#over the hedge edit

[witchpuppies]

[spencinn]

Over the Hedge | [RJ x Verne] | Behind These Hazel Eyes

Movie club's annual amvember event is over so now I get to share my magnum opus. Please enjoy

[pieflavoredartz]

I THINK POLNAREFF WOULD LOOK AWESOME IN YOUR STYLE !!!! I'd love to see your take on him

this is likeee the second time ive made anythang of him.. eva i think…‼️

[incorrectoverthehedge]

I’m still alive, don’t worry. Just currently dealing with a break from writing. In the meantime, Christmas headcanons.

RJ is very much into the whole Christmas is for presents deal, although he’s been trying to accept it’s not just that.

Verne surprisingly doesn’t like Christmas that much, mainly because he finds the decorations tacky. He appreciates the message however.

Hammy is still scared of Santa.

Stella won’t admit it, but she actually really likes gingerbread.

Heather and Ozzie actually really like Christmas, Ozzie mainly for the whole vibe of it, and Heather for the opportunity to listen to that epic sounding Christmas song (someone please help me find it)

Also, Heather loves All I Want For Christmas Is You, because not only does she think it’s a boo, but she can torture anyone with it.

Lou and Penny are big fans of decorating, so they’re left to do the decorating.

The kids are big on gingerbread houses.

Tiger hates All I Want For Christmas Is You the most out of everyone. Cue Heather.

Dwayne’s Christmas plans involve hunting Reindeer to harness their power.

Gladys implemented a new HOA rule that a Christmas present must be delivered to the head of the HOA (her), otherwise a fine will be delivered. It was dropped after the presents were stolen and people complained.

[coldblooded-angel]

Rip Oliver Quick, you would’ve loved “Guilty As Sin?” by Taylor Swift😔

[cj33333]

He Doesn't Like Cow

[moonstruckme]

Thanks for being patient with me! This is edited on about four hours of sleep so apologies for any errors <3

part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.6k words

Water sizzles on the stove. You reach over to turn down the heat, your side heating from its proximity to the boiling water, before spinning back around to keep speed-chopping onion. This is a result of poor planning. 

It’s possible that some of your nerves could be reinterpreted as excitement. Giddiness, even. You’re finally—finally—doing something to try and repay all the kindness James shows you. You’ve felt like such a mooch, eating his cooking and stealing his time with his friends, but last week had been too much for you to take. He’d discovered the stomach bug you were weathering, and James had completely devoted the next two days of his life to making sure you were looked after. 

Your fever had gotten so out of hand he’d very nearly followed through on his favorite threat (going into your phone while you’re sleeping and phoning your mum), and though you’d done your best to downplay it at the time there are admittedly gaps in your memory wherein you think you were simply too out of it to know what was going on. It’s not a very comforting thought when you’re harboring a humiliating crush on your roommate; you may well have been just as talkative as James always is, you don’t know. At least he hasn’t said anything. 

He had, thankfully, managed to avoid catching it. You’re not sure how he managed what no one on your shift at work did, but you assume it has something to do with all that kale he eats. Which is why you’re doing your best to make the thank-you meal you’re making him as healthy as might suit his standards. 

You hear his key in the door, and a little frisson goes up your spine. 

“You’re early,” you accuse as he walks in. 

“Since when do you know when my training ends?” James asks. You sound like you’re sniping at one another, but as usual the joviality in his tone is unmissable. 

The sounds of his entrance are familiar, perhaps more ingrained in your mind than they ought to be. Keys jingling as he hangs them on the hook, shoes toed off and left by the mat, heavy footsteps headed for wherever you are in the apartment. 

When he finds you in the kitchen, you both speak at once. 

“What happened to your shoulder?” 

“You know how to cook?” 

“Hurt it at training,” James answers, shrugging with the shoulder that doesn’t have an ice pack held to it. He’s probably too nice for it to occur to him to withhold his answer until you’ve given yours, as had been your first thought. “What are you making?” 

“How did you hurt it?” Worry pries at your tone. Your hands have stilled on the cutting board. 

