#if i crave a character interaction i simply write it

[7-deadly-cats]

♡ buried down below ♡

// P A R T O N E

♡ G E N R E ♡ character portrait, angst but happy ending, hurt/comfort, this is for anyone whose favorite characters always happen to be poor little souls who crave comfort the most

M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M | P A R T T W O (soon)

♡ P A I R I N G ♡ s1!rafe cameron x gentle!reader (f)

♡ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ♡ LOTS of rafe angst, strong/suggestive language, substance abuse, coke addiction, rafe having intrusive/violent thoughts, childhood trauma/parental loss, mention of ward neglecting and abusing him (mostly emotionally but mention of mild violence), rafe experiencing a panic attack, unresolved grief and suppressed identity, symbolic depiction of inner death/ buried inner child, honestly just very angsty but bittersweet bc of gentle!reader, read at own caution

♡ S U M M A R Y ♡ beneath the heat, noise and mess of being rafe cameron, a boy is buried. he's been rotting down there for years, right next to the memories of his dead mother. neglected by his father, overwhelmed by grief, and eaten alive by how unfair the world feels, his anger turned outward into spite, recklessness, self-destruction, and a toxic idea of what affection is supposed to be like. but when he meets you at a party—the new girl in town—it hits him like a punch to the gut. something about you brings back the way his mother made him feel. loved. and for the first time in years, rafe is given a choice: leave the boy buried underground, or finally let him breathe again.

♡ W O R D C O U N T ♡ 8.7k+

♡ A / N ♡ this is my personal love letter to rafe cameron as a (comfort) character. an attempt to understand him. this is why this may feel somehow different from how and what i usually write. i'm genuinely sorry to anyone who just wanted the prompt they voted for. either part 2 or part 3 will include it, so you can skip to that part as soon as i've written them. those who still decide to give this one a shot, hope you enjoy and it would mean a lot if you decided to leave a comment <3

Rafe Cameron was not an easy person. That much became clear to anyone who's ever had the slightest interaction with him.

The impulsiveness, the bluntness, the recklessness, the aggression issues that flared up more or less depending on the day, his self-destructive tendencies—even the drug addiction—all of it was deeply ingrained in him.

These weren’t just traits, they were a heavy, embedded anchor that couldn't simply be ripped out.

And even if he ever managed to shed that unbearable weight, it was so deeply rooted, so firmly and wildly intertwined with who he was, that it would leave painful marks behind.

Ugly memories, emotions, and scars.

But to even begin moving that massive anchor, even by just a single inch, there had to be a willingness to change in the first place.

Because the anchor wasn’t just a part of Rafe. It was him.

The worst part? He had tried. He had wanted to change. He wanted to be the son Ward Cameron could be proud of. He wanted to make his dad happy. Fuck, he'd even wanted to protect him.

Rafe had gone so far in trying to reclaim his place in the family that he'd become a murderer.

Sheriff Peterkin—just shot. No second thoughts, no hesitation. Of course not, this was about his dad. He’d done it for him, right?

Taking the life of a stranger to save his father's... it had felt like the right choice. A simple one, even. For the family.

And for Rafe himself.

Because how the fuck was he supposed to go through losing someone else again? Someone he believed he was close to?

First his mom... and then his dad? Fuck no. No way.

Just thinking about his mother—his gentle, loving momma—made the hole in his chest feel even deeper. And honestly, he’d pushed those thoughts so far down, locked them away in some mental drawer, that if it weren’t for the pictures hanging on the big photo wall by the staircase, he could barely remember what her face even looked like.

It had been hard at first.

Seven-year-old Rafe, sitting on the couch with little Sarah one night as their dad knelt in front of them, taking their small hands in his, and telling them that their mom wouldn’t be tucking them in tonight.

Not tonight, not the night after that, never again.

She was gone. Dead.

An accident. Or some bullshit like that. Shit, Rafe didn’t even remember anymore. What did it matter anyway? What difference did the cause make?

His mom was dead.

And from that moment on, something in Rafe shifted. The routine in his life disappeared, that gentle, comforting presence that had always made him feel safe—eradicated.

And that kind of loss? That was worse than any kind of withdrawal could ever be.

At first, little Rafe had just been confused, overwhelmed, lost without the constant love and safety his mom had provided.

He couldn’t understand the why. He needed answers.

Naturally, he turned to the next person a kid his age would expect love and comfort from: his dad.

But Ward Cameron was drowning in his own grief. Haunted by guilt, rage, and a sorrow only he truly understood. For reasons he never spoke aloud, he seemed to carry a deep sense of blame for her death.

And every time he looked into Rafe’s eyes, he saw her. The same soft eyes that would grow cold in the years to come. The same smile, barely visible these days. That same curiosity about the world—a light Ward snuffed out before it could grow.

So Ward Cameron pulled away. Not from both his kids, no, just from his son.

While Rafe, desperate for love and a father’s attention, was left in the cold, Ward turned toward Sarah.

Fucking bitch Sarah—Daddy’s little favorite. Independent, headstrong, always standing up for herself. And while their mom had endless love to give to both her children, in Ward’s eyes, it had always just been his perfect daughter, Sarah.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.

That imbalance, or rather, that lack of love in Rafe’s life, quickly created a deep crack in the foundation of the whole family.

By the time he was eight, Rafe had developed a fragile sense of self-worth and, with it, an insatiable hunger for acceptance, understanding—a place to belong.

Even though his dad neglected him, treated him in ways no boy ever deserved, Rafe still chased after him. Craving his approval. Desperate for praise and love he never received.

And watching Sarah receive that care, that warmth, that affection he longed for, without even having to ask for it—it planted something in Rafe. A seed of rage, jealousy, and hatred so intense it cracked the bond with the one person he’d once truly been close to after his mother: his sister.

But it didn’t stop there.

That gnawing guilt, the haunting question of whether he was the problem—if he had done something wrong, if Rafe was the reason Sarah received more attention, if he was somehow responsible for his mom’s death—it started eating him alive.

And soon, all that pain started turning outward. It became this violent tug-of-war between retreat and explosion.

Locking himself in his room after Ward yelled at him, and beating the crap out of kids at school just to let the anger out. Running away from home when the memories and pictures of his mom became too much, and stealing a bottle of whiskey from some careless Pogue’s backroom stash just to drown it all out. Pushing away any closeness when little Sarah knocked on his door at night—just as scared, just as grieving—unable to bring himself up to open the door. Couldn’t trust himself not to hurt her.

That was the worst part of it all: the intrusive thoughts. Dark, sudden, terrifying. They scared the hell out of this little boy.

But the thing that really sent it all over the edge?

A stranger his dad brought home, not even three years after his mom had died.

Rose.

A pathetic, laughable replacement. Someone who was supposed to take his mom’s place.

But this stranger—this intruder in their house, in his family—was nothing like her. Rose wasn’t as kind. She wasn’t as soft. Not as understanding. She wasn’t her.

Shit, she wasn’t even a poor imitation, she was a clear sign of betrayal. His dad’s attempt to replace what could never be replaced.

You couldn't trade beautiful peonies with dirty weeds.

And ten-year-old Rafe wasn’t fooled by her fake kindness. He refused her food. Didn’t want her bedtime stories. Pushed her disgusting hands away when she reached out.

That’s how the bright, once-disciplined boy became a bitter wreck, full of deep, tangled complexes.

The fear of never being enough clashed violently with this growing sense of superiority, creating a fracture so sharp it split Rafe right down the middle.

And to cope with that ongoing inner war, he created a new kind of constant.

First, it was the wine and whiskey he’d sneak out of his dad’s cellar. Then came weed. Something he first tried from his new friend Kelce during his early high school days.

But weed wasn’t enough. It numbed things, sure, but Rafe didn’t want to be numb. Fuck no. He wanted to feel the high. He wanted euphoria. A way to fill the hole inside of him with something.

So at just fifteen, he spiraled deeper.

It happened at some shitty bonfire party, one of those nights where Kooks and Pogues mixed, and even a few annoying Tourons showed up. There was some greasy guy there selling the stuff.

“Makes you feel good,” the guy had said.

And fuck, that was exactly what Rafe needed.

For forty bucks, he bought a line. Snorted it right off the toilet lid in the beach bathroom.

And that—holy shit, that was the first time in years Rafe felt something real. Pure bliss. Energy. Confidence. Fucking power.

It was sick and hilarious at the same time. That one little line of white powder replaced everything he’d ever been missing.

So Rafe wasn’t a victim anymore. No, he was in control now. He decided when and how good he felt. If his dad started comparing him to Sarah again, throwing insults and pushing him away, no big deal. Rafe would snort a line or two, and suddenly, everything was fine again.

Better than fine. In that state, he felt like the only clear-headed one in a world full of hypocrites.

But it became obvious real quick: the high came fast and so did the crash, hitting even harder.

Rafe’s impulsiveness, irritability, and aggression only got worse. There was even a moment—just one tiny stupid moment—where he dared to raise a hand at his dad in a brutal argument. Just once. And never again.

The beating, followed by a tight embrace, was something he’d never forget.

That’s how Ward handled their relationship: he’d push Rafe away, tell him to get his shit together, to be more like fucking Saint Sarah, to finally pull himself together—and then, on other days, when he looked into Rafe’s eyes and saw his wife’s memory shining through, softened by nostalgia, his behavior changed.

Suddenly there were apologies. Praise. A pat on the shoulder. A smile. A hug.

It was a sick, toxic cycle, and it became Rafe’s understanding of love.

And if the universe had decided that this poor boy had endured enough, everything changed the night you came into his life. At Kelce’s first high school party of their senior year, to be exact.

Kelce had invited you because you’d just moved in next door and, well, he thought you were cute. Said you probably needed someone to “properly introduce you to island life, right?”.

You were a new face on Figure 8. Your parents owned a major fashion brand that had recently opened a branch in the Outer Banks. But what set them apart from the rest of the Kooks was the fact that they were pouring a chunk of their profit into a side project called OuterLabs—focused on research and preservation of the local flora and fauna.

Most Kooks saw this as a clever marketing strategy, to make them seem grounded and “caring.” But it was real. Their love for nature, and for people, was honest. And it showed, especially in their daughter.

Rafe noticed right away. That you were different, at least.

The first time he saw you was when Kelce introduced you to him and Topper at his party. “Y/N Y/L/N,” Kelce said. “Moved in last week. Figured I’d bring her around.”

You gave a soft laugh, sweet and warm, and it stirred something in Rafe. Something familiar his mind couldn’t quite place, making his chest clench painfully.

And then you looked at him with such warmth and kindness, the kind barely anyone in Figure 8 carried. You smiled, genuinely curious, and said something like, “Rafe? A sweet name. Is it short for Rafael?”

Kelce and Topper chuckled, clearly amused. That should’ve pissed Rafe off, but your voice, that name… it awakened something deep in him. Something that had been buried for years.

Because not Ward, not Sarah, not Wheezie, and definitely not that witch Rose, none of them ever called him by that name. They avoided it like it was cursed like it dragged up something painful that needed to stay buried.

And honestly? It did.

Because there was only ever one person who made that name sound like it meant something.

His mom.

To hear it again, after all those years, in such a gentle, warm tone, bittersweet didn’t even begin to cover it.

That setting, that party, three beers and a line deep, Topper and Kelce cracking jokes at his expense. And then you.

Smiling like that. So honest. So warm.

So intoxicating.

So fucking wrong.

Rafe’s brows furrowed. He shot his idiot friends a deadly look that shut them up instantly, shoved past Kelce’s shoulder, said something like "Fuck this", and stormed off toward the bathroom.

There were a few girls inside, comforting a crying friend. He threw them out. Slammed the door shut, not caring to lock it. And with shaky hands, he started prepping his second line of the night on the bathroom sink.

Because, fuck, what the FUCK was that just now? That pull in his chest, the bitter taste on his tongue, those memories?

So caught up in the noise in his head and the music outside, he didn’t even hear the knock on the door. Or the second one. Didn’t notice that you’d quietly slipped in behind him.

It was your concerned voice that pulled him out of his focused trance as he tried to shape a halfway decent line with his credit card.

"You okay?"

Rafe let out a startled breath, brows furrowing in pure annoyance as the precious powder scattered off the sink.

"Fuck." He straightened up, already opening his mouth to call you a dumb bitch, when you quickly moved toward him with a soft, "Oh no, I’m really sorry."

You dropped to your knees and—no fucking way—actually tried to scoop the coke up with your hands.

The sight was almost pathetic enough to amuse Rafe, and he found himself smirking, the anger slowly dissolving. "That’s fucked. It's a lost cause."

You shook your head, still focused on the floor. "It’s money."

"Not even a fucking Pogue would stoop down for that," Rafe muttered, amused at your stupid little comment.

Eventually, you stood back up, hands cupped together holding a sad little pile of white powder. "Here." Carefully, you let it fall back onto the sink, brushing the rest off your palm with your fingers.

Then your eyes met his again—warm, sincere, with that sweet little smile. "Earlier... did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you."

Rafe's expression shifted instinctively. You looked genuinely concerned but why the hell would some chick be nice to him without a hidden motive? Your family probably wanted to stay in Ward’s good graces. Or you just wanted to tell your new friends how you managed to suck Rafe Cameron’s cock on your very first party here.

Classic playbook.

He just shook his head, brushing you aside with a hand so he could check if anything from that powder-floor disaster was still salvageable. "Shit, don’t you have anything better to do? Go back to Kelce, I’m sure he’d love the attention."

You let out a soft chuckle and sat down on the toilet lid, hands folded in your lap. "Yeah, he seems like a very social guy. Full of energy." You watched him quietly as he started forming a new line. Then, calmer, "He also advised me not to go after you. But I think I said something I shouldn't have. I’m sorry about that."

God, how could someone be this fucking annoying?

Rafe didn’t even look up when he said, "Seriously, unless you’re gonna suck my dick, get the fuck out."

Then he bent down and snorted the line in one go. Straightening up, he felt that familiar kick hit him. Energy, euphoria, that brief moment of clarity.

Fuck, he felt good. Alive. Clear.

"May I ask why you’re doing this?" you asked softly. You still hadn’t moved an inch.

Rafe turned to you, pissed, pupils blown wide, eyes still red from the first line half an hour ago.

And then—there, under the harsh bathroom light—he actually saw you. Not just your soft eyes and pretty face. Your whole presence.

So calm and kind, with this sweet undertone of innocence. But not the naive or stupid kind he’d seen in almost every party girl desperate to feel something by sucking some random guy's dick and getting wasted.

No—there was something real behind your eyes. A curiosity. A warmth. Something human. Something that sparked a memory hidden so deep inside him it made his chest ache again.

And the worst? You looked at him like you saw him. Like you were trying to coax out the little boy he’d buried at seven years old and never looked back on.

But like always, when Rafe didn’t understand something, it made his head hurt, and that made him angry.

"Okay, what the fuck is this?" He tilted his head with an irritated smirk. "You playing fucking babysitter at this shitshow of a party? Or looking for some sad little girl talk moment or whatever? There’s plenty of bitches out there who'd love to listen."

And fuck, the way you didn’t react how he expected made his blood boil. That same annoyingly sweet smile still on your face.

