience of a game made on 30-year-old hardware. Low render distances, chunky textures, blocky polygonal models, just the right amount of texture warp, it all blends together to create an atmosphere that I can 100% picture being shown off on the back of a jewel CD case with a T for Teen rating slapped into the lower corner. While playing, something rather specific that called out to me was the new way enemy names and health bars were displayed in the bottom right corner of the screen while fighting. As a big fan of the King’s Field games, this small detail went (probably too much of) a long way toward my love of how everything’s meant to feel older. Other games trying to match the more specific feel of King’s Field, like “Lunacid” created by KIRA LLC, also include this delightful little detail, a personal favorite for sure. 

(A screenshot depicting the second phase of Father Gascoigne’s boss fight, showing off the game’s perfectly retro art style. Image sourced from the Bloodborne PSX Official itch.io page)

Sound design/Soundtrack:

But where would a game be without its sound and score? No need to fear, however, because Bloodborne PSX comes complete with a chunky soundscape that will make you want to check and see if your TV is set to channel 3. A haunting set of tracks played by fittingly digital-sounding MIDIs ran through filters to sound just as crackly as you remember backs up crunchy sounds of spilling blood with low-poly weaponry. Original sounds from Bloodborne have been used for an authentic sounding experience, but have also been given the CRT speaker treatment and sound like something you remember playing on Halloween 20 years ago. If you watched the launch trailer featured above then you know exactly what I’m talking about. The Cleric Beast’s trademark screech and Gascoine’s signature howl after his beastly transformation have never sounded so beautifully dated, and I’m here for every bit of it. Even the horrific boss themes we know and love from the original Bloodborne have been brought through this portal to the past. One of my favourite tracks, the Cleric Beast boss theme, might just sound even better when played on a 16-bit sound chip. It really cannot be understated just how much weight the sound design of the game is pulling. In my opinion, the only thing missing is that sweet sweet PSX startup sound before the game starts crackling through the speakers of a TV in the computer room.

(The Bloodborne PSX rendition of the Cleric Beast’s boss theme. Created by and uploaded to Youtube by The Noble Demon on March 20, 2021)

Interview with the developer:

Before writing this article, I had the absolute pleasure and privilege of talking with Lilith Walther about some developmental notes and personal feelings about inspirations and challenges that can come with the daunting task of being a developer. Below are the nine (initially ten, but unfortunately, a bit of the interview was lost due to my recording software bugging out) questions I posed to Miss Lilith, along with her answers transcribed directly from the interview. 

I’d like to start this section of the article by saying Lilith was an absolute joy to talk to. During the interview, I really felt like she and I shared some common ground on some topics regarding how media can have an impact on you and what sorts of things come with video games as an art form. After some minor technical difficulties (and by that, I mean my video drivers crashed), I started off with something simple. The first question posited was: “What got you into video games initially?” Lilith’s response was as follows: “When I was a kid, the family member of a friend had a SNES lying around. I turned it on and didn’t really understand. I was a guy on top of a pyramid, I walked down the pyramid, and some big ogre killed me. Later I learned that was A Link to the past.” and after a brief laugh continued, “A couple years later my parents got a Nintendo 64 with Mario64 and Ocarina of Time and that was it. Never put the controller down since then.” 

She then went on to describe what precisely about Nintendo’s first foray into 3D Zelda had hooked her. “I’ve heard this story so many times. It’s like you’re not even playing the game. You’re just in the world hanging out in Kokiri forest collecting rupees to get the Deku shield, and the game expects you to! It was just, ‘run around this world and explore,’ and that really hooked me.” I couldn’t agree more with her statement about her experience. Not just with a game as prolific as Ocarina of Time but many experiences from older console generations that could be considered “the first of their kind”, or at the very least some of the earliest. Lilith also described her first experience with a PlayStation console, stating: “Later on I got a PS2 which played PS1 games. I didn’t end up getting a PS1 until around the PS3 era, so I guess I’m a poser. I remember my sister bringing home Final Fantasy 9 when it was a relatively new game. If it wasn’t my first PS1 game it was definitely my first Final Fantasy game. Of course I went back and played 8 and 7 afterwards.” A solid answer to a simple question. 