“We had a scrimmage, and I got shoulder-barged.” He gives you a smile, a shadow of the real thing, but gentler. Reassuring. “It’s not bad.” 

You frown. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“Didn’t expect you to, love.” 

“Why do you need to ice it if it’s not bad?” 

There’s a look in James’ eyes that’s wavering between smugness and softness. You balk at the sight of it. “I need to be a bit careful with it,” he hedges, “but it’ll be good by morning. Now, you’ve distracted me. Do you mean to tell me you’ve known how to cook this entire time?” 

“Yes,” you concede with a laugh. “I’ve always said I cook for myself when you’re not around.” 

“And here you are, doing it right before my eyes.” James leans on the counter with his good arm. He looks immensely entertained. “I’m honored.” 

“This isn’t just for me,” you say, looking down to resume chopping onion as your face warms slightly. “It’s for—” Another remonstrative hiss from the stove, and you whip around, moving the pot off the hot part entirely. You’re a bit relieved for the excuse to face away from him. “It’s for both of us. Also, I just want to provide a disclaimer right now that I never said I was good at cooking, only that I knew how.” 

James’ laugh rumbles behind you, just as you knew it would. He’s too easy. You can practically feel the force of his smile hitting your back, like the sunshine brought inside. 

“Here,” he says, taking a couple of steps toward you, “let me help.” 

“No!” You whirl again, stopping him before he can actually enter the kitchen. “No way. James, I’m trying to do something nice.” 

“And it is very nice,” he says, earnest. “It just seems like you could use a hand.” 

“I’ve got it,” you insist. Your hands are up to ward him off, but you put them at your sides when you realize how close they’re hovering to his chest. “It doesn't count as doing something for you if you do it yourself. Anyway, you’re incapacitated.” 

“I’m…” James looks confused, but then he glances down to his icing shoulder. “Oh, come on. I’m hardly immobilized.” 

“For all intents and purposes, you are.” You do your best to infuse your voice with conviction. You’ve found that’s usually the way with James. If you show any hesitation, he’ll turn on the charm and have you eating out of his hand before you know what’s happened. You herd him away from the kitchen. “Go sit down. Dinner will be ready soon.” 

You can’t help but be aware of him as you finish up, knowing he has to hear the sizzling when you accidentally spill things onto the stove or the one mumbled curse you’re not quick enough to bite back. All evidence that you’re not nearly as practiced a cook as James. You can practically feel his grin from a room over. Still, when it's done you’re fairly proud of yourself. 

James is beaming as he accepts his bowl. He hikes his knees up so you can pass between the couch and the coffee table, making a show of sniffing the steam rising from the food. 

“Is this risotto?” he asks, waiting for your little nod before his mouth drops open in astonishment. “You are so sneaky! I didn’t know you could cook at all, let alone fancy shit like this.” 

“It’s not that hard to make.” You look down at your fork as you raise it to your lips, blowing. 

“Sure it is! Loads of people have a hard time with it.” 

“Do you?” 

James grins, caught. You feel your own smile tugging at your lips as you take a bite.

He follows suit, forking a bit of the risotto and blowing to cool it before taking it in his mouth. His eyes dip closed, head lolling back, and he moans. 

“Oh my god, this is good. I’m never cooking again, now that I know you can do this.” 

You take another bite to avoid a response. You’re fairly sure the heat from your face could power the apartment for a month. 

James makes a few more over-the-top compliments of your culinary skills, which you deflect as best you can. As always, you eat mostly silently while he chatters, but when you look over your attention gets snagged on his shoulder. 

He’s only using the one hand to eat, bowl resting in his lap while you hold yours up closer to your face. His ice pack sits beside him now that he can’t hold it on anymore. You catch yourself gnawing on the inside of your lip. 

“Does it hurt?” you ask. 

James looks over, following your gaze. “Yeah,” he admits. “Nothing I’m not used to, though.” 

You feel your eyebrows pinch. “You get hurt often?” 

He smiles bemusedly. “It’s rugby, love. Getting a bit roughed up is part of the deal.” 