"I don’t think you need a babysitter," you said, voice calm, almost playfully gentle. "And I could talk about a lot of things, for sure. The people here are pretty mixed. A little reserved around newbies, I’d say, but still very welcoming."

This bullshit? It made zero fucking sense to Rafe. Maybe you were just some naive little girl, clueless about what really went on in places like this.

He scoffed condescendingly, tapping his temples with both hands. “Jesus, did you pop something before coming here? These people are all fucking fake—posers.” He gestured toward the door. “You really think any of them give a shit about anything besides your fucking last name? Of course, they’re welcoming. That’s how this works. ‘Your daddy does business with my daddy, so let me kiss your ass until it bleeds.’”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “And that crap earlier?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Like—what the fuck even was that? If some bitch had seen you kneeling like that in front of me, your daddy would've had to hear all about his little whore of a daughter the next morning.” He lifted his hands in mock innocence. “But hey, if you’re into that shit—since we’re already here.”

Kelce had told you a lot about Rafe Cameron when he'd invited you to sit on his porch your very first day.

Big, bad Cameron who either tolerated your existence or made sure you knew how much he despised it. Rafe, who showed up at every party, every event, only to end up talking to Kelce or Topper, and maybe some girl that drove him crazy in all the right ways. Ward’s son, known by everyone as the black sheep—but no one dared say it to his face.

Rafe Cameron—someone even his closest friends couldn’t quite describe because he was too unpredictable, too impulsive. The kind of guy you approached carefully… or not at all.

But in his words, gestures, the fury in his eyes—in everything about him—you saw something else. Someone whose light once shined too bright and was burned by it in return.

A lone wolf, cast out by the pack or chose to walk away on his own, unable to track the scent that'd lead him back.

And it filled you with this aching kind of sadness, a quiet understanding. Not pity. Something deeper, almost instinctive. You just wanted to hold him, brush his hair back. To let him feel your presence and know it was safe.

Even though you didn’t know what pain he carried, even though you didn’t know his story, his reasons, or what kept him angry and guarded—it didn’t scare you.

You didn’t need to know his trauma to feel something real. A bond, raw and honest, only human to human could feel.

And it wasn’t some ‘I want to fix him’ fantasy. He wasn’t broken. No, people weren’t glass to be shattered and glued back together. That’s not how it worked.

No. This boy—this soul—wasn’t broken. He was misunderstood. Shaken. Confused. Carrying something heavy. And somewhere along the way, he’d learned to armor up so hard that everything tender in him had to come out as rage.

Like an animal that bared its teeth when it was scared.

And with an animal like that, you didn’t force your hand. You didn’t try to pet it. You didn’t reach out and hope to be the one it trusted.

You’d get scratched if you were lucky. Bitten if not.

But someone like Rafe—someone high, already teetering on that edge of a crashout—you knew one wrong move could end badly.

So all you gave him was a soft smile. A warm look. A small nod.

“You’re probably right. A lot of people here aren’t looking for anything real. That’s fine, though. Not everyone has to like you, right?" You tilted your head, keeping your gaze locked with his. “Still… I think it’s sad. That most people here are so scared of being seen, they pretend to be someone else. Maybe it’s all they know.”

Rafe scoffed harshly, clearly disgusted by your worldview—or maybe by the way your words hit something inside him he didn’t want to acknowledge. “Shit, if you actually believe that, you’re fucking naive. Is that your game or something? You think that fake-ass sympathy and hippie bullshit is how you bag a guy? Go try that shit on Topper. He eats up that empathy crap.”

And even though your curiosity burned hotter now, even though your mind wanted to dig deeper, to understand the beautiful chaos that was Rafe Cameron, you also knew not to corner a wolf when it was already baring its teeth.

So you stood up slowly, your eyes still soft as they studied him. You glanced down briefly at the sink, just where the line had been.

“You want to know what I believe?” You smiled gently. “You don't need this. I mean… doesn’t it just amplify what’s already there?”

Rafe’s jaw clenched hard. He wanted to tell you to shut the fuck up. To get the fuck out of here. That you didn’t know shit. That you were just another new bitch on Figure 8 trying to feel important.

But that warmth in your eyes… That fucking look...

Something inside him twisted again. Bitter and sweet, like a memory he’d locked up and tried to forget. Something that breathed light into the darkest drawer in his soul, the one he’d stuffed full of everything about his mother he couldn’t bear to feel.

You don’t need this.

Her voice. Soft and kind. A sound he thought he’d forgotten.

Hadn’t she said something just like that once?

When he’d fought back tears in grade school after studying for nights, trying so hard to make his dad proud.

And failing anyway.

Wasn’t it the same gentle look on her face, the one she’d had when she wrapped her arms around him when he’d broken down crying?

And who the fuck did you think you were, showing up to this shitty party, calling him by that cursed name, looking at him with those damn understanding eyes, feeding him those sweet little lies?

It felt like Rose all over again. Like someone trying to force their way into his life. Only, this time, there was no outer force. Just that pressure building in his chest and throat.

But Rafe knew: if he gave into it, if he let you in, as much as every part of him ached to—you’d be the one to push him away, to laugh it off, tell some bitch at the party all about it.

Fuck that.

But before he could open his mouth, you were already moving, stepping around him toward the door, still wearing that addicting smile. “Again, I’m sorry if I said something wrong or pissed you off. I’m not trying to be nosy or anything. I just... I can’t help it, being drawn to people, you know?”

Your smile widened, and your eyes lit up with that same warmth. “See you around.”

With a soft sound, the door clicked shut behind you.

Rafe just stood there. Staring at the spot where you’d just been, a bitter emptiness washing over him. That warm little spot he hadn’t even realized had been there, not until the clouds came rolling back in, bringing a cold wind with them.

There was so much churning in him. So much fucking chaos.

He didn’t understand the thoughts or emotions you’d stirred up in him. The memories you’d unearthed of a time he thought he’d buried for good. And as much as it pissed him off, as much as it confused and infuriated him, he wanted to chase after you.

Not to open up, fuck no. Just to be seen by that gentle kindness in your eyes again.

Because for one moment, he’d seen his mother in you. For the briefest second, you’d awakened something in the little boy deep inside him. The one who’d always longed for that soft warmth and love from a gentle woman.

But as his own thoughts echoed off the bathroom walls, and his pulse hammered in his ears, Rafe shoved that stupid little boy back into the dark hole where he belonged.

He stepped up to the sink, met his own blown-out pupils in the mirror, and saw only rage. Turning the faucet all the way to cold, he splashed water on his face—once, twice, four, five times. Washing off the sweat and thoughts. Washing you away.

Fuck, who even were you to shake him like that?

He grabbed a towel, dried his face, and tossed it onto the sink. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his nose and clung to the high from the line.

Yeah. Better.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair one last time, then left the bathroom—back to this shitty party, the shitty music, and all these shitty people.

Two guys from the country club tried to pull him into a convo. Absentmindedly, he dapped them up but quickly waved them off afterward.

His eyes scanned the room without thinking.

For you, he realized irritated. For your warmth, that soft gaze. But you were either in another room or somewhere outside.

“Yo, bro, there you are!”

Rafe turned. His heart pounding louder than the bass.

Kelce grinned, all shiny white teeth, that cocky smirk in place. He slapped Rafe on the shoulder, a drink in his other hand reeking of Jäger and Red Bull. “Where’d you run off to, dude, huh? You’re not usually this shy when I introduce you to a chick.”

Oh, Rafe wanted to deck him for that. But the thought that you might see it? What the fuck?

Rafe just scoffed, irritated, slapped Kelce’s hand away, and shrugged. “Needed a line to survive your shitty party.”

“Ayo, without me?”

“Am I your fucking boyfriend or some shit that I gotta take you everywhere?”

Kelce chuckled, amused. “Man, you’re the last person with boyfriend material.” He took a sip from his mix, eyebrows raised all innocent. “Saw Y/N chasing after you. Pussymagnet without even trying. Damn.”

For some reason, that pissed Rafe off even more.

“Don’t fuck with me, Kelce.”

The idiot raised his hands like a saint. “Yo, why so salty? Mad she refused you head? Should’ve told you, man, I mean—”

“Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up already,” Rafe cut him off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Go annoy Topper with your bullshit.”

“He’s busy railing your sister.”

Oh, fuck that.

The image of Topper all over Sarah triggered this sick, crawling feeling in Rafe’s chest like he suddenly needed to find them—but for what exactly? The fuck was he gonna do?

Let her hook up with every guy in school. He didn’t give a shit. Maybe then his dad would finally get it: his precious little angel wasn’t all that perfect.

Rafe dragged a hand through his hair. Everything—the bass, the shrieking giggles of drunk-ass girls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, perfume, and all kinds of cologne mixing into this disgusting cocktail—it had his nerves buzzing so hard he felt like puking.

But go home? Fuck no. That’d mean facing his dad and gold digger Rose. Poor Wheezie was the only one stuck with them tonight.

She was the only good thing Rose ever brought into their lives. Baby Wheezie made him used to think they were raising another Sarah over at Tannyhill.

Yeah, she could be a pain in the ass but she was the only person in his life who actually had some fucking sense. The only one Rafe ever made space for willingly.

Shit, if he'd felt like being responsible, he might’ve brought her here tonight. But playing babysitter? Nah.

So the only reasonable option?

“Let’s dip to your dad’s office,” Rafe said. “I’m done with this fucking place.”

Kelce grinned wider. “Damn, bro, you just had your second.”

Rafe’s fingertips tingled. If Kelce wasn’t such a suck-up with the loyalty of a stupid fucking golden retriever, Rafe would’ve smacked the shit outta him a dozen times by now. But he never did. Because Kelce was the one person who didn’t make a big deal out of shit. And Rafe respected that, at least.

So he just raised a brow. “You coming or what?”

“Damn, no need to ask twice.”

And that’s how Rafe spent the next two hours: chilling with the dumbest bastard alive on the stupidly comfy office couch, snorting three, four—fuck, maybe six lines (who was counting), ranting about bitch Sarah, witch Rose, and all the fucked up people at that party.

He bounced from one topic to the next, letting Kelce throw in his dumbass commentary, laughing whenever Kelce dropped an especially embarrassing story of his own. Rafe got up, paced the office, ranting about shit even he stopped registering—just trying to drown out the fucking rush in his head.

Those thoughts. Those images of you. That smile. Your eyes. Everything.

Why Kelce stuck around and listened to his rambling instead of trying to hook up with some chick, Rafe had no clue. But honestly, what greater honor was there than being friends with Ward Cameron’s son and doing lines with him in private?

Sometime around the sixth or seventh line, Rafe’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like his skull was shaking. His mouth was dry as fuck, jaw clenched, back slick with sweat. And his hands? Jesus, he couldn’t keep them still.

He was either playing with a lighter, gesturing like a maniac, or scratching at his chin, nose, neck—fuck.

Rafe needed to do something. Anything. He didn’t know what, just knew he had this deep, itching urge in his chest. He needed to act.

He snapped his fingers, brain jumping from thought to thought, nodding at whatever dumbass story Kelce was telling—and that’s when his eyes landed on a gleaming blade mounted on the office wall. He’d never noticed it before but now it looked like a damn spotlight was shining right on it.

“Ayo, yo, yo, dude, wait, what the fuck are you doing?” Kelce stood up, cutting off his whatever-the-fuck story. “That belongs to my dad.”

But Rafe already held the katana in his hand. He let out a low, amused laugh, brushing his fingers along the surface of the blade. “Shiiit, imagine doing a line off this thing.”

The thought—fuck—it lit something in Rafe. Shit, and honestly? It kinda turned him on.

“Do whatever, bro, but I ain’t paying for your second nose,” Kelce muttered. Rafe didn’t miss the nervous edge in his voice—and yeah, that just made it all the more fun.

Grip tight, he gave the blade a little swing through the air, soaking up the way Kelce laughed nervously.

Stupid idiot, always been a kissass.

Rafe's gaze landed on the little bead of sweat on Kelce's throat. If he wanted, one clean swing would be enough to—

What the fuck.

Holy shit, what the fuck.

Rafe took a step back, deeply irritated by his mind.

Cold horror spread through his already suffocating chest.

Had he overdone it? Taken one line too many? Fuck, fuckfuckfuck, or—worse—was the high starting to fade and he was—

“Yo, dude, your nose is bleeding.”

And right on cue, a deeply unsettling feeling started creeping through Rafe’s body.

And Kelce was here. He saw him like this. Fuck, this wasn’t an overdose, right? This wasn’t an overdose? fuckfuckfuck

He had to get out. Now.

The horror started eating away at his nerves.

He dropped the katana onto the desk, ignoring Kelce’s pissed-off yelling behind him, and bolted out of the room, clumsily wiping the blood off his nose on the way out.

Out into the hallway. Music. Loud. The bass. Fuck.

Rafe winced as the vibrations tore through his skull.

He looked for the upstairs bathroom door but a bunch of girls were giggling inside.

Annoyed, he rattled the handle but the giggling just got louder.

No other choice.

Unsteady, he gripped the railing tight and made his way downstairs.

But everything down there got worse. Louder. Overwhelming. From one of the side rooms, he heard Sarah’s stupid fucking laugh, and the sound shot pure adrenaline into his bloodstream.

Fuck, if that bitch saw him like this, she’d snitch to Dad and then—fuck. Fucking hell no.

Rafe moved on instinct, pushing past some guys and annoying chicks, making it to the bathroom door and—

Fucking hell.

Locked.

His heart pounded against his skull, head foggy and somehow way too clear at the same time. Shitshitshitshit.

He started banging on the door, twisting the handle, something awful churning in his gut.

“Fuck, come on, open up!” Rafe could swear he heard his own voice echoing. He almost said please, almost begged, but bit down on his tongue instead.

The taste of blood filled his mouth.

The horror surged like cold floodwater rising.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Holy shit. If he didn’t—

You.

Two gentle eyes met his as the bathroom door opened.

“Oh dear, are you okay? You don't look so well.” Your soft, concerned voice cut right through the chaos in his head, silencing the spiraling storm all at once.

For a second, he got lost in your gaze, your eyes, the scent of your perfume—something he hadn’t even noticed the first time you met. Sweet like an unspoken promise, floral in a way that was warm and full and—

A hammer slammed into his skull. A blade through his chest. A kick to the gut.

The boy inside him—he screamed, clawed at the coffin where Rafe had buried him. Right next to his mom, beneath the peonies.

That bittersweet scent triggered something awful in his stomach, every sense overflooded and raw.

Rafe’s brain didn’t even register how his body shoved the door the rest of the way open, pushed past you, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, hands trembling on the rim—and puked it all out.

Once. Twice. Fuck, it felt like a thousand times. All the dirt, all the pressure, spilled out of him like poison.

Somewhere far away, he heard a voice—your voice—maybe the door opened or closed or maybe both, fuck, he couldn’t tell. At some point—seconds or minutes, he had no idea—he felt a presence beside him.

He thought he felt the warmth of a hand hovering just above his sweat-soaked back. Not touching, just there. Hesitant. And without even looking, Rafe knew it was you.