The second question I asked was one starting to move toward the topic of Bloodborne PSX and its namesake/inspiration. Or at least the family of systems it was released on: “What PlayStation console was your favorite and why?” Lilith’s answer surprised me a bit. Not because I disagreed, quite the opposite, actually. But with such a big inspiration for her work being games from the PSX-PS2 generations, what followed was a pleasant bit of insight into one of her favourite eras of gaming, to quote: “I can give you two answers here.” To which I assured her she was more than welcome to, but she was set on having something definitive. “No no I’m only going to give you one answer. I can give you the correct answer that I don’t want to admit, but it was the PlayStation 3. It’s so embarrassing but I genuinely was hooked into the marketing of the whole ‘The cell processor is the smartest thing in the world’ and all that. It really seemed like the future of gaming and I was all about it. I think I owned an XBOX360 before but I did eventually get it and really enjoyed it. It took a couple years for some of the best games to come out but I really did.” A few examples she cited as being some of her most memorable experiences on the console were Uncharted 2, Journey, Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, and Warhawk. All games I’ve seen on several top 5 and top 10 lists throughout my life within the gaming space. A delightful show of affection for a generation personally very dear to me as well, in which she ended the segment by declaring “Hell yeag”, a bit of a catchphrase she’s coined online.

Getting into the topic proper, my third question was one about her personal relationship with Bloodborne: “How did Bloodborne impact/appeal to your interests?” A question that received perhaps my favourite answer of the whole interview. From her response: ”Oh that’s a big one. Going to the opposite end of the poser spectrum, I was a Fromsoftware fan before it was cool. One of the games I played religiously on my PS2 was Armored Core.” A statement which made more sense than perhaps anything else said during my time with her. “Then later in the PS3 era everyone was talking about Dark Souls, this was when I was in college. I finally caved and got it and saw the Fromsoftware logo and thought ‘Oh it’s the Armored Core people!’ I played and beat it, really enjoyed my time with it. I skipped Dark Souls 2 because everyone told me to hate it, I still need to go back to that one.” 

It’s something I would recommend anyone who hasn’t played Dark Souls 2 to go and do. “Then Bloodborne came out and I thought ‘Alright this is the new one, gotta play this one’ and I was a huge fan of all the gothic stuff in the aesthetic. And how do I explain this, I do really like Bloodborne. I like the design, and the mechanical suite of gameplay, as a video-gamey video game it’s very good.” The tone shifted here to something a bit more personal. “But as well, I was playing it at a specific time in my life. I came out in 2019, I know Bloodborne came out in 2015 but I was obviously just playing it non-stop. It was just one of my ‘coming out games’, you know?” For those who maybe don’t understand the statement there, “coming out” is a very common term used within the Queer community to describe the experience of revealing your identity to those around you. Whether it be to family, friends, or co-workers, almost every queer person has some sort of coming out story to tell. Lilith is speaking in reference to her coming out as a trans woman. She elaborated: “Obviously I can only speak for myself, but I just feel like when you make a decision like that, that part of my life just ended up seared into my brain, you know? Bloodborne was there, so now it’s just a part of me. And it definitely influenced some things about me. It was there because I was working on Bloodborne PSX at the time, but it had an impact on something I’ve heard a lot of other Trans people describe.” She went on to describe the concept of “Coming out a second time” as sort of “finding yourself more within your identity” and becoming more affirmed in it. She described both Bloodborne and her development on Bloodborne PSX influencing large parts of her life, a good example being how she dresses and presents. As a trans woman myself, this answer delighted me to no end. I, for one, can absolutely 100% relate to the notion of media you experience during such a radical turning point in your life sticking with you. There are plenty of games, shows, music, and books that I still hold very near and dear to me because, as Lilith stated, they were there. All the right things at the right time.

Halfway through our questions, we’ve finally arrived at one pertaining specifically to the development of Bloodborne PSX: “What are some unique challenges you’ve faced developing a game meant to look/play like something made on retro hardware?”