This doesn’t sit right with you. Though you hadn’t pondered it much before, you realize you’ve sort of been thinking of James, with his muscles and constant smiles and easygoing manner, as somewhat invincible. He seems like such a source of light in the world, it hadn’t occurred to you that anything bad could happen to him. You don’t like the idea of him being hurt. In any capacity. 

You realize this is likely playing out on your face when you notice James watching you. His eyes are soft. “As much as I would love to milk this for attention and maybe a sponge bath,” he says, setting his fork in his bowl, “it’s really not that bad. See?” 

He pulls down the sleeve of his shirt, and the effort to placate you is wasted. You take in a quiet, horrified gasp at the deeply colored bruise on James’ shoulder. One of your hands raises as if to touch it. It hovers in the space between you. 

“That’s not that bad?” you look at James in alarm. “It looks broken.” 

“It’s not,” he laughs. It’s a bit awkward, as close to self-conscious as you’ve ever seen him. “Trust me, I’ve had a couple broken bones in my time. It’s only bruised, and the muscle’s a bit strained.” 

The muscle, you’re noticing now, is quite substantial. Your focus is on the bruise, but the shoulder beneath it is eye-catching as well, hefty and taut-looking, presumably from the strain. That, or James is flexing. 

You raise your gaze quickly to his. Brown eyes tinged with smugness. 

“You’re worried about me.” His lips stretch into a grin. Not your favorite one in his arsenal. “Aw, sweetheart, I love you too.” 

You direct your attention back to your food, face hotter than hot. “I have justification for worry,” you say, the teasing tone you were going for undercut by the unintentional softness of your voice. “You’re voluntarily participating in a sport that seems like it’s trying to kill you.” 

James takes a self-satisfied bite of his risotto. “I don’t know, I was pretty worried when you fainted in my arms last week.” 

You side-eye him suspiciously. “I didn’t actually do that.” 

“Guess you’ll never know.” 

[theresattrpgforthat]

Mint Plays Games: Changelings, Trauma & Gaming

Over the course of October and November, I returned to one of my favourite ttrpgs of all time with @thydungeongal and my girlfriend: Changeling the Lost. About once or twice a year, I get the itch to run the 1st edition of this lovely, lore-heavy game, and every year I come away from it thinking about its potential. This is meant to be a quick break-down of my latest Changeling session, as well as a reflection on the parts of Changeling that really touch my heart.

The Game.

This game happened over three sessions, involving a character creation session, and two sessions of play. We had one character who was a Darkling Gravewright - folks who dealt with the dead in their time in Faerie (and can also see ghosts), and another who was a Fairest Flamesiren, whose entire deal is about burning bright, but also burning out quickly.

I decided to give these girls a murder mystery, with a mortal body found just outside a gate to a Goblin Market, and a missing changeling to track down. We’d talked about themes of grief and addiction prior to my planning stage, so I figured dealing with both a death and a place that offers your wildest dreams (for a price) might be a good place to start.

I don’t like planning out specific plot beats in my games, so instead I tried designing the Market like an adventure location, with various vendors to tempt the players with their wares, while dotting the landscape with NPCs in various states of distress. I figured the Changelings would pick something that resonated with them, and we could go from there. This process also generated a few different villainous characters who could be responsible for the murder, which I’m glad I did, because as usual, what the players decide to do always falls outside the bounds of what the GM plans for.

The story ended up being about saving a kidnapped changeling from a hungry Fae, and bluffing through a group of Privateers (read: mercenaries) and bringing the victim to safety. However, they didn't escape completely unscathed - coming face to face with a True Fae caused a cascade of terrible memories coming back to visit one of our characters right after she thought she'd made it to safety.

Our session was an introduction to the world and lore of Changeling, and I feel like I did a pretty good job on that front. On the other hand, I felt like it was just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the things I think Changeling can be about.