It should’ve pissed him off, made him snap, made him yell at you to leave, but the only thing racing through his mind, the only thing that truly panicked him was the thought of someone else coming in. If Sarah—

“The door,” he croaked out, wiping spit from his mouth with a shaky hand.

“It’s locked. Don’t worry.”

And just hearing that in your caring voice let a small breath of calm settle somewhere deep inside him.

Then you moved away from his side, and something tugged hard in his chest. The sound of running water next to him. A second later, you were back, and that ache disappeared.

“Here,” you said, handing him a damp towel.

Rafe didn’t dare meet your eyes. Swallowing his pride, he reached out and took it, wiping first his forehead, then his mouth.

Fuck, only now did he register that sour, disgusting taste on his tongue. His throat felt like the fucking Sahara.

Face twisted in a grimace, he tried to spit the bitterness out. Water. He needed—

“Wait. Rinse with this.”

This time, Rafe looked up, saw the red cup in your hand.

This was so ridiculous. So pathetic. Him, kneeling there in front of you—a sweating, fucked-up wreck, the stench of his own vomit still hanging in the air. And the fact that you’d caught him doing a line just a few hours ago.

He had to look like a fucking junkie to you. A disaster with no control over his life. And for some reason, that was so fucking humiliating it made him want to throw up all over again.

Still, he dared to meet your eyes. He had to. He needed to see it—that warmth. Right now, he was starving for it.

And all he saw in there was pure warmth and concern. No judgment. No amusement. No disgusting pity.

And that pissed him off. Because he didn’t fucking understand it.

Rafe took the cup anyway and forced himself to look away. Rinsed his mouth once, then drank the rest of the water.

You flushed the toilet. The sound thunderous in his head but he endured it.

“Why the fuck are you doing this?” he asked, letting the cup fall beside him, still leaning over the toilet.

You bent down and filled another cup. “Being here?” There was a sweet, honest amusement in your voice.

Rafe wanted to puke again but his stomach was empty. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Any other girl would've left him here, disgusted. Left the door open on her way out.

Why didn’t you?

You sat down on the edge of the bathtub to his left and placed the cup next to him. “Nothing, I'm here to help.”

God, and the way you said it—so honest, so genuine.

Like his dad, after shoving him into a wall and pulling him into a hug right after.

You were probably gonna blackmail him later. Threaten to tell people. Shit, maybe you were filming him right now—had your phone set up somewhere he couldn’t see.

Rafe scoffed bitterly. Drank the second cup in one go, then somehow found the strength to turn and lean back against the toilet, knees up, shaky hands hidden in his lap.

Then he looked up at you. “Don’t bullshit me. What do you want? Some shitty-ass story to tell some girls about?”

Oh, and then your face did something weird. A tiny crease formed between your brows, just enough to bring a touch of sharpness to that otherwise soft face.

“Nothing. Why do you think I’d use you for this?” you replied—and fuck, there it was again. That honesty.

A part of Rafe wanted to believe you.

“I swear to god if you go out and tell anybody about this—”

“I won’t.” That crease between your brows vanished and a small smile appeared. “I promise. I just wanted to help. Do you feel any better?”

No, Rafe wanted to say.

He could feel that terrifying emptiness creeping in after the high—whatever the fuck he had just experienced. He could feel it now. The sharp claws around his throat, the cold breath on his neck.

And your question, it triggered something awful inside him. Like a tiny stone inside him dropped that really shouldn’t have.

His brows knit together, feeling that pull in his chest, that tightness in his throat, that sting in his eyes.

He was cold. Weak. And you? You were giving him this feeling of warmth and safety, and he didn’t even fucking know you. He’d met you today, and fuck, that confused the hell out of him. This whole thing—your honesty, you, whoever you were, Kelce with his dumbass party and having invited you, Topper probably taking Sarah's virginity right now somewhere, and Rafe being here, like this, exposed, seen—and then he thought of his mom again, and that’s when it all broke loose.

“FUCK.”

Rafe shook his head, fists clenched from still-trembling hands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

His head was full of shit and he had no idea what the fuck to do, everything was just so—

“This pisses me off,” Rafe got out, his eyes still hidden behind his fists, not even sure what he meant or why he said it. “All of this fucking bullshit.”

“I can leave if you want,” you said softly, and Rafe's head snapped up in panic when he heard you shift to get up.

“No!”

And before he could stop himself, it was already out.

Fuck.

Rafe clenched his jaw, felt like a goddamn deer in headlights. Fuckfuckfuckufkc.

Why the hell had he said that?

But you just sat back down on the edge of the tub, that understanding smile on your face, and said, “Okay. I’ll stay.”

And just like that, some of the tension in his chest loosened. Unfortunately, it also knocked loose other shit that wasn’t supposed to move.

He shook his head again, eyes fixed on some dead spot in front of him. “I'm not like this, okay? This... I’m not some fucking junkie or whatever.”

That lie to you felt worse than lying to himself, and the shame clawed at his chest. He didn’t even want to look in the mirror—he had to look like fucking hell.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said, and even without looking, Rafe knew you had that soft, warm smile on your face.

He let his hands drop onto his bent knees, still shaking just a bit. “Do you actually mean all that shit you say? All that... talk?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. What makes you think otherwise?”

And when Rafe met your eyes—feeling that warmth—he let it in. Too tired to fight back.

His face twisted a little and he shrugged, voice low and bitter. “I don’t know, it’s just—fuck, I don’t know, it’s like...” Weakly, he tapped his fingers against his temples. “Something’s not right.” Then he scoffed, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “My head... it’s like there’s all this noise. Not voices or schizophrenic shit or whatever, just...”

“Too much.”

Rafe nodded. “Like a ton of shitty music playing all at once, all at different speeds and volumes.”

“Maybe the problem isn't your head but the DJ's taste in music at this party", you replied softly.

God. That smile of yours was way too sweet, and that stupid little joke you made about Kelce came out of you so damn sweet and gentle.

It made Rafe let out something close to a laugh. “Why’d you even agree to his invite?”

It didn’t make sense. You were soft. Warm. You had this calm vibe to you. And Kelce... he was fucking Kelce. Loud. Annoying. A dumbass. You two weren’t even in the same fucking solar system.

And the thought that maybe you did like the guy, that maybe that’s why you showed up tonight... Yeah. That pissed Rafe off for reasons he couldn't quite place.

You tilted your head. “He was really welcoming on my first day. His parents too. He had so much to tell. About himself, your school, the people here, you and Topper,” you chuckled softly, “I thought he’d never shut up. But I didn’t mind. Kinda sweet, isn’t it? Having that much good stuff to say. He’s always in a good mood, has a lot of positive energy. I like that.”

Rafe’s stomach twisted.

Now he really didn’t get why you were here. With him.

“Yeah, nah. I think he’s just trying to suck up to you,” Rafe said, not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. “Probably thinks a few nice moves will get you into bed.”

But to his surprise, you laughed again. Honest. Genuine. And Rafe couldn’t fucking place that tingling feeling in his stomach.

“Maybe,” you said, “but to me, it seems like he just enjoys meeting new people. He seems like someone who’s got a lot to give—and enjoys doing so."

Rafe frowned. “Yeah, well, maybe ‘cause he’s afraid of ending up like some lonely-ass loser.”

“There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to be alone.”

Jesus Christ.

Rafe was starting to think you had his mom’s soul tucked inside you or something. Because this? You? Everything about you reminded him of her, in the best and most cruel way possible.

Even though every part of him wanted to get up, leave, maybe snort the seventh or eighth line of the night and forget all of this, he was too fucking tired. Too pissed off with everyone out there.

And somehow, your calmness���no matter how bitter it tasted in his mouth—somehow it brought peace to him the same way only his mom ever could.

“I don’t fucking get you,” Rafe said, tapping his finger to his temple. “Are you like... some voodoo hippie eco crystal chick who’s all about good vibes and shit, or are you just fucking oblivious to the world?”

You gave him that honey-sweet smile again, and Rafe couldn’t help but wonder how soft your lips might feel.

“It’s true,” you said. “I try to see things—people especially—in the best light. Maybe that does make me blind to some stuff.” This time, your smile was almost sad, and something in Rafe tugged, hard. “People often tell me I’ve got a savior complex. That I shouldn’t try to be so caring. It'll eat me alive someday.”

Then, for the first time that night, your voice took on a serious tone. “But I’m not stupid. I’m not blinded by what I believe. I know there’s a lot of bad out there—in the world, and in people. And yeah, I know a lot of people still think I’m naive. But I can’t change that, and that’s okay. I’m not here to change anyone. All I can do is try to broaden someone’s horizon, maybe offer a different perspective. And if just one person ends up holding the door open for another because of that, maybe that inspires the next. And if not... that’s okay too.”

Your words did something weird to Rafe.

He could practically feel that little boy inside him clawing his way up from some deep, buried grave, pushing through thick layers of rotting dirt just to catch the smallest glimmer of light, just to feel one single sunbeam of your warmth on his skin.

Fuck. That pathetic little boy—he was starving for kindness, for a gentle smile, a warm hug, compassion. Love. For someone who made him feel like he was enough.

And from this point on, Rafe had two choices:

Push that naive little asshole back down, cement the grave shut and make damn sure he never even thought about gasping for air again.

Or let him.

Let him keep digging, let him breathe in that supposed fresh air. Let him come up—just once—after all these years.

But if he did, he’d be handing you the key to a drawer that was never meant to be opened. Its wood so dry and dusty and dark, a single spark could set the whole damn room ablaze.

But hadn’t Rafe always been the kind of guy to play with fire?

“You’re not stupid,” he finally said, shaking his head with a bitter little smile, more at himself than anything else. “Shit, and anyone who says otherwise is a fucking asshole.” Myself included. He let out a dry scoff and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, disgusted with himself. “I don’t know where you lived before, doesn’t fucking matter. But this place? These people? That’s a whole different breed.”

Rafe braced himself on the edge of the bathtub and sat beside you, leaving a respectful distance. “They’re fucking sharks, okay? Just waiting for someone like you to get tossed in as bait. Fake-ass girls acting like they’re your bestie one minute and turning you into fucking gossip the next, or I don't know—some piece of shit guy who sees your kindness as an open invite to get you laid.”

You simply listened, brows slightly raised, your face calm. Then, for the first time, you looked away—something uncertain stirring beneath your composed exterior.

“This strong two-class thing here... you guys call it Kooks and Pogues, right? I noticed something was different here. I’ll admit it confuses me,” you said, your gaze finally finding him again. “But maybe I just need some time to understand it. The rivalry.”

A soft little chuckle left your lips. “It's kinda funny. Earlier, I was talking to a guy from one of your country clubs. We talked about this whole thing and I just said a Pogue isn’t really that different from a Kook, like—at the end of the day, we’re all just people, right? And the way he looked at me... I believe I’ve never been stared down like that in my life.”

And even though you said it so genuinely amused and lightheartedly, that sweet chuckle escaping your lips—

FUCK.

Something snapped in Rafe. Like he wanted to punch every single person who'd ever dared to look at you sideways.

And that fucking guy…

Rafe wouldn’t even eat at the same table as a Pogue himself, but fuck if he didn’t want to hunt this bastard down right now.

“But that’s okay,” you said, before Rafe could ask who this motherfucker was. “Some people just can’t be reached. That’s how it is.”

How could you carry that much understanding, that much warmth in you?

If Rafe didn’t know better, he’d think you were some kind of angel. A hallucination. Fuck, maybe he was still passed out on Kelce’s office floor with an overdose and this was some pre-death type shit.

But a knock on the door yanked him back into… fuck, he didn’t even know. He hadn’t realized he’d completely tuned out the party.

“Ayo, Rafe? You in there? You dead?”

Kelce.

This fucking idiot always had to stick his nose up shit. Especially Rafe's.

“What do you want?” Rafe called back, voice sharp.

Silence. Then: “You takin’ a shit?”

Rafe pulled a face, while you just let out a soft little chuckle beside him.

“Me and Markus still need two beer pong players, and you’re the only one who can land a damn shot,” Kelce continued. “Or you found someone to give you head in there?”

FUCK. What was happening? Rafe felt fucking heat in his cheeks.

“I’d love to join you,” you said quietly beside him. “If you also want to.”

And when Rafe looked at you, that sweet, innocent little smile almost tricked him into thinking you were just some clueless girl after all, looking for a good time. He nearly said, 'Down for what? Blowjob or beer pong?'—but holy fucking shit, he'd rather bite his damn tongue off than think of you like that one more time, even for a second.

And in just a few hours you'd proven him wrong. Shit, he even could’ve stayed right here with you forever. Drink in your warmth, gaze at your beautiful eyes and lips. But if you wanted to leave this room, then fuck, he was walking out with you.

Also, no way he’d let shitface Kelce catch him in here like some crying little loser.

So the only thing he shouted back was: “Five minutes.”

Whatever nasty, godless comment Kelce threw back, Rafe didn’t hear a word of it. Because all he could think about was the way you just chuckled, soft and sweet like you hadn't just been the target of some filthy joke made by the most annoying bastard on this planet.

And in that moment, Rafe realized, you were the only person at this fucking party whose presence he actually wanted by his side tonight.

And even though you lived barely ten meters away from Kelce, Rafe would damn well make sure you got home safe. He wouldn't be leaving until your front door had clicked shut behind you.

Then, he’d head back to the party and find that fucking country club motherfucker who'd dared to give you mean glances earlier because of the Kook vs Pogue topic.

If Rafe was in a good mood, he wouldn’t hit him that hard.

And tonight, thanks to you, he was.

So that asshole better fall to his fucking knees and say one hell of a thank you. Because you just might be the reason, he’d still have a jaw left to do it.

♡ A / N ♡

if you made it to to this point, thank you sm for taking the time and reading this. somehow i feel more self-conscious about this than the smut i wrote but i hope you enjoyed this (not so) little writing. and i'd LOVE to know what you think about it <3

M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M | P A R T T W O (soon)

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[chaostudee]

new years day, charles leclerc

summary : you and charles have been friendly from a distance but recently you have been yearning for him, at a new years eve party you find that your feelings are not unrequited. warnings : suggestive content, language, use of an original character. a/n : i feel like all i do is write smau's so here is a written fic for once 😭💗

charles looked good, almost too good. his shoulders were clad with a ferrari customized suit jacket, a black and blue tie hung around his neck yet his hair was the most jaw dropping part. his curls hung loose and carelessly fell as though he had simply just woken up. and whenever he spoke you caught a glimpse of his dimples. it could truly make anybody melt.

"you know he ended things with that charlotte girl" your friend kristy whispers which pulls you from your trance.

you look at her and roll your eyes. "and what do u expect me to do with that information?". you take a swig of your martini before then taking the olive and swirling it around in the liquid.

kristy takes a sip of her own beverage and chuckles at your reply. "you know damn well what you should do y/n". kristy runs a hand through her blonde hair and then drifts her gaze over to charles.

charles was now deep in conversation with carlos about god knows what but you couldn't pull your eyes away from him.

at that moment charles turned to find you looking right at him. charles's breath hitched when he met eye contact with you. to him, it seemed that everyday you got more beautiful and honestly he didn't know how much longer he would be able to control himself. the black dress that you were wearing really accented your curves and he could sense the confidence of you radiating.

charles smiles at you and nods whilst doing so. immediately a rush of warmth rushes to your cheeks and u flash him a small smile before turning away and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

kristy, having watched this interaction full on looks at you with her mouth hanging open. "girl he wants you baddd, i swear to god if you don't do something abour this tonight i might go insane".

you can't deny her words. maybe tonight could be the night that you reveal your feelings for him. "but i'm scared" you mumble and kristy nods at you sympathetically knowing your dating history. you had been dumped plenty of times and rejection was the usual for you.