Lilith answers: “So there’s two things, two big things. One is rolling back all of the quality of life improvements we’ve gotten over the years in gaming. Not automatically using keys is always my go-to example.” Something as well I mentioned in my short talk about the game’s gloriously dated feeling gameplay above. “That was definitely very very intentional. Because it’s not just the graphics, right? It was the design sensibilities of the 90s. Bringing that to the surface was very challenging but very fun. Another big part was, since it was one of the first 3D consoles, I wanted to recreate the hype around the fact that ‘ITS IN 3D NOW!’ So if you go into your inventory you’ll see all the objects rendered in beautiful 3D while they slowly spin as you scroll through them.” This is a feature I very much miss seeing in modern video games. 

She continued, “I think the biggest one was the weapon changes. Bloodborne’s whole thing was the weapon transformations. Like, you could seamlessly change your weapons and work them into your combo and do a bunch of crazy stuff, and I kind of said ‘that needs to go immediately.’ So now you have to pause and go to your weapon and press L1 to transform it, that was extremely intentional. So once I had those three big things down it all just sort of fell into place. Like the clunky UI and the janky controls. You need jank and clunk, and I think that’s why Fromsoft games scale down so nicely, because they are jank and clunk.” 

A point I couldn’t agree with more. Despite all the modern streamlining and improvements to gameplay, Fromsoft’s ever-growing catalog of impressive experiences still contains some of that old-school video game stiffness we’ve (hopefully) come to appreciate. She went on to make a point I was very excited to share here in the article, “It was just a lot of trying to nail the feel of the games and not just the look, right? Like I’m not trying to recreate a screenshot; I’m trying to recreate the feeling of playing this weird game that’s barely holding together because the devs didn’t know what they were doing.” In my humble opinion, something she did an excellent job with. 

Fifth on the list was a question relating to her current project, Bloodborne Kart, a concept initially drawn from a popular meme shared around social media sites like Tumblr when the buzz of a Bloodborne sequel was keeping the talking spaces around Fromsoft alight: “Anything to say about the development of Bloodborne Kart or its inspiration?”

Lilith answers: “So first off Bloodborne Kart is less trying to be a simulation of a PS1 game and more just an indie game. It’s not trying to be a PS1 game, I just want it to be a fun kart racer first. Starting off of course is Mario Kart 64, that’s the one I played back in the day. But I looked at other games like Crash Team Racing and Diddy Kong Racing, but also stuff like Twisted Metal of course. I always used those as a template to sort of look at for design stuff like ‘how did they handle what happens to racers after player 1 crosses the finish line.” The next portion of her answer was initially a bit confusing but comes across better when you consider certain elements present in BBK’s battle mode. “And also Halo, like for the battle mode. I had to do a battle mode and it kind of just bubbled to the surface. Split Screen with my sister was such a big part of my childhood. Thinking about Halo multiplayer while I was making the battle mode stuff.” 

Her answer to the previous question began to dip into the topic of our sixth question: “Are there any unique challenges or enjoyable creative points that go into making something like Bloodborne Kart?”

As she continued from her previous answer: “One of the biggest quirks of the battle mode I had to figure out was how to tell what team you were on at a glance, and that came back to Halo again. I started thinking about how you could tell in that game and it hit me that the arms of your suit change to the color of whatever team you’re on. It was just something I never even thought of because it’s so seamless. So that gave me the idea to change the kart colours, and that’s the most recent example of me pulling directly from Halo. It’s wild how a small change like that can turn your game from something unplayable to something fun.” I would agree. Tons of small details and things you don’t think about go into making seamless multiplayer experiences. Some of which we take for granted nowadays. She then made a point about one of the most challenging aspects of BBK’s development, “The most challenging thing was definitely the Kart AI. AI is just my worst skill when it comes to game development among the massive array of skills you need to make a game. It’s really hard to find examples of people coding kart driving AI, You know? You need to make a biped walk around you can find a million tutorials online but if you need to make something drive a kart, not really. I was really on my own there. A lot of the examples out there are very simulation oriented. Like cars using suspension and whatnot, but I’m making a kart racer. So I started simple, I put a navpoint down and if it needs to turn left, turn left, if it needs to turn right, turn right. And I just kept adding features from there.”

Moving onto our last three questions, we started to get a little more personal. Question seven being: “What’s your favorite part of Bloodborne Kart so far?”