The Potential

When it comes to the World of Darkness in general, I think Changeling: the Lost has a relatively sleek amount of lore regarding the various Courts, Seemings, and faerie characters. Each Changeling’s durance can be typified, but ultimately what they went through can be up to the player who designs them, and the Hedge is limitless in its weird and strange creatures, which gives the GM license to create all kinds of goblins and monsters to fit what they want their game to be about - and the players aren’t really expected to know what’s going on in there anyways. Most Freehold history exists in rumour, because talking too openly about it feels like you’re inviting the Fae to your front doorstep, and in the same way, the true nature of the Fae is left up to rumour and superstition, allowing your group to decide what they really are, or leave their nature forever a mystery.

That being said, the toys that you can play with are still more numerous than anything that you can fit into any one campaign, even if you’re playing that campaign for 4+ years. You can very easily play Changeling as a magical urban fantasy game (and I’ve done this fairly regularly with my group), but C:tL also has a lot of poignant themes that can delve into themes about trauma, addiction, and mental health.

Disclaimer: CtL is not always graceful in the way it represents mental health. There are antagonists presented in the books that come across as “madmen”, some pretty gross Merits you can take that can feel bad to play at most tables, and characters that have lost what makes them human, becoming threats to the players. However, I think that the Clarity system does have some interesting ideas in it that, if treated with care, can still provide some interesting depth to the game.

Clarity

Clarity is meant to be a measure of how well your character can tell truth from Fiction - a high enough Clarity score, and you can sniff out a Fae even if they’re trying to hide themselves; a low enough Clarity Score, and you have a hard time differentiating colour and smell, and might even start seeing an overlay of your Durance infiltrating your weekly grocery trip.

Your Changeling moves up in Clarity if they’re able to keep a stable life with elements that help you ground yourself and give you a sense of identity - and mechanically, once you spend Experience points. Your Changeling moves down in Clarity when they suffer “sins” - moments that disrupt that hard-won stability. This sins could be something we’d consider morally fraught, such as stealing, assaulting someone, or murder - but they could also be significant life changes, like losing your job, buying a house, losing a friend or getting married. You also always suffer a Clarity sin when you come in contact with a reminder of your durance - particularly a True Fae.

The higher your Clarity score is, the harder it is to keep yourself there. Smaller and smaller things can trigger a Breaking point, like going a day without human contact, starting a new college course, or using a Faerie token. Furthermore, the lower your Clarity score, the more difficult it is for you to tell truth from fiction - think of the scenes in Mockingjay where Peeta has to ask Katniss “real or not real” and try to trust her answers.

It doesn’t help that so many pieces of the Changeling experience after getting out of the Hedge seems designed to Fuck You Up - like the doppelgänger that’s been living your life ever since you left, or the fact that mortals can’t seem to notice the ways that Faerie has changed you: you can feel the horns on your head, but all they touch is a well-coiffed hairstyle. In many ways it feels like your whole experience with Faerie is invisible - and you’re fairly certain that even if you told a mortal the truth, they’d never believe you. If they did believe you, they would never treat you the same again.

I like this system because it doesn't really measure how "good" or "bad" your character is - instead it's a representation of how your lived experiences can often trigger symptoms even if others get lucky enough to survive those events with their mental health intact. I'm not a bit fan of derangements - but I think dropping in Clarity is an excellent time to ask characters about pieces of their time in Faerie that haunt them, and perhaps saddle them with Frailties instead - what personal rules do you have to follow in order to navigate the world when you have a hard time telling friend from foe?

Other Themes & Metaphors

The Fae themselves are also exquisite boogeymen, mercurial abusers without the familiar human emotions that we might feel more equipped to understand. They act on their whims and follow their appetites - and while real-life abusers often have very human reasons for being that way, we need not feel such compunctions from the Fae.

We might have to feel some compunctions about their right-hand Loyalists however, changelings who have agreed to work for their Fae Masters in exchange for some semblance of freedom. These are enablers: giving the Fae a step into the mortal realm and throwing mortals and other Lost under the bus, just so the True Fae won't turn their abuses back onto them.

Much of the ethos of the seasonal courts in the first edition has to do with different strategies for preventing a day where you find yourself back under your abuser’s control. Do you pretend that everything is fine, because they won’t recognize their victims if they’re happy? Make yourself physically stronger so you can tell yourself that you’ll win next time? Amass magic rituals in the hopes that learning just the right order of steps will keep you safe? Or do you make yourself as un-interesting as possible in the hopes that they give up on you for other prey? (Yes, I think the Winter Court could totally be all about grey-rocking).

On top of that, the Changelings that your characters embody (and interact with) are far from perfect. They have vices, fears and trauma responses that pull and push them into a dance of backstabbing, power-grabbing politics, full of seeking the upper hand and possibly even selling out their fellows in a gambit meant to keep the Fae focused on someone other than them. (A political game or LARP with these themes in mind feels so juicy to me.)

Next is the metaphors of power and/or addiction. The higher your Wyrd is, the more Glamour you can hold, and the more powerful your magic is. At the same time, the more Glamour you can hold, the more you need to hold it: what starts as a fun magical resource can grow into an addiction, if you lean into it hard enough. Sure, your Contracts become easier to activate and you can Incite Bedlam if you get powerful enough, but are you willing to chance withdrawal if you can’t get your daily fix of goblin fruit? How much are you willing to play with human emotions in order to get that sweet sweet taste of anger or grief?

Then there’s the seeming-specific traumas. Beasts struggle with wondering whether they can be human after giving in to animal instinct; Darklings fell into Faerie because they crossed an invisible or moral line and have had to make morally questionable decisions in order to survive. Elementals are used to being treated as part of the scenery, moulded to fit the whims of their captors; Fairest are constantly pressured to be the prettiest or the best with the threat of terrible terrible things should they fail. Ogres have undergone terrible physical hardships, including physical mistreatment and deprivation, while Wizened have been told time and time again that they are only worth something if they are useful. Stepping out of Faerie doesn’t magically “fix” any of these complexes, and as a result each Seeming has to wrestle with stereotypes even amongst their own: if you need someone murdered, go to a Darkling, If you need something made, go to a Wizened. If you need a hot piece of ass, a Fairest is sure to oblige - right?

Lastly, there's the Fetch: a copy of yourself that was made to replace you when the Fae took you away. This other-you is often so much better or so much worse than the person they used to be - they can act as a foil to your character, haunting you or making your life difficult, reminding you of who you used to be, or never letting others forget how badly you may have screwed up. In Changeling society, killing your Fetch is at the very least a regrettably convenient way of tying up loose ends, and at the most, a rite of passage. But it's also a surefire way to risk losing Clarity. Kind of a catch-22 situation, isn't it?

My Experience So Far

Past Changeling sessions I’ve run have included NPCs getting kidnapped by misguided friends, stumbling across characters who were at an all-time Clarity low, trying to save other Changelings from their Faerie kidnappers, cannibals, Fetches, and antagonists who are set out to betray one or more factions of the Freehold that is supposed to protect them. It’s always bits and pieces of what feels like a bigger picture.

On the one hand, I think that's to be expected. There's so much in this game, and I doubt that any campaign can really dig in to all of its systems and complexities. On the other hand, I’m not sure if I’ve been able to really dig into the themes of Changeling: the Lost in the way that I’d really love to be able to do.

The subject matter can be so close to real struggles, that I’m nervous about making those struggles too bare-faced at my local table. Gas-lighting, torture, hallucinations, drug abuse and cannibalism are so very easy to drop into a Changeling game, but are also so very easy to hit uncomfortable moments for someone who's unprepared.

At the same time, I think that playing a game like Changeling with a high-trust table that uses robust safety features has so many interesting stories that can give power to players, even if the setting is technically a horror one. I’ve been having conversations with @psychhound about a lot of the themes that folks try to explore in ttrpgs, especially in response to this post he commented on back in April. To summarize that conversation: TTRPGs are a great way for folks to tackle personal struggles and traumas from a safe place, in ways that can give them a cathartic experience or that can give them a fresh sense of identity. Changeling has been a significant part of those discussions.

I came to Changeling: the Lost as a fairly new GM the first time I picked it up, and the more I learn about Safety Tools and a culture of care, the closer I feel to getting to that game that lives in my head that lured me into TTRPGS in the first place. Every time I come back to It, I think I'm closer to pulling together a Changeling game that sinks its teeth into the themes I’m interested in and hit some of the grime beneath all that glitter. So every time I come back to it, I’m going to create funky little goblins and design weird Fae bars and take the characters’ memories and ask them why they hurt - figuring out how I can twist the knife just enough to peel back the glamour, without opening any wounds that we’re trying to keep closed.

[spider-stark]

LITTLE BRACKEN KNIGHT

Aeron Bracken x Blackwood!Reader

Summary - You sneak into Aeron's room at Stone Hedge.

Warnings - fem!reader, not edited, suggestive language, hints towards smut but there is none, secret relationship trope ig, blackwood!reader being a little shit

Word Count - 1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

When Aeron Bracken opens the door to his bedchambers, the overly loud groan of Lord Samwell Blackwoods daughter is the very first thing he hears.

“Finally!” His heart in his throat, Aeron's scrambles to close the door. behind him. Over on the bed, you're completely unbothered by the idea of a guard overhearing you, saying, “I was beginning to think I’d be waiting for you all night, Bracken.” 

Frustration is the first emotion to take hold of his mind. 

Aeron knows that Blackwoods lack common sense, but he hadn’t thought you reckless enough to do something so asinine as sneak into Stone Hedge! He doesn’t wish to imagine the things that might’ve happened to you if the guards had caught you. Or, even worse, if Amos Bracken himself had caught the daughter of his sworn-enemy roaming through his castle halls. 

It’s this—the fear of what might have happened to you if Amos had gotten his hands on you—that drives Aeron straight into a lecture. “You would’ve been waiting longer than a night,” he says, his voice stern as he secures the door, “if my uncle had found you and thrown you in the dungeon.” 

“Well,” you drawl, watching with an amused grin as Aeron double—and then triple—checks the locks, “it’s a good thing he didn’t find me then, isn’t it?” 

Aeron’s certain your insolence will be the death of him one day. 

“The Gods were on your side tonight,” he says, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the Father for keeping you safe. “But you can’t make a habit of this. You might not always be so lucky and–” 

His voice falters, words dying on his tongue as he turns around. For the first time since entering his chambers, the Bracken knight takes a good look at the reckless—and utterly breathtaking—woman that had snuck in to greet him. 

You wait in the center of his bed, knees sinking into the plush mattress. Shadows dance across your form, chased by the soft, flickering flames of candles precariously placed about his room. Dressed in a thin, silken gown that clings to every peak and curve, Aeron can hardly decide where to look first. 

A roguish grin tugs at your lips—and, at last, the boy decides it’s safest to settle his focus there. “Weren’t you saying something?” Your dark eyes narrow into a playful stare. “Let me guess—” you feign thought, tapping a finger against your chin once twice before turning it on him—“you were going to tell me that, should my luck run dry, you’ll be incapable of saving me should Amos Bracken wish to string me up from the gates of this very Keep. Right?” 

Aeron hadn’t planned on using those exact words, but the sentiment was more or less the same. After all, while this was the first time he’d had to lecture you on breaking-and-entering an enemy Keep, this wasn’t the first time he’d discussed the dangers of you impinging upon Bracken land. 

“And now,” you add, boredom permeating your tone, “you wish to lecture me on how much safer it is for us to meet in Pennytree, instead.” 

“Because it is safer,” Aeron counters. It takes all the Bracken knight's willpower to keep his gaze locked on yours, knowing that if it veered south he would surely lose this argument. “I know it’s not to your liking, but meeting at the Tankard ensures that both of our heads will remain firmly attached to our body.” 

The Gold Tankard is an inn lying just beyond the boundaries of both Bracken and Blackwood land, nestled in the heart of Pennytree. Ridiculously overpriced and riddled with rogues and swindlers, the place is no better than a gods-damned cesspit. 

Pouting, you lean forward, pressing your palms against