"i know you are but y/n you have to do this because otherwise he really will just settle down with some other girl and you'll never get over it".

sure charles had been with many girls but he had always assured you that they were just casual relationships. truthfully that didn't make you feel any better.

"yeah you're right" you admit, finally coming to the realization that you have to make a move. you had seen the way other women had looked at him, and you resonated with them.

"i'm just going to go to the bathroom real quick can u mind my purse for me". kristy nods and shoos you off to the bathroom.

you walk off elegantly in fear that you would trip because wearing heels wasn't the usual but whenever you were in the presence of charles it was a must. he noticed you more and you craved his attention more than anything.

as kristy watches you walk in the direction of the bathroom a genuis idea creeped into her conscience. it was for your own good.

picking up your purse kristy picks up your purse and heads firmly over to charles. tapping him on the shoulder pulls him midst conversation.

before charles can speak kristy interjects. "can u give y/n her purse i gotta go" kristy points in the far off distance.

charles opens his mouth but he is interrupted once again. "aw thank you so much charles you are amazing, she's in the bathroom", kristy places a kiss on his cheek and walks off bristly.

kristy looks back and upon spotting charles walking towards you, she smiles knowing how this will end. and even so what harm does a little meddling do?

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

taking a deep breath you look at yourself in the mirror, whilst running your hands under the warm water. the girl that you are greeted with in the reflection is clearly relunctant to go back to the party. kristy had dragged you along in the first place, social gatherings weren't really your scene but kristy always stook by your side and made it bearable.

"not much longer y/n and then u can go home" u whisper to yourself as an affirmation, looking at yourself in the looking glass one last time. you sigh and reluctantly exit the bathroom.

suddenly someone walks straight into causing you to stumble backwards but you are caught when you feel an arm fall into place on your lower back.

typically it's charles. "i'm so so sorry are you okay y/n i wasn't looking" he insists looking at you up and down making sure that he hadn't hurt you.

you clear your throat and steady yourself. "yeah no no i'm fine don't worry about it" you insist as you are more so thanking fate for letting this scenario play out.

you look at him and see that he is a holding a purse, your heart sinks for a moment but then you notice it's yours.

he follows your gaze. "oh yeah kristy wanted me to give this to you" charles suddenly remembers his primary task but it was hard for his brain to function when he was alone with you.

charles hands you your purse and for a moment time freezes as his fingers latch onto yours. you both lock your eyes on one another, both not daring enough to utter a single word.

the moment ends and your purse is returned to you and now you are left red faced and with a racing heart. charles sticks his hands into his trouser pockets and bites his lip nervously.

"so um how are you.....i um heard you and charlotte ended things".

charles nods and looks down at his feet. "oh yeah that was never going to work out".

you stare at him confused because he had seemed happy with her, happier than you had seen him with most girls.

"how come, you seemed so happy" you furrow your eyebrows as you speak.

charles looks back up at you and sweeps his tongue across the inside of his cheek. "she um thinks that i'm in love with someone else". this wasn't a lie, truth be told charlottle had seen the way that charles's eyes lingered too long and how his attention was grabbed everytime you spoke. she knew he would never feel the same way about her.

your eyes widen at this. had charles been cheating on charlottle?

"and are you?" you push the question wanting more information. even if the truth would hurt you wanted to know.

"well it's hard to love someone when you don't know if they feel the same".

"have you told her?"

"no um no i haven't".

"why not?"

"too hard" charles says bluntly.

"how come?"

"she means alot to me and i truly would never want to hurt her". charles looks at you innocently like those words mean nothing to you when infact they mean everything. because he is talking about you.

at this precise moment the countdown for the new year had just begun. you turn to charles but don't have the courage to muster what you want to say.

"um i think we should go and um-"

charles grabs your wrist. "stay, please".

you look down at his hand and back up at him, his eyes pleading for you to stick with him. how could resist that look.

"3"

"2"

"1"

as the bell rings for the new year you hear countless people cheering and popping champagne bottles.

but before you can even register your surroundings charles pulls you closer to him, decreasing the small gap that had distanced you before.

charles takes his hand and uses it to push a piece of your hair behind your ear. he then brings his mouth alongside your ear, his warmth breath fanning across your neck, causing you to shiver.

"happy new year y/n".

charles presses his lips against yours and at first its soft and everything you have been wishing for. his hand is tender on your cheek as your lips respond in sync. but then charles becomes more forceful taking dominance. you surrender and allow him to take the lead. you both pull away for a sliver of a moment to take a breath, your chests heaving trying to gather extra oxygen.

charles presses his forehead against yours and sighs.

"you don't know how long i've been wanting to do that" he admits with no shame that he had a desire for you for quite some time.

you chuckle because it had been the same for you. "i'm so glad you did" and at this charles smiles and presses a soft kiss on your lips once again.

"so now what?"

"now it's just me and you"

charles presses a kiss to your cheek and holds out his hand instructing you to take it. you walk through the main party entrance to find many couples making out and some strays downing alcohol.

kristy is in the corner chatting to a man, twirling her hair around her finger. charles leads you up the stairwell and kristy spots you and silenty to applauds her victory.

kristy sends you a wink and it suddenly registers in your mind that this was all her doing. you blow her a kiss and she catches it.

charles with his hand still tightly slotted into your own turns around to check on you. "you okay?" he asks.

you smile broadly and for once you can say confidently.

"i'm perfect".

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[stvr-l1ghtt]

FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY X READER

↳ in which i try to explain how I THINK fyodor would be.. This is probs too OOC for him😭 but ig we all have our headcanons abt characters... AND ppls send me character requests if you want me to do more of this! It was acc fun!

To even consider romantic involvement with Fyodor Dostoyevsky, one must throw away any conventional notion of love. Fyodor does not love in the human sense. He does not crave companionship, empathy, or validation. What he craves is purpose, power, and purity, and anything that slips into his orbit must serve that grand, theological vision.

So, why would he “choose” someone as a partner? Usefulness. Plain and cruel. If Fyodor chooses someone, it is because they are useful, not only tactically, but psychologically malleable, symbolically meaningful, or uniquely aligned with his ideological or spiritual vision. For instance:

• If you possess an ability that fits perfectly into his godlike chessboard, you’ve got his interest. (Think Sigma: Fyodor handpicked him because he could extract knowledge with a touch. Cold, transactional. Precise.)

• If you are emotionally fragile, self-loathing, or guilt-ridden, he will see you as spiritually ripe for “purification”—which in his world may mean manipulation cloaked in salvation. You’d be “interesting.” You’d become a case study, a tool, a disciple.

• If you are intelligent but doubting your path, he may attempt to intellectually seduce you. Not through flirtation, but through doctrine, paradoxes, and ideology, charming your mind into ruin and submission.

So his partner? Someone who either mirrors his depth or feeds his mission. Perhaps a person he can mold—a Sisyphus to his God. Someone with a brokenness he finds beautiful, because he sees their scars as symbolic of man’s sinful nature. And he will make it his divine duty to cleanse them—through manipulation, through pain, through control.

Fyodor doesn’t fall for someone.

He selects them.

To love Fyodor is to question every moment of it. Every conversation is a riddle. Every smile, a mask. Every word laced with calculated ambiguity. His interactions are orchestrations, not dialogues.

He doesn’t seduce with emotion—he seduces with meaning.

He might say things like:

“You were born into sin, but your suffering has meaning now. I’ve given it purpose.”

In doing so, Fyodor does not only manipulate your thoughts—he reframes your identity. You are no longer simply yourself. You are his chosen, the one he will mold in service of his godlike aim. There is an intimacy in that, yes, but it is a warped intimacy. One that strips away autonomy and replaces it with spiritual dependence.

Fyodor would never raise his voice. His manipulation is surgical, precise, and entirely quiet. And that silence? It becomes your obsession. The way he looks at you and says nothing—you crave the words that never come. That’s his power.

Examples of manipulation in a romantic context (bro idk how to write...):

• Guilt Induction: “You say you love me, and yet you question my methods. Do you not trust that I do this for you… for the world?”

• Spiritual Elevation: “Out of all the sinners, I chose you. You were lost. Now you’re mine, and now you’re free.”

• Isolation: He may begin to separate you from others, psychologically if not physically, making his approval your only compass.

This is not romance. It’s religious obsession. It’s devotion as domination.

Fyodor does not court in the traditional sense. There are no flowers. No whispered sweet nothings. But if he is “courting” someone, it will be through symbolic gestures, ritualistic control, and subtle possession.

What would this look like?

• He gives you literature. Not random books. Carefully chosen philosophical or theological texts with messages embedded in them—messages that slowly mirror your interactions. Something that reflects his belief in mankind’s wretchedness, or your own flaws. It’s a game and a lesson all at once.

• He controls time. Meetings always happen on his terms. He appears when you least expect it—never when you want him to. Absence is part of his seduction.

• He gives nicknames. Not cute ones. Ironic ones. Biblical ones. “Eve.” “Lamb.” “Pilgrim.” To be named by him is to be possessed. Though he rarely uses them..

• He grants silence. He makes silence sacred. Long, loaded silences where you’re forced to question what he’s thinking, where your own need becomes unbearable. And then—only then—does he speak.

And when he speaks?

“You are a note in a song God has yet to finish writing.”

That’s courting, Fyodor-style.

Not passion, not affection. Ritualized psychological seduction. It’s twisted. It’s terrifying. And in his mind, it’s holy.

This is perhaps the most disturbing and complex part. How would Fyodor express affection—if at all?

Canonically, he shows no physical attachment to anyone. His physical space is sacred, untouchable. He even killed Sigma without flinching. So, if Fyodor were to allow you close—emotionally or physically—it would be significant.

• Touch is rare. If he touches you, it’s deliberate and symbolic. A hand to the cheek while explaining your role in God’s plan. Fingers trailing your face not with lust, but with reverence or judgment. You don’t know which.

• Affection is control. He may protect you—but only as long as you serve his mission. If you question him? He may “test” your devotion with withdrawal, abandonment, or orchestrated betrayal.

• Sexual intimacy? If it occurs, it’s not about mutual pleasure—it’s ritualistic, a confirmation of power, of spiritual dominance. There’s no warmth. It’s commanding, ceremonial, almost like communion. You are not his partner. You are a sacrifice.

And even so… the eye contact would burn.

“Is this what you call love?” he might murmur. “What a fragile, vulgar thing.”

You don’t love Fyodor.

You worship him—or you die trying.

What happens when you resist? When you grow wise to his manipulation?

He doesn’t get angry.

He gets surgical.

• He might turn your allies against you.

• He might make you doubt your memories, your thoughts, your worth.

• He may allow you to believe you’ve outsmarted him… only for you to walk straight into a preordained trap.

And if he still cares (in his twisted way), he won’t kill you.

He’ll “save” you again.

“You fell. As all do. But I am merciful.”

You can never truly leave Fyodor.

Even in death, he might haunt you

Could he ever love you genuinely ?

Canonically? No.

Not unless love is defined as ownership, intellectual admiration, or religious identification.

But perhaps—perhaps—if someone was strong enough to intellectually challenge him, spiritually mirror him, and yet remain wholly autonomous—he might feel something close to reverence. Not love, but equality.

That would be the most dangerous romance of all. Two monsters staring at each other across the void, with mutual respect and perpetual distrust.

It would not be love.

It would be war.

His ass is so evil but hes so hot .. Bones did THIS FINE YOUNG (old) MAN MORI(MANGA) TREATMENT

[ghost-proofbaby]

OH SAY LESS 14 WITH ASTARION PLEASE

so this is my first time publicly writing and posting astarion, so please be gentle. higher word count solely because i felt the need to add lore because, ya know, first time writing him! also, i changed the line just a tiny bit to better fit the character and scene. ALSO, uh... this is a little fade to black. i'm sorry. it just got too long.

14. "Oh, you're hard to please."

warnings: foreplay, sorta fade to black smut (it's there if you squint your eyes), an ungodly amount of pet names, mentions of past sexual abuse and healing from it, technical game spoilers, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: astarion x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

wc: 4.4k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

How long had it been since Astarion had actually enjoyed sex? Craved it, even? 

If he recalls correctly, it had to have started to become tainted well over a century ago. Somewhere between the first and the third victim, when he’d realized how every single beautiful soul he had entrapped were simply being lured to their own death. And then, the sour taste left in his mouth only became more pungent the longer it went on, the more he came to the realization of just how used he felt. His body was no longer his own – it technically hadn’t been his from the very second he’d emerged from his own grave, and Cazador had been waiting for him – and everything about the act became an old rehearsed dance that he’d grit his teeth through. A chore, something to make his stomach churn, something to regret. A means to an end. 

Plainly put, it had been a while. 

But then you happened. You, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the first time you met him, he’d literally threatened you with a gods damned blade to your throat. You, who had repeatedly trusted him, even when it had been an objectively stupid thing to do. You, who had always offered him the utmost patience and genuine understanding, to the point in which if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably cry. You, who had led your group of misfits with brain worms right into victory, with plenty of personal demons defeated along the way. 

Personal demons including Cazador. 

Maybe that’s when things changed for Astarion. He’d already fallen for you before your group had reached Baldur’s Gate, he’d already gotten to know your body intimately before ever laying eyes on that ridiculously oversized brain you somehow made look easy to defeat. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really wanted to do that (not meant as an offense to you – certainly not after all was said and done), but had thought he needed to. To gain your trust, to gain your protection. And in the end, it turned out he never needed to do such a thing. You’d never said it outloud, probably at risk of making him feel even more regret after you’d learned all his secrets and darkest corners, but he knew. 

And knowing that you didn’t view him as something purely sexual, as a means to an end, as an item to use – well, it had the opposite effect of his request to no longer be viewed in that light. 

“What are you doing?” he says as he quickly looks up from his current book he’d been pursuing the moment you’d entered the room. He hardly cared for the words on the page – he just needed a way to pass the hours until you were available again. 

It was a hard habit to kick. Being so codependent on you, even with the end of the world resolved and the gift of safety being handed over to him on a silver platter. 

“We received mail,” you’re grinning wickedly as you hold up an embellished envelope, delicate fingers pinching the parchment as if it were the greatest gift to ever exist. He’d argue the real gift at hand was the last three months – time spent with you, in a place he can call home. But nothing could impede on your good mood as you throw yourself down on the mattress beside him, “From Withers, of all people!” 

His brows shoot up for just a moment before his face twists up with something akin to distrust, “Withers? What in the Hells does that sack of dust and bones wan-” 

“A reunion,” you cut him off, the look on your face warning enough against his attempt at an insult. “He’s reaching out to all of us to bring us together for a celebration, to check in on everyone, let us see each other again. Apparently, we were the easiest of the bunch to find.”

Astarion quickly lets out a tut as he snaps the book shut and discards it on the bedside table closest to him, “Well, we certainly need to fix that. Soon enough all of those little shits are going to end up on our doorstep, preaching about the power of friendship and how they want to check in on us.” 

You snort at that, laying flat on your back with your hair wildly spread out in a makeshift halo behind you. The sight causes something to stir within him, his gut twisting as he watches the way your knees knock together before slowly falling apart, your legs settling down as flat as the rest of your body.

He hadn’t taken you since that night at his grave. Before the epic final battle, before the two of you had made the decision to settle down somewhere for some well-earned peace and quiet. 

The moonlight dances past the open curtains, and his breath catches in his throat at the way the blue shadows dance across your skin. It almost reminds him of the first time he’d seen you fight. It hadn’t just been the blood splattered across your cheeks that had really gotten the better of his curiosity (even if that’s what he had told you when you asked), it had been the sunlight. Those rays of gold that had mingled with your own aura of warmth after you had helped the tieflings for the first time. 

You put the sun to shame, truly. And he missed it – Gods, did he miss it – but he was content to bask in the peace of night for a few months more before he finally cut you loose from the leash to begin your next phase of adventures to find him a cure. You had promised him you would, had already dedicated plenty of free time to research, and all you really needed was his word to begin. 

He’s selfish. The two of you can find a way for him to walk in the sun once more another day; all he wants right now is to bury himself in your warmth, to slot his body between your thighs, to hear every breathy gasp and the way you’d practically sing his name-

“Star?” you’re looking up at him from an awkward angle, eyes owlish and chin tilted painfully far back as you clearly await an answer to a question he’d been too lost in a daydream to overhear, “Did you hear me?” 

He clears his throat and adjusts the pillows behind his back, keeping him propped up as he admires you, “Of course I did, darling.” 

“Then what did I just say?”

“Something about how we’re absolutely not going to this reunion, yes?” 

Your smile is nothing but patient as you flip onto your stomach. He watches the way your shorts ride up your thighs, how the top of the soft fabric bunches at your waist. His fingers practically twitch with the need to weasel their way under it, to press his cold fingertips into warm flesh and hear you preen. 

Whenever you’re ready, you had whispered to him one night shortly after saving the world. Just tell me when, and I’m yours. 

He was ready. Insatiably ready, really. 

“Very funny. I said we should go, though. It’d be nice to see everyone again, wouldn’t it? All our friends?” 

You’re still talking about this damned reunion. Astarion has half the mind to figure out a way to summon the insufferable skeleton right here, right now, and drive a dagger into his bones until he’s truly nothing but dust. Solely for the distraction. 

“Your friends, my dear,” he corrects gently, “We both know they’re only overly fond of one of us in this relationship, and it certainly isn’t the one that they repeatedly threatened to stake.” 

The furrow of your brows is impossibly cute – he knows that look of determination. It’s the same one you wore when he mentioned it was likely that the two of you would never find a cure to his condition. 

“Our friends,” you insist, “Karlach adores you, Star. And Wyll has always been proud of you, whether he told you as much or not.”

“And what of Gale?” 

Your lips twitch at that, “Gale… certainly wouldn’t stake you on sight.”

“Ah, yes,” he flourishes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere but where your hands press into your cheeks as you prop your face up to speak to him, “Not staking me. The ultimate sign of kinship.” 

Focusing is a losing battle when you roll your eyes, and he finds his mind overtaken with insatiable lust again. Imaginative ways that he could have your eyes rolling for him under different circumstances. 

“You’re not getting out of this. They are your friends just as well as mine – so argue all you want, but we’re going to the reunion.” 

“Are you sure there’s no other way I might be able to…” he pauses with intent, finally lifting one of his docile hands to your cheek, letting his finger graze the skin with a feather light touch before it travels back into the mess of your hair, “Persuade you otherwise?” 

You almost fall for it, too. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilts into his touch as if you were starved for the connection. But even with the lack of sexual intimacy, you both know there hasn’t been a day that has gone by in the last three months where Astarion hasn’t found a way to get his hands on you.

Holding your own, resting his cheek on your shoulder, spinning you like a child in the kitchen – he had quite the sudden arsenal of romantic gestures that didn’t involve old wounds. It had been awkward here and there, some of them landing and some of them leaving you both looking like fools, but he was trying.

Almost as hard as he was currently trying to not jump your bones. 

When you recognize the innuendo for what it is, however, you harden immediately. Your shoulders set, a frown settles, and your eyes open with set determination he knows he can’t falter without speaking plainly to you. 

“No.”

“No?”

You’re quick to lift yourself up onto your knees, putting distance between yourself and his hands, “The days of weaponizing sex are over. I don’t even want to joke about that.” 

And, oh, he’s finding himself in quite the mood tonight, because as soon as you’re retracting, he’s following. As you settle on the haunches of your calves, he’s lifting up from his reclined position, leaning forward so that his face is breaths away from yours. 

“I mean it,” you warn, narrowing your eyes and holding up a finger in that small space between you two. 

He tests his luck, wasting no time in snapping his fangs just millimeters from your skin. You both know he wouldn’t actually bite you, but it still humors him to see the way you whip your hand out of his reach. 

“Were you not the one who insisted that we ask before we bite?” you snap, and his smile only worsens. Like a cheshire cat, like a child never scorned by the world – he’s radiant and basking in the moment. 

He lets out a small hmph before saying, “You’re no fun, my dear. Come on – just play with me for a moment, won’t you?” 

Your face softens at his teasing tone, and he can see the way he’s withering away your defenses one by one. There was once a time where he’d done it with malicious intent, but this time around, it’s with nothing but good intentions. 

If you asked him, he’d go as far as to swear it on his own grave. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize as if you’d done something wrong, and it makes more than half of his own playfulness drain from his face in absolute displeasure. Before he can so much as open his mouth to scold you about unnecessary apologies, you’re continuing on, “I just… After everything we’ve been through, it’s not something I find particularly joyous to joke about.”

What a rare thing, to have found someone to bare your soul and all your burdens to, and watch them offer to help you shoulder the weight without second thought or regret. 

He’s never met someone like you in all his years, and he might never again. 

“And if I told you I wasn’t joking?” he asks slowly, carefully, trying to choose each word with the utmost care, “I’m not weaponizing – I’m offering.” 

Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.

He was ready. Very, desperately, sorely ready. 

The topic of the reunion is all but forgotten as you process his words, nose twitching as you decipher all that’s he laying out before you. “I want more than an offer.” 

“Excuse me?” 

He can’t help the small laugh that leaves him as he sits up properly, leaning into your space fully now with one hand pressing into the mattress just beside one of your thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from you, smell your blood rushing to your head as you try to be sensible. It’s a pitiful excuse for an internal war; all he has to do is close that conveniently small distance between your lips with his own, and you’ll have lost all sense of logic. 

“You’re…” you trail off, searching his eyes as if he holds the answer you’re currently looking for, “You’re sacred to me, Astarion. You must know that. And it will take much more than some joking offer to convince me to have sex with you when I know-”

“I’m not joking,” he’s nearly whining, letting his forehead fall forward to press to yours, “Gods, I am not joking about this. Cross my heart and hope to die again.” 

If he has to beg, he will. 

He’s spent two hundred years in an insufferable position of pure misery, pure shit, and the realization that he’s finally free has everything clicking into place. Proof of the change exists solely in the fact that he could have resorted to his tired old seduction routine from his life before to get what he wanted, but instead, he’s trying to just communicate. 

It was a novel moment. 

But he could appreciate it later, when the crotch of his pants wasn’t becoming increasingly uncomfortably tight and he wasn’t watching you closer than prey. When his stomach wasn’t so tight with desire and anticipation, just waiting for your word to indulge. 

“Do I need to beg?” he sighs, his lips brushing against yours ever so slightly from proximity. He catches the shiver that runs up your spine. “We both know I’m not particularly fond of it, but if I have to get on my knees for you- well, actually, that’s the entire point of what I’m asking.” 

You laugh at that, and his gut twists again, because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the opportunity to hear. Something more breath than any vocality, something sharp and spelling out the loss of words on your tongue. 

Your silence is enough for him to push it all a step further. Forehead still leaning against yours, he properly presses his lips to yours this time, slotting them between softer than a feather’s caress. Finding home as he can physically feel himself steal your breath away. His fangs just barely nip your bottom lip, unintentionally but still eliciting a delicious reaction of a gasp that makes him graze you a second time just to feel the way you’re leaning into him more, becoming absolute putty in his hands. Pliable for his taking, and Gods, he wants to take you. 

Something snaps. 

All hesitation has vanished as he grabs at your hips quickly, making use of the way your brain has gone blank from a simple kiss in order to lay you out below him. He moves you with ease, incredible speed in slotting himself between your legs before he’s caging your entire body in with his own. The squeak that leaves your lips from his manhandling affects him even more than your gasps had, a low growl shaking his chest as he kisses you deeper. Tasting, begging, searching – he wants this, but he needs to know that you want this just as badly. 

Your hands find purchase on each of his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if needing something to tether yourself to. You pull him in closer for a second, eagerly returning the kiss, almost feverish in the way you drink him in. But the next, you’re pushing him away, a game of want and sensibility still clouding your judgment impossibly. 

You always were stubborn about things like morals. And, well, it wasn’t very moral to just jump right into sex with your traumatized boyfriend who had explicitly said not to view him in terms of sex, was it? 

It was Astarion’s own damn fault. 

He could have just acted like a normal person, initiated a normal conversation in which he renegotiated his boundaries. But you’ve been on his mind all day, and he’s long since proven since the very day that you met him that he has little to none impulse control. 

“My, my,” he murmurs, pulling back from the kiss, eyes wild, looking at you with even more hunger than he had the first night you’d given him a taste of your blood in camp, “You’re just an impossible thing to please, aren’t you? Do you want me near, do you want me far? Tell me, my love, what do you want?” 

He settles all his weight onto one of his forearms as the other slowly brings his hand to your side, caressing over the soft fabric of your shirt – a shirt he’s quickly realizing is actually his own. He recognizes those flowy sleeves, that lacing across the chest, the off-white tone that had seen better days. Given all its wear and tear, he’s almost sure that it’s one of his shirts he had grown most comfortable wearing during the nights of your adventures against the Netherbrain. 

It’s cute. A sort of domesticity that he can ponder over later, when your legs aren’t hanging on his hips and your breaths aren’t coming out staccato as he hovers just out of reach from you. 

“I want whatever you want,” you whisper. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him with pupils so dilated they could swallow him whole. 

“Let me be very clear, then,” he hums, cold fingers creeping their way to the hem of the shirt, slipping beneath with practiced ease to find the smooth skin of your hips below. They dance and skitter up, up, up until he’s brushing against your ribs, “I want you. I want that warm cunt of yours, I want to feel every gasp and breath as your walls squeeze around me. I want to fuck you until you’re unable to walk on your own two legs, until you can only remember my name. I want to watch you come undone, my dear, and for it to be my own undoing.”

Your lips quiver in anticipation, and he feels your thighs tighten their hold on him, “Such pretty words. And… and no ulterior motives? No sense of obligation?” 

“None at all,” he smiles, a predator closing in on his prey, “I’m choosing this. If you want it, if you’ll have me, then I’m ready, pet.” 

Pet. The nickname rolls off his tongue, and he can imagine your walls fluttering just as your eyes do. 

Your hands lift from his shoulders to bury in his hair instead. One cradling the back of his head, the other resting on the nape of his neck as you toy with a snowy curl. It unfurls him further, has him humming lowly as he dips down to recapture your lips and bring you into him even closer. Closer. He needs all and any space between the two of you to become nonexistent. To feel every inch of your skin pressed to his, to allow you to physically curl up into his chest just as you had his mind all those moons ago, to make a home in a room with your name on it already somewhere between his third and fourth rib. 

“Do you really have to doubt if I’ll have you, my love?” you mutter against his mouth, smile breaking the kiss momentarily before he’s back with a vengeance. You don’t care – you’re apparently in a chatty mood, dodging his kiss to get your last words in, “There’s been a space in my heart for you since the moment I first met yo-”

“Yes, yes, very romantic,” he interrupts urgently, suddenly tugging your shirt up, “But, truth be told, love? I’m hoping there’s a space between your legs for me at this moment.” 

You snort, eyes pinched shut as you attempt to shake your head at the ridiculousness of the words that just left his mouth. At any other moment, you might point out how the outrageous comment is just another defense mechanism, veering him away from having to acknowledge the gentle sentiment behind your own words, but now’s not the time. When you open your mouth, probably to say something exactly along those lines, he rolls his hips down against yours, pinning your lower half deep into the mattress. You feel just how hard he is through his trousers – it’s impossible to miss, but he’s deliberating being sure that you feel it as he lets the tips of his fangs sink into your bottom lip. 

The resolve of fighting against his wishes is quickly dissolved. One thing after another, and Astarion has you bare beneath him before any other distractions or annoying conversation can send the two of you further off track. Your, his, shirt is tossed to one side of the room. Your parents fly to the other side of the bed. Only once he has the entire spanse of your body nude and vulnerable to him does he take the time to pause, to look down at you with absolute adoration. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” 

He’s said those words to you a million times before. Consistently greeting you with them, muttering them in the dead of night, whispering them as he kisses you awake. But they never lose their weight. And certainly not now, as he’s looking down at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that freckle on your chest or the curve of your stomach barren before him. 

“Please, if you’re comfortable with it…” you start, voice laced with desperation, but he shakes his head. 

He’s full of interruptions tonight, “Consider me comfortable with anything unless stated otherwise for this moment, my sweet.” 

“Take off your clothes, Astarion.”

His giddy smile should annoy you. That smug satisfaction in finally, finally getting his way as he undresses himself at almost twice the speed that he had stripped you. And yet he knows you’re enjoying yourself just as much as he is. You’re reveling in drinking in the bare caricatures of his body, every inch and every curve exposed to you just as you are to him. And when his cool skin meets yours again, his body sinking right into that space between your thighs that you’ve granted to him, you let out a short gasp that reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does.

You’ve waited just as long as he has. 

It almost mirrors that night on his grave. The slow descent of his body against yours, the way he slides a leg up to spread your own even further for him as he crawls his way back home to your lips. Unlike that night, however, he isn’t taking quite as much care, his movements far faster and far more needy. 

He’s been waiting long enough. He’s denied himself long enough. 

It really doesn’t matter when the last time he had enjoyed sex had been, because all that he cares about is that here and now, in this moment with you, there’s not a trace of imperfections to taint his enjoyment. 

Cazador is dead. The brain has long since been defeated. You are both safe. 

As he sinks into your heat, the only thing on his mind is that contentment, overwhelmed with the feel and smell of just you. 

He’ll never be a slave again. Never be viewed as something to simply be used and disregarded again, if you have any say. And one day, some day, he’ll even feel the warmth of the sun again. Thanks to you.

But until that day, the warmth of your love is enough.

When you sigh his name out so delicately, jaw all but unhinging itself in bliss as your back arches in reaction to his touches, he knows he’s made the right choice. 

And he supposes he lied, in a way, earlier. 

You’re not that hard to please – not when it comes to him, at least. Not when it’s his hands trailing along your skin, not when it’s his lips and fangs nipping at every opportunity. And certainly not when it’s his name that’s being chanted like a prayer from your lips in time with every thrust, every stroke, every single movement with the sole purpose of making both of you come undone. 

Astarion no longer questions when the last time he enjoyed sex was in the aftermath of it all. With you, pressed into his side, sweaty forehead nuzzling his chest, the only thing he cares about is the next time he’ll be able to do so. 

“We’re still going to that reunion,” you murmur, half asleep, fading away from him quickly to fall into blissful unconsciousness. 

He almost doesn’t breathe in fear of disturbing you. He’ll waste the night away, laying here, still as a statue for your comfort. 

It’s no surprise when he refuses to put up a fight, instead his hand simply drawing soft stars across the back of your bare shoulder blades as he sighs, “Yes, dear. We will. Now sleep.”

“I love you.” 

The words tumble from your lips so carelessly, so easily and without hesitation, he nearly shakes you awake to hear them once more. Again and again, he needs to hear them, to be reassured that you feel for him as ardently as he does you. 

But he has the rest of your forever to hear them. So he lets you sleep, sending you away with a simple press of his lips to your temples as your breathing evens.

“And I love you, my dearest sun.”

[pinkcutiepiee]

Sirius Black Confessing his Feelings💌

Day 1 of 5 day of my Valentines Writing Event💌 || Masterlist 🍓

Sirius confesses his feelings for you. But you don’t believe him straight away💌

Hogwarts Uni AU. All characters are written as 20+. Not a house-specific reader.

Word count: 796

[A/N]: I'm seeing Ben Barnes live tonight so it only seemed fitting to start the Valentine's event with Sirius<3

Maybe gonna write a part 2<3

You watch from across the courtyard as Sirius and his friends are, you assume, planning yet another one of their infamous pranks. It was hard to tell, but that guess was the most likely. The pranks could be an inconvenience and frustrating, to say the least. It was true that none of their pranks affected you directly, but the way they indirectly affected you, when you were trying to study, hang out with your friends, or even concentrate in class, annoyed you.

Which is why you hated the way you found yourself becoming more and more attracted to Sirius. He was charming, undoubtedly so, and attractive. You often found yourself seeking him out, purposely studying somewhere close to him just to catch a glimpse. It almost made the pranks tolerable. He was way out of your league, you weren’t even sure that he knew you existed.

Which is why, when he approached you, you were more than certain that it was some sort of mistake, or (the more probable reason for his sudden approach) a prank. Quickly returning to your book, you hope that he didn’t see you staring. In attempt to slow your racing heart, you take a deep breath and try harder to focus on the words in front of you.

“Hey…” he started when he finally reached you. If you weren't so focused on how nervous you felt in that current moment, your rapid heart rate, or sweaty palms, you typically would have picked up on the hint of nervousness in his own voice. Or the way he anxiously played with his fingers, and the way he ran his fingers through his raven hair.

“What is it, Black?” All you wanted was for this whole interaction to be over. The last thing you wanted was for the one person you’re interested in romantically to use you for one of his pranks; to be laughed at by him and his friends. The thought hurt more than the idea of him simply just not knowing of your existence.

He takes a deep breath: “I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to go out with me sometime… kinda like a date because I think I’m in love with you and I think you’re really pretty, and I’m really nervous to ask…” he rambles. If you wasn’t convinced that this was a prank, you would have found the nervous rambling cute. But there was no way.

“You’re in love with me? You’re expecting me to believe that?” It broke your heart, to say the least, that this was the prank the Marauders decided to pull on you. it was just another cruel reminder of this never being a relationship that could work. No matter how much you craved it.

The look of disappointment and confusion on his face when he hears your words look very real, though. Feeling almost guilty, you look away, mentally reminding yourself why he’s actually here. None of his words were true. The way his friends watch the interaction tells you that much. They aren’t laughing, though. In fact, it looks almost as if they are watching with a sense of hope.

“Yes… it is true, please you need to believe me,” he now sits next to you - your breath hitching at the sudden close proximity. You noticed by the way he stiffened slightly when your knees touched slightly that it affected him too. Not being able to look at him, you take a deep breath, as he rakes his fingers through his hair yet again. An anxious tell.

“Why would it be?” He responds when you ask him if this is a prank, finally looking into his dark eyes. Watching him closely, you start to believe him.

After taking a moment figure out what exactly you wanted to say, you a deep breath, you start to speak; “I just never thought that… someone like you would find someone like me…”

“Perfect? But that’s what you are,” Sirius says when you don’t continue, as he grabs your hand gently. By the look on his face when he does, you know it wasn’t his intention, but you like it. So you hold onto his hand before he can pull away. You smile softly at his compliment.

“Well, for the record, I think you’re pretty perfect too… and in response to your question, I would love to go out with you… just tell your friends they need to be a little more subtle,” you joke, seeing the way that James, Remus, and Peter are staring at Sirius and you, hand in hand.

Sirius laughs softly, agreeing, as he squeezes your hand softly, running his thumb across your knuckle. Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful love story.

[beevean]

I finished watching a playthrough of Mouthwashing

Beautiful experience I'm never going to touch again. I tip my hat at the sound design which in some parts made me nauseous (cutting Curly's leg most of all)

And the writing is commendable for so many aspects. The characterization of the crew, the out-of-order timeline that keeps the mysteries and build tension, the subtext of every line... but I want to praise most of all how realistic Jimmy's misogyny is.

In most stories I've experienced, the "sexist" character is nothing more than a caricature who walks around with a flashing neon "I FUCKING HATE WOMEN/MEN" sign. They exist to be a strawmen to be made a lesson of (or to be "cool", in some misandrists' cases), but they're not really characters.

Jimmy's sexism against Anya is realistic. He never outright says that she's lesser for being a woman. But every interaction with her shows how little he values her. He makes a jab at her never being admitted to medical school, but doesn't quite finish his sentence. He hijacks her role as Curly's nurse because she's too "sensitive" (that and perhaps his deep-seated desire of having power combined with his guilt). She never features in his guilt-induced delusions: Daisuke, who was mercy killed by Swansea after Jimmy endangered him, does, but Anya, who obviously killed herself out of trauma? Nah. But, what features is a womb-like thing with a "baby" in it, and the baby's cries can be heard even before, in the cemetery. The baby itself is seen as the real issue when Jimmy and Curly talk before the crash - even Curly doesn't seem to give a single shit about Anya's trauma, but simply wants to help Jimmy with the mess he made. I bet that, had he never impregnated her, no one would have cared.

Anya is not on the same levels at the others. Not intellectually, and not in dignity. Jimmy doesn't need to spell it out. Hell, while we don't see the rape happening, and it's not even outright confirmed but kept hush-hush as it often happens, it does fit Jimmy's craving for power. That is his fatal flaw. He loves to control others and have power over their lives, he just doesn't like dealing with the consequences of his actions. Plus, we see the way he speaks to the young, impressionable Daisuke, manipulating him into doing what he wants: who says he didn't employ the same tactics with Anya, who might as well be a child to him? (this is assuming he didn't just spike a drink, since he seemed to be very ready to go through that route when it came to Swansea...)

Beautiful writing. I shall now proceed to have nightmares about the red sea :)

[shinobi-rato]

cmonnnnn melone and cioccolata could have so much chemistry

(haha get it)

i rlly imagine melone mightve viewed cioccolata as a role model (?) in terms of the way he is simply alive

a person's worldview always seeps into their writing, whether it's conscious or not; and that's exactly what melone can read into

perceive the perception, forcing his way into understanding the way their thoughts work

and so, having read cioccolata's medical books (which, there's the /Cioccolata's Operative Orthopaedics/ in live action thus spoke kishibe rohan, implying that his name was well-known in the world of medicine and also possibly more books written by [my beloved] Mold Monarch themself) he definitely realised his view on a human life, seeing it as nothing more than a tool and a plaything, body serving as a vessel to be studied by taking it apart and putting it back, with the amused curiosity of a child /observing/ insects

and he must've been just as inspired as intrigued by this man with an approach so passionately frigid towards humans

because both of them are essentially the most selfish characters in the series, their eyes set on nothing other than their own gain and entertainment

of course, cioccolata has secco and melone is with la squadra

even so, there is a clear lack of remorse towards anyone they encounter. it's quite the opposite, actually, seeing as melone is genuinely ecstatic about murdering that woman on the train

such an interesting character, with the power to /create [an artificial] life/ that brings death and destruction. and mold is alive too

both of them, at their core, consume to grow, devouring whatever crosses their paths with slight exceptions

i want to see these fucked up freaks interact so bad, because no matter what, they are just so similar at the core. but just because diavolo decided to not respect the assassin team, because sorbet and gelato decided to investigate him, because it was cioccolata and secco who guaranteed their gruesome deaths and decided to brag about it, they will never interact normally

because cioccolata was in the more favourable position

there is absolutely no way melone hasn't at least heard about cioccolata once. there is absolutely no way he wasn't intrigued by him in the slightest

i want to see him finally meeting the man whose books he'd been reading while studying the human bodies, imagining what he might look or sound like, and trying to come up with a way to get him to bare his fangs and showcase the true monstrosity hidden underneath a pristine white coat, to peel back the layers of deception and witness cioccolata with no holdbacks, see if there's a way to outwit this grotesque, heinous man

i want to see cioccolata understand perfectly just what is happening, teasing melone with whatever knowledge he might hope to claim for himself by unveiling only the vaguest snippets, knowing that every word he says will be taken in and taken apart, until it creates a coherent form with everything else melone has noticed.

i want to see the moment cioccolata realises just how twisted and dark melone's mind is, too; that he is a threat with unknown intentions

i want to see them learn each other, more intrigued with every word they exchange

i want to see them learn how they think and act accordingly, in a neverending pursuit of a deeply rooted desire to understand the man who is facing them, with melone's perfect ability to read one's body's history and cioccolata's godlike need to understand humans beyond their souls and bodies

i want to see them explore one another, cautiously getting closer, craving one another more and more, still weary regardless, having never encountered a man so much like their own selves, so much so that the sheer thought of an understanding this deep is beyond their plane of reasoning, being able of viewing themselves as the /superior/ ones, but never quite reaching it

i want to see them slowly fall for one another so deeply they almost seem like what they set out to do in the first place, the lingering desire to either run away while they still can, or cut the other one open, admiring the way their face contorts in horror, betrayal, suffering

[changbunnies]

Crave, Part 1 (18+)

♡ Pairing: Romantic Demon!Hyunjin x Human Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: supernatural au, demon au, age gap relationship typical in monster fucker fics, intended to be porn with plot but atm there is more plot than porn lol

♡ Word Count: 3.6k

♡ Summary: "The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain." - Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy. In which Hyunjin, a demon from the nine circles of hell, finds himself impossibly infatuated with the very human he once set upon himself to destroy.

♡ Warnings: don’t read if you’ll be uncomfortable over talks about religion from the perspective of a demon!, themes of sexual purity in the context of religion, a lot of immoral behavior and thoughts + ideas from hyunjin, supernatural abilities, themes of possesiveness, the seven deadly sins are brought up multiple times, hyun is thousands of years old so take that as you will lol, hell's structure is based off dante alighieri's depiction of it in the divine comedy but knowledge of it isn't necessary to enjoy this fic!

♡ Smut Warnings (contains spoilers): there isn't really any overt smut in this first part it's more like referenced sexual activity, masturbation, voyeurism (hyun is watching reader while they're unaware he is there), porn watching

♡ Notes: after receiving feedback, i'll now be posting my long fics in multiple parts as i finish them like i do on ao3 instead of waiting until it's finished to post here! i'm taking a break from my royal au series to finally write out this fic i've had rattling in my brain since last september but never got around to writing until this past month :') idk how long this will be in the end but i'm planning at least 3 parts! i hope you stick around till the end <3

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

There are many things in this world, the world of humans, that even a monster such as Hyunjin was born to desire. A primal want, weaved into the very fabric of his being, designed to be etched into his soul- if he had one, that is. That is what initially brought him here; the heart of one of the world's most populated cities, his territory an otherwise unoccupied luxury suite in one of the many skyrises that line the bustling streets.

It was an ideal place to be; there wasn't much in the way of furniture, given that it's a new development with no human occupants, but the amenities it held were sleek and pristine. High windows that overlooked the entirety of the city rife with sin from what was nearly the top floor, marble countertops that screamed sophistication and elegance, and well equipped with security of both the physical and digital kind to keep out those who may want to chase the thrill of wandering where they do not belong. Hyunjin, who could simply float about wherever he wished, had no need for human things like beds or sofas.

In this space, he already had everything he needed- an ideal vantage point, isolation from the world until he himself chose to interact with it, and easy access to the myriad of damned soul that walked the streets beneath him. It was perfect, and it was his- until you showed up.

Hyunjin was no stranger to dealing with potential renters overtaking his territory- it was only natural for those with wealth to be ready to spend a fortune on the newest availble luxury apartment that catches their eye. While Hyunjin had never once been seen; he was certainly known; rumors abound of an evil presence in suite 13, that left even non-believers fleeing in terror, leaving as quickly as they came. "Evil" felt a bit extreme of a description from Hyunjin's perspective, but what would humans truly understand of him? 

He always felt as if his actions were completely justified; after all, why should a being with immense power such as him bend to the will of a measely human whose life was akin to a grain of sand in the desert of immortality that was his own lifespan? Regardless of his justifications and thoughts on what is evil and what isn't, he welcomed the fear humans have towards him- it made his life easier if they feared him and stayed far from his domain. 

And yet here you were, seemingly ignorant of the fearful reputation this apartment held (not that he expected that the building's landlord would have informed you of it, of course- their only goal is money, at the end of the day.) Hyunjin didn't care for the rules of humans- whether or not you'd supplied the necessary money to purchase your way here or were deserving of it made no difference to him. It was his until he decided otherwise, and you were trespassing on his territory by being here.

When he'd first arrived back after a long outing back in his home within the second circle of the nine hells, only to see you filling his space with your things, walking about the apartment as if you owned it, blissfully unaware of his presence- it was infuriating. He had half a mind to scare you out right then, forever scar you by showing you his true form, send you running as he'd done to countless before you who tried to be here. But no, that wouldn't be enough. It would be letting you off too easily for his liking; this was different than scaring off someone who might intrude on his home- you already had.

What he wanted was more than his territory back- he wanted to make you suffer the most egregious torment one could ever endure for intruding on it, something far worse and much harsher than whatever a demon below his stature could muster. You deserved worse than that of mild terror, or to be able to flee from his space without repercussions for your transgression. No, he would only take back what was his after he'd turned your mind into a den of paranoia and hysteria. You needed to know true terror, true loss, true suffering, by his hand.

So he settled for observing you- it would be a longer process, one that could easily take months to reach true fruition, but the reward would be well worth his patience. He watched carefully, intently, his presence always concealed but unmistakably there. You would feel it sometimes, unbeknownst to yourself. A sudden chill up your spine, the subtle feeling of being watched making you turn your head, only to be met with nothing unusual in your line of sight. Funny, how humans were so attuned to the supernatural while simultaneously being so oblivious to their reality.

Your routines became committed to his memory, your every step and every action becoming increasingly familiar to him. Boring at times, but necessary if he wanted to learn the ins and outs of what makes you you, taking in every detail and memorizing them fully, so that when the day comes for him to turn your life into a miserable tragedy, forming you into a shell of who you once were, you'd have to beg him for forgiveness, for his mercy.

What were your fears? He'd easily make them reality. What did you hate? He'd make sure you suffered it. What broke your heart? He'd subject you to that pain over and over, until your heart was left shattered into a million, microscopic pieces. And it was only then, when you were mentally destroyed, the lowest you could ever possibly be and unrecognizable in your despair, that he'd appear before you, triumphant as he made you apologize for ever having stepped foot in his domain.

But as he observed you, he came to realize something strange- something he had never once found himself thinking about a human before. You were so... good, the closest to perfection a human could ever possibly be. And not perfect by the bullshit puritan standards set by the "heavenly creator," because you were as touched by sin as any human is, but perfect to him specifically.

Your sins were few and far between, with only one making a substantial impact on your purity; but it was the most important, most delicious sin of them all, the one that made Hyunjin's body seethe with delectable desire. You weren't envious, nor greedy or gluttonous; you lived in a luxurious penthouse suite, that was true, but greed to have the best of everything isn't what brought you here. The pride you felt for your accomplishments didn't go anywhere near sinful levels- you were proud of yourself, but not in such a way that you looked down on others while you sat atop your high horse.

You weren't slothful, brought to your current position by your own hard work and tireless efforts, and you weren't wrathful either, your emotions toward your fellow man always sweet, compassionate, and gracious. That only left one sin- just one that impacted your soul, that barred you from reaching true, godly purity.

Lust.

It wasn't an unhealthy amount of lust by any means, but any at all is enough to damn an unmarried woman's soul if she gives in to the temptation- an unfair ruling that has cost many their rightful place in paradise. And you certainly did give in to your temptation, and that is what made you perfect to him. You had none of the avarice of other humans, none of the undesirable qualities that made them foolish and arrogant and insufferable to deal with, instead held closely by one desire, the most important desire.

Was it a coincidence, he wondered? That he, a demon born of lust himself, found one such human that seemed to adhere perfectly to what he enjoys most? Hyunjin often felt himself above that of the sins his brothers were born to pursue. Violence did not suit him, emotions such as greed, pride, and jealousy often went beyond his comprehension. And not because he was some lowly, ignorant creature who was only capable of thinking with his dick, but because those feelings simply never came to him to begin with.

What was there to be jealous of? If he wanted something, he could have it, he could take it, as simple as that. Was he prideful? Sure, one could say he was, say that he had an ego, but he would argue that there was a clear difference between the arrogance that often comes with pride, and simply having confidence in one's own abilities and joy in their accomplishments.

He knew he could feel other emotions, indulge in other sins, if his brothers' conquests and actions were any tell, but he simply.. didn't. Lust was all he knew, was all that he enjoyed, but at the same time, he wasn't some low level demon who was consumed by lust. No, he could control it quite easily if he wished, was more than capable of waiting for the most ideal moment to finally savor in the addictive dance two bodies can share. (Or more than two bodies, should one prefer that.)

Lust was all he ever knew, but unlike the sex-starved beasts he ruled over and observed in his circle within hell, he was very much in control of himself. Make no mistake, it never went away, he always felt the gnawing craving for more and more and more- but it never addled his mind. That was the perk of being a demon with a higher consciousness than that of say.. an imp. He had complete control of his compulsions and desires. 

It was this control over himself that led to Hyunjin savoring the lust that poured from human souls in only the most ideal conditions. There were many different kinds of lust, each with their own "taste" so to speak, and while Hyunjin found them all enjoyable to at least some degree, there was one in particular that was the most intoxicating to him, one that never failed to light a fire within him, the one that was always, always, worth waiting for.

The lust between two lovers, whose care for eachother was true, and good, and special- such as you would see from couples sleeping together for the first time, full to the brim with nervous excitement. Or maybe from long-time lovers reigniting their spark with a romantic night spent together after a warm, candlelit date. Especially delectable was the sweet consummation after making an eternal promise under God to be together forever, in sickness and in health, 'til death do you part. Those are just a few examples of the sort of lust that gave Hyunjin the best, sweetest taste.

The irony of being an immoral entity who gained the most enjoyment out of love and romance wasn't lost on him, but his preferences weren't built on some misconceived notion that he could aspire to feel those things himself. Yes, Hyunjin knew he would never feel the human emotion that was love, but he could understand, at least on a superficial level, why it tasted so sweet, and why humans seemed to fight for that feeling above all else.

Perhaps he existed to be a hypocrite, sowing seeds of chaos and turmoil while valuing true love, contradicting that which humans believed they knew about demons of lust such as himself. After all, was it not the very nature of a demon to confuse, contradict, and twist the human condition? And was it not utterly against his being to indulge in a feeling that was considered sacred by God? It didn't matter either way; if there was one thing that Hyunjin knew for certain, it was that sweet tastes were the best, and it didn't matter where it originated from or how- he just knew he liked it.

And oh, how his proverbial heart jolted when he sensed it on you the first time he saw you touching yourself. It was a surprise when, after a long day of unpacking and arranging furniture, you let your hand travel sinfully between your legs with a heady sigh- and far be it from Hyunjin to deny himself the opportunity to feed on a human's lust when it's practically being delivered to him on a silver platter. You hadn't been touching yourself for long, barely got your panties down your legs when he tasted it- subtle, but familiar enough to Hyunjin that he could recognize it anywhere.

It was hard to explain the sweet taste in human terms- there were really no words that could come close to describing it, as the "flavor" itself didn't exist within human understanding. Suffice it to say, it was something entirely unique to his kind, and something any demon would be able to distinguish with ease should they be in close enough proximity. It was unmistakable- you loved someone. That was information that could serve him well, something that he should be delighted to know he could ruin you with. And yet, for the first time in all his thousands of years, the feeling of lustful love left a bitter taste on his tongue.

You were in love.. And you envisioned that person while your fingers were buried between your legs, as you bit your lip and made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Who was it? Why did you love them? Were they even deserving of someone as perfect as you? Did they deserve to touch you? To feel you? Hyunjin grit his teeth, fists clenching into tight balls as an unfamiliar feeling began to permeate through the entirety of his being.

Is this.. what envy feels like? A rage beyond comprehension at the thought of someone else having you when it should be him? He should be the one you desired to have touching you, the one you imagined marking your unmarred skin, the one who made you cry out and tremble with even the simplest of touches. Would they even indulge in the sweet taste you radiate like he would? Would they even understand what perfection it is you offer simply by being? His, you should be his, only his, his, his.

The realization hit Hyunjin like cold water over hot skin- he wants you. And not just for one night, not superficially, not with needing to part ways afterwards. He wants you to love him, wants the feeling of love-drenched lust that radiates off you to be because of him, wants you to belong to him and him alone. You don't know him yet, but you will. And he'll make sure you're left wanting him, and only him, by any means necessary. Because it's what he wants, and he always gets what he wants.

Hyunjin wants to say it's simple curiosity that leads him to carefully stealing your phone off your nightstand once you've fallen asleep, or that's acting with the desire to know how to ruin the target of his ire more succinctly, but that simply isn't true. No, he is scrounging through your phone not with the intent to learn your greatest fears and hates, nor does he scour your messages to discover your darkest secrets.

It's a different purpose that has led him here, an unfamiliar ache that drives him to search your phone for something more. In hindsight, going through your phone to learn about you is a simple, easy act he could've, should've, done already, but he's a bit of a traditionalist in that regard. (Or maybe he just doesn't want to admit how much he's liked watching you these past few weeks.)

Who is that you love? And why? It would've been easier for him to find out had you truly let yourself go, allowed yourself to be loud and moan their name to your heart's content, but you hadn't. And maybe that was a good thing, as hearing someone else's name leave your lips in such a moment would've definitely sent him into a dangerous hate spiral, but that also meant he was left with nothing to go on as a clue.

He was much too stunned, and then seething with anger and jealousy, to read your thoughts in the moment, and if he tried to do so now, while you were sleeping, all he would do is catch a glimpse of your dreams- not helpful in the slightest, unless you happen to be dreaming of the object of your desire. (Which you weren't. He already looked.)

Unlocking your phone is easy, as he's seen you put in your password several times over at this point. Unfortunately for him however, (and fortunate for the one undeserving of Hyunjin's wrath,) he finds nothing that makes the object of your affection explicitly obvious. Your texts with friends all use the same tone, you talk about mundane things like what movies are coming out or how you wish you could go on a vacation for a while.

Your photo gallery is relatively small, filled mostly by screenshots of things you wish to remember or keep for a laugh, and the occasional selfie. There's nothing that screams "this is the person i'm in love with!" no matter where in your phone he looks, and if it wasn't for how intensely he felt the emotion radiating from you as your fingers sped up and release built, he'd think he must have imagined it.

What interesting this he does find, however, are the differen't porn links littered through your incognito tabs, all that paint a very vivid picture of what you find most appealing, or in more vulgar terms, what gets your pussy really fucking wet. He skims through your collection of favorites and private bookmarks, and quickly comes to realize they all hold a similar theme- love, romance, and doms who are soft even when being rough with the sub's body or speaking condescending words.

Various videos and audio files, with titles such as "roommate gets railed after confessing her secret feelings," "pov: boy next door accidentally confesses and then fucks you passionately," and "soft dom makes his good girl cum hard: boyfriend asmr." There's even an entire erotic movie, much to Hyunjin's surprise, with a 2 hour run time and dedicated plot in your recent bookmarks.

He decides to watch it, for research purposes of course- what better way to get to know the object of his desire than by watching the porn she consumes for himself? It's rather generic as far as ideas go- childhood best friends confessing their love before going away to college, with sweet, sensual but desperate fucking and a promise they'll be in love no matter the distance put between them. A cliché plot, by human media standards. 

However, he has to give it due props- it's obviously not an amateur production. It's acted well, has better cinematography than one might expect for a film produced by a porn studio, and the dialogue never crosses into cringe, overtly fake territory. Despite it all, something about it feels real, as if he'd taken a genuine glimpse into the lives of two young people in love, rather than a manufactured video meant to make the people who watch it unbearably horny.

Hyunjin continued through your collection after that, eager to see what other gems lied in your favorites, waiting to be watched by him. They're all the same fundamentally speaking, your preferences and biases easily shining through with each video watched and audio listened to. Emotionally charged, romantic confessions, sweet "i love you"s, soft, caring doms who take good care of the submissive one, making them feel desired, beautiful, and secure.

The person you're in love with, the one who lingers in your mind when you watch these videos and your hand travels between your legs- this is what you want them to do. You want them to love you passionately, to make you fall apart in the sweetest of ways, to take care of you so well that your thoughts can linger on nothing but the way they make you feel. You want them to sweetly tell you they love you while they fuck you, to speak filthy words in your ears in a soft, saccharine voice as they make you cum. To fuck you dumb, to ruin you, and then expertly put you back together with a tender touch. 

Carefully, he puts your phone back in its place, looking at you once he's done, still sound asleep in your bed and without a clue in the world that there's a demon standing before you, close enough to touch. You've lived with Hyunjin for weeks now, but you don't know who he is, don't know that he's there, don't know that you have unexpectedly become the reason for a demon's strange and new complex emotions. Isn't it funny? How a demon as powerful as him has become infatuated with you despite you not even knowing he exists.

It's illogical to desire you, truly. Humans are fickle, subject to corruption and irrationality, their lives impossibly short. What one man works his entire life to obtain, Hyunjin can have in mere moments with a fraction of the effort. To a being that has lived thousands of years, the life of a human happens in a mere blink. You grow old, you get sick, you die, your accomplishments fade to nothing, forgotten as the next wave of humans walk the earth in your stead. You're beneath him, he's better than you, and yet..

Why does he still crave you so? Maybe he's no better than the humans he's looked down upon, considering them lesser for their innate hypocrisies and irrational actions- because Hyunjin is about to do just the same. His feelings for you are hypocritical, irrational, foolish, but also the most real thing he's ever felt. And if it's romance you want, that will make you fall head over heels for him, then he'll be the most romantic demon the nine hells have ever known.

[the-spam-specialist]

Any cute/peaceful interaction between Caine and Zooble, pretty please? Wheel ride was one of my fave moments with them.

I've actually had an idea for something like this. I was planning on writing the drabble on its own, but I'll combine it with your request.

No One Saw That

Characters: Zooble, Caine

Word Count: 500-ish

Zooble was on autopilot, shuffling back to their room. Another day survived in the Digital Circus. Another day spent dodging Jax's bull[%$!#] and trying to piece together the fractured logic of this place. Each day felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, and Zooble was starting to lose interest in solving it.

As they passed the lounge, a splash of color on the floor snagged their attention. It was Caine. Or, rather, Caine was lying on the floor. Absolutely still. His usual manic grin was absent, replaced by...nothing. His once vibrant, googly eyes were dull black pools.

"Oh," Zooble muttered. "One of your shutdowns, huh?"

Wait, why were they talking to him? It wasn’t like he could hear them. 

From what Kinger had explained, Caine occasionally overloaded, his processing circuits frying in a miniature, internal short circuit. He'd simply cease functioning for a while, essentially sleeping. Nothing to worry about, really.

To think this happened because of the burden his memory issues put on his system. It was kinda sad. 

Zooble turned to leave. He’d be fine. Let him reboot on his own. It wasn’t like he needed help. But…he was sprawled out on the hard floor, one of his lanky limbs bent at an awkward angle. It looked terribly uncomfortable. Zooble winced. They could practically feel their own joints protesting.

"Ugh," they groaned, reversing their course. "Fine."

Lifting Caine was surprisingly easy. He was much lighter than he appeared. No wonder Kinger and Ragatha could scoop him up without breaking a sweat. They carefully maneuvered him onto one of the oversized couches, positioning his head on a cushion. 

There. Now he won't complain about a crick in his…whatever.

Zooble pivoted, eager to escape. But that was when they spotted it – a blue patchwork blanket crumpled on the floor next to where Caine had been lying. Ragatha's handiwork. She had recently gifted it to Caine, a gesture meant to offer him comfort. Zooble recalled Ragatha explaining, with a gentle smile, that the AI ringmaster craved security, something tangible in this intangible world.

Zooble had scoffed internally at the time. Caine? Craving comfort? It seemed…incongruous. Too human. But then they remembered the ferris wheel ride back during their trip to the Digital Carnival. Caine's genuine fear. His hesitance. His apology to them about his faulty memory. His sincereness. They had seen him in a completely different light. 

There was more to him than just chaotic energy and forced cheerfulness. It was all a mask to hide the pain and insecurity he felt underneath. They knew what that was like. 

Another sigh escaped Zooble. They picked up the blanket, its colorful squares a comforting contrast to the drab surroundings. Gently, they draped it over Caine, tucking it around him like a child. He looked…peaceful. Almost serene.

Zooble stood for a moment, observing him. A flicker of something unfamiliar, something akin to tenderness, warmed their heart. It was…nice seeing him like this. Not hyperactive, not pushing them into "fun" activities, just…resting.

They backed away slowly, giving him one last glance, “Sleep well, you little weirdo.”

They turned away and resumed their trek back to their room. If anyone asked, Kinger was the one who tucked Caine in. Definitely. They had nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing. 

[kcokaine]

I just want to say that your Au's and art is so thought provoking and intriguing beyond "Ooh, gay porn!" Seeing someone put so much thought and consideration into their characters as well as the characterization and dynamics within such a niche rarepair is a fresh of breath air among so many others who's manga literacy is infantile. I don't know how you think of this stuff or what your creative writing/drawing process is, but it's honestly so great.

You've picked my brain in such a good way and inspired me to get back into art and analyze the manga I consume more. I hope with more time and practice I too, can put fictional characters through gay, well thought out, trauma.

Thank you for being peak :)

P.s. When you said that Sukuna was incapable of love, did you mean that he couldn't feel or give love at all in any capacity, or did you mean that he's incapable of loving in the same way and capacity that we and other characters do? The way I've always interpreted his character is that the "love" he feels is respect and interest, particularly when a person is strong or entertaining enough to either challenge him or pique his curiosity. I'm a little delusional when it comes to Sukuna so I'd love to hear a second opinion on this topic if you don't mind!

Hello thank you very much. I appreciate your positive criticism of my work ❤️ makes my day everytime i see people enjoy my stuff to such degree. Thats the motivation after all.

When it comes to sukuna’s love. Its the latter. He can’t feel love like any other human can cuz he is so far gone but i believe every human being (sukuna being a human being no mattter how people precieve him or he precieves himself) craves love and contact with people, no human can exist alone not even Sukuna. He is simply so broken he thinks he doesnt need anyone but if you notice, he seeks interaction through battling people, through battling people equal to him especially, thats where he gets the most passionate. Therefore thats his way of craving contact, craving love. His affection is possesive and animalistic, carnal love. Unhealthy obsession kind of love, that only damages the other person but Sukuna is still selfish, he only cares about himself, even if love subconsciously makes you care about the other. There sukuna is no exception either. He is subconsciously compassionate to Gojo many times, thats where i find it beautiful cause you know its the truest kind of feeling from him. Sukuna would never lie about his feelings he is always 100% honest about everything but he is still very complicated with how he expresses it, thats the toxicity in it. He is hard to read

[greenplumbboblover]

Lyra's Yearly Recap - 2024/2025

I actually forgot I did this quite a few times the last few years, but this year I wanted to look back of what I accomplished from my resolution list.

And then see if In can make some of that true this year! (and what else to add!)

2023/2024 Resolutions:

(See: https://greenplumbboblover.tumblr.com/post/738067930777059328/accomplishments-of-2023)

I'm not answering all of them, but I do want to set some record straight!

Finishing LISISV

Haha... yeah I misjudged that completely lol. I got to a point where I lost complete motivation on... well, everything. I had no motivation for personal projects, CC making (one of the reasons why some of my mods in this year were so riddled with bugs), playing games... hell, even interacting with others. Now you could call that depression, but I wasn't showing those symptoms properly either. I found myself in a weird place where, on the one hand, I felt guilty of that I just couldn't do those stuff that I wanted to do, and that then causing me to feel super overwhelmed... yet telling myself constantly that "adults don't feel overwhelmed on those tiny silly things!". I was pretty mean to myself this year, honestly... But all that sad stuff aside! I have made some personal changes in December that are helping me a lot already, before getting also some mental help for other things. But I'll save you from those details. 😉 --------------- The second thing that didn't help was that I would at some point feel a HUGE disconnect with the characters I had in my head and my actual writing. I would make impulsive thoughts, without realistically navigating how it would work out in the future. I would introduce characters, without really giving it a thought on how I wanted them to come across... how to fully tackle certain cases. So! I spent a majority of that time researching a lot of the ways writers actually attempt those issues and solving those. I was hoping to make a post to help others with that soon, since It's really awesome insight at times! And... then there was the whole posing. But I resolved that with the Pose Add-on IMO already! Chapter 10 however, is actually taking a long time because I do struggle a lot with the fact that I consider it my "old" way of writing, and I REALLY want to move on to my 'new' ideas and style. So the willpower is simply not always there.

LISIV PLANS:

Alright, now that we have all that out of the way, here are some of my plans for this year and the story: Splitting certain stories into sub-stories: My current personal problem I have with the story, is that there are some really cool characters, but with the current format, I can't explore their characters as intensely as I'd like to. I also know that I love to jump back and forth from one story to another.

How that would look like is:

Morgana will have her own "Sub-story"

I am pondering of doing the same for Dustin and Zelda.

We travel 5 years into the future, where I want to do more with Mortimer and Bella. But also the Landgraabs and the Alto's.

I am also thinking of making a separate (short) storyline for Gunther and Lolita. The moment I was making the flashbacks, I really have been wanting to write more about it.

Same as 4, but maybe for some other townies! They will be short, but I think it can be fun! :)

Figuring out what to do with Interests & Hobbies

The infamous mod of being delayed... again :p.

I guess you all are probably exhausted of me hearing "no wait! I will finish it!", and then another mod gets released, and another year passes... and personally I have that same thought.

So I am putting the mod entirely on ice. There might not be a chance that I even finish it ever.

However I do want to add something here:

I will be working much more with Stories be told

I am going to be making more hobby items in return! I have been craving that "small but cool" modding projects a lot the past few years. I just like to be ambitious and unrealistic I guess, lol

However, I will be modding WAY less this year due to other factors.

My 2024/2025 Resolutions:

I think I've mentioned this now a lot of times, but never properly done it...

Wanting to write more. Whether it's for the sims, or even personal!

Wanting to get more into 3D modeling. Mostly for myself, but here and there I could probably release some CC pieces! :)

Keep up with Simblr.cc of course!

Post more of my thoughts on LISISV and Character stuff (@nocturnalazure suggested this a while back, but the more I thought of it, the more fun it sounds!)

Doing more Sims photoshoots!

Either way! May this year be your year! Where issues get resolutions and love is all around you.💖

[pleasantspark]

Writers are just as artistic as Artists. People don't understand the meaning of support, people write writing is a form of artistic expression. To see people not reblogging writing or fanfictions is painful to me as an author.

I am not an artist I barely can draw, let alone do actual shapes and I've expected that as an L, but to see people actively complaining about how their artwork doesn't get recognition (I look at their notes and it exceeds over 50) is insulting to me as an self-proclaimed author.

You can simply utilize your amazing skills while us who can barely afford anything at our disposal cannot get the engagement we desperately crave. To have people say "BUT YOUR WORK IS SOOO HARD TO ENAGE WITH BC EVERY CHARCATER IS OOC."

Artists depict characters in scenarios that deem as OOC as they can get, you give the same amount of pass to them but demean me for wanting a bit of interaction. I struggle with approaching people outside my immediate struggle and to see people actively insulting me and demeaning me for ever wanting mutuals is disencouraging.

Art is meant to form long lasting bonds, art is meant to encapsulate ALL FORMS of art from ALL FORMS OF BACKGROUND. But if you don't consider us writers as artists then what's the point? There's people who can draw as well as they can write but us solo writers who lack artistic capabilities are constantly overshadowed by people who have our skillset.

It's not fair, I want to form actual genuine partnerships with my community (The DBZ Community) and when people who barely know why I can't approach people assume and demean me for ever having that human feeling of recognition I get upset and this is WHY I hate it.

I am asking for anyone to send asks about my interests and please for the love of GOD please just offer to hear more about my AUs, I want to form friendships and it's hard to approach people I consider close friends because I cannot bring myself to do it. I fear rejection, I fear the act of messing up. Please. And if you're here because of some ridiculous "Stop begging BS." then don't bother me.

This is selfshipping related. Because all I see is people ignoring me and I feel underwhelmed and underappreciated. Just like I was when I was first starting in Selfshipping/Yumeshipping spaces.

[suzannahnatters]

A while back I realised that there's one specific fictional thing that is catnip to me, and that is vulnerability. People accuse me of liking dire things in stories, but it's not so much that I love it when fictional people are suffering. It's that I kind of crave vulnerability in my protagonists.

I would define vulnerability as the opposite of agency. At its core, it involves a denial or a willing sacrifice of agency, and while writers talk about agency a lot, I don't think we spend anywhere near enough time discussing vulnerability.

Vulnerability is incredibly powerful in building empathy with a character, but it also forces the character into dire choices that reveal their true nature, and it makes the antagonistic forces seem a lot more powerful and scary. Vulnerability is why whump is appealing. It's one of the reasons we all care so much about out good fried Jonathan Harker, utterly at Dracula's mercy. It's why the myth of the voluntarily dying god is so powerful, even if you aren't a Christian.

More recently, I've been thinking a whole lot about how important vulnerability is in constructing a believable romance. In a believable romance, the characters will be emotionally vulnerable to, and on behalf of, one another. The "if you dare touch her" trope where the love interest comes unhinged at the sight of a loved one's suffering is vulnerability. Enemies to lovers is delicious because it asks what might happen if the person to whom you're most vulnerable was also the one with the greatest interest in exploiting that vulnerability. As I've written before, romance is about trust; and the corollary is that no romance can live without that heartstopping moment when one character takes the risk of putting themselves helplessly into the power of the other.

But I think that a lot of storytellers these days are prioritising agency at the cost of vulnerability. Disney's attempts at feminism are a great example of this. While the animated MULAN is outed as a woman in a moment of vulnerability that was the most powerful thing in the movie for me, in the live action Mulan's unmasking becomes a expression of agency that in my opinion guts the story of feeling. On the other hand, in the cdrama I'm currently watching (GOODBYE, MY PRINCESS) the male lead is SO averse to letting himself be vulnerable in any way at all that I simply can't find any romance in his interactions with the heroine. I love to see stories that foreground marginalised people, but too often those stories focus on giving the protagonist agency at the cost of letting the antagonist land any hits at all. The result, imo, is a perfectly soulless story.

Of course, agency is a sine qua non of a good protagonist. But so is vulnerability, and there are so many amazing stories you can write about a vulnerable protagonist. W R Gingell's CITY BETWEEN series, for instance, is the story of a desperately vulnerable protagonist fighting to claim some agency in her own life and it's GLORIOUS. And beyond that, I would say that moments of vulnerability are indispensable even to very strong protagonists. One of the reasons FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST worked so gorgeously as a story for me, for instance, was the gutpunch moments of vulnerability that happened both at the very start and then with increasing tempo toward the end.

Vulnerability can be something a protagonist constantly struggles with, or something that unexpectedly blindsides someone who seemed to be invincible, or something a character does willingly for the sake of the people they love. It can be romantic, or not at all. But either way it's the interplay of agency and vulnerability that really MAKES a story for me. You HAVE to have both.

[oulkheir]

yagi shizusumi is an idiot in love, not a sort of gentleman

i don't know if i should call that an unpopular opinion or another analysis of my fav baby in given (still a lie, they're all my favs) but i felt the need to write about shizusumi's character. lately, i've been reading a lot of fanfictions about hiiragi and shizusumi and something always felt off to me, even when the stories were so enjoyable and overly sweet. i had a great time reading most of them.

i realised that what was missing was simply shizusumi's idiocy. i mean, even hiiragi called him something like that, once. shizusumi is often portrayed as a sweetheart (which he is, deep inside), a kind of gentleman who knows everything hiiragi needs and who always has the perfect timing regarding hiiragi's demands. i think he tries to be all of this, genuinely, but it's a bit delusional to think he is already.

i love how given character tend to be realistic and above all, as mature and experienced as their age indicates. that's why i decide to see shizu as a 17-year-old idiot in love, who's never had a partner before and who can't deal with romantic interactions more than hiiragi, if not clumsily. no one will make me believe that shizu can plan proper dates and read the mood perfectly to choose the right moment to kiss hiiragi. during the summer festival he was literally late for his date(?) with hiiragi, he probably just overslept during his nap or something. he thinks confessing is about saying overly dramatic stuff like in silly romcoms and that eating together or making out is going to solve any small argument. he's really good to take hundred pictures of his boyfriend and post them on his instagram to implicitly brag as any teenager would. he says whatever comes to his mind when he thinks it's what hiiragi wants to hear, but it's mostly just embarrassing him.

of course, he's still the perfect man to hiiragi because he loves him and he sees him as his most precious friend before other feelings completed this. but i swear shizu wouldn't fit any other people than hiiragi, because he's the only one who gets him.

so i'll still be enjoying fanfictions about shizu being the boyfriend material anyone craves to have, but i'll keep in a corner of my mind that, duh, he's such a blockhead.

[findroleplay]

I miss the old days of RP... I'm craving one of the most typical old plots out there! I'm 24 and transmasc, looking for an 18+ partner to write with on discord. irl gender does not matter to me! I can promise responses 1-3 times per week, depending on my work schedule.

I can do MxM or MxF, as I prefer writing male characters. I'm not looking for anything smut-heavy, so please keep this in mind! that being said, I want to do a magical school plot. preferably elemental! I have a few ideas for either a teacher or a student! note that under NO circumstances will I write HP or teacher x student. if that's what you're looking for, please keep scrolling. 🤢

honestly, I'm looking for plot and development first. I'm here to write an interesting plot and dynamic, not simply to cater to your fetishes. sorry! that means that I also don't accept wanted FCs, nor do I offer them.

if you're interested in writing a fun long-term (and probably slow-burn) dynamic with fantasy elements, interesting characters, and worldbuilding, I'd love to write with you. and if it furthers the plot, I'm more than open to including dead dove elements as the story requires. it would help if you could also hold up a conversation while plotting so I have something to bounce off of. I know this is a lot to ask, so if you're interested, please interact and be prepared to discuss ideas! 🙏

-

[novella-writers]

I miss the old days of RP... I'm craving one of the most typical old plots out there! I'm 24 and transmasc, looking for an 18+ partner to write with on discord. irl gender does not matter to me! I can promise responses 1-3 times per week, depending on my work schedule.

I can do MxM or MxF, as I prefer writing male characters. I'm not looking for anything smut-heavy, so please keep this in mind! that being said, I want to do a magical school plot. preferably elemental! I have a few ideas for either a teacher or a student! note that under NO circumstances will I write HP or teacher x student. if that's what you're looking for, please keep scrolling. 🤢

honestly, I'm looking for plot and development first. I'm here to write an interesting plot and dynamic, not simply to cater to your fetishes. sorry! that means that I also don't accept wanted FCs, nor do I offer them.

if you're interested in writing a fun long-term (and probably slow-burn) dynamic with fantasy elements, interesting characters, and worldbuilding, I'd love to write with you. and if it furthers the plot, I'm more than open to including dead dove elements as the story requires. it would help if you could also hold up a conversation while plotting so I have something to bounce off of. I know this is a lot to ask, so if you're interested, please interact and be prepared to discuss ideas! 🙏

Like if interested!