Her answer was concise in what she was excited about most, quote: “The boss fights.” Short and sweet but she did elaborate. “Translating a big part of Bloodborne is the boss fights. So I made a short linear campaign which is basically AI battles and races strung together. Some of those stages are just boss fights which are unique to the rest of the game. When you make a video game you sit down and you make all your different modes of interactions, and then you make a multi-hour experience mixing and matching all those different modes in more complicated ways. I think the most interesting part is when that style tends to fall away and it ends up building something entirely unique to that experience.” An example she gave was the infamous “Eventide Island” in Breath of the wild, it being a unique experience where the game’s usual modes of interaction are stripped or limited, forcing you into a more structured experience that ends up being a majorly positive one. “That’s what the boss fights are in Bloodborne Kart. They do multiple game mechanics like a chase that ends in a battle mode. Like Father Gascoine’s fight where he chases you, and after you blow up his kart he turns into a beast and picks up a minigun.” That sounds absolutely incredible. It’s very easy to see why she’d pick the boss fights as her favorite element when they’re clearly intended to be such unique and memorable experiences. 

Our last two questions veer away from the topics of development proper and focus more on our dear dev’s personal thoughts on the matter. Question eight posits: “What’s your personal favorite part of being a game developer?”

After some thought, she gave a very impassioned talk about something she considers to be the best part of the experience: “When people who aren’t game developers think about game development they think of things like ‘oh well you just get to play video games all day and have fun’ but it’s not! Except for the 2% that is, and it’s near the end of development. When all the pieces fall into place and you start actually ‘making the game.’ Game development, especially solo, you’re so zoomed in on specific parts. Because you’re not making a game you’re programming software that’s what making a game is. You spend months working on different systems and then you actually sit down and make a level, and you hit play and it you go ‘Oh my god, I just made a game’. That part is what sustains me. It’s magical. That’s the best part when it comes to true appreciation of the craft aside from the reception.” An answer that I don’t think I could’ve put better if I tried. 

My last question is one that I consider to be the question when it comes to interviewing anyone who works on video games. Perhaps a bit basic, but heartfelt nonetheless: “Anything to say to anyone aspiring to be a game developer?”

Lilith’s answer: “Yes. Just do it. For real. This is what I did and it always felt wrong until I looked at more established devs echoing the sentiment. You cannot plan a game before you’ve started making one. The example I always bring up is the team behind Deus Ex wrote a 500 page design document for the game and almost immediately threw it out when they started development. Just start! You’re going to have unanswered questions and I think that trips people up. Don’t start with your magnum opus idea, start with something simple and achievable. I feel like a lot of people set out with the goal of making a triple-A game, and that’s good! But it can’t be your first game. Game development is creating art, just like any other form of art, and it’s like saying ‘my first drawing is going to be the Mona Lisa’ and it just doesn’t work like that. You need practice and development, and it’s difficult to see that because games take so long and so much, so it’s definitely seen as a bigger undertaking. But it’s still art. You’re still making mistakes and learning from them for your first project. Your next game will be better. View your career as a game developer as a series of games you want to make, and not just one big game.” A perfect response to an otherwise unassuming question. 

Lilith’s passion and love for video games were reflected very clearly in every response she gave during my time with her. Her dedication and appreciation for the art form can be seen in every pixel of Bloodborne PSX, as well as the development logs and test builds of Bloodborne Kart. I really do think that the way she answered my final question speaks volumes to the type of attitude someone should take up when endeavoring to make art as intensive as a video game. Whether it’s fanwork of a game that’s important to you or an entirely new concept, do it. 

(developer of Bloodborne PSX Lilith Walther, image provided by Lilith Walther via Twitter)

Closing:

If you’d like to check out the positively phenomenal experience that is Bloodborne PSX  I’ve included a link to the official itch.io page below the article, as well as a link to the official LWMedia Youtube page where you can check out Lilith’s dev logs, test videos, and animations about her work and other art. Thank you so much for reading, and another very special thank you to Lilith for setting aside some of her time to talk to me about this article. Now get out there and cleanse those foul streets!

Links:

Bloodborne PSX official itch.io page: https://b0tster.itch.io/bbpsx

LWMedia Official Youtube page: https://www.youtube.com/@b0tster

Lilith Walther Twitter page: https://twitter.com/b0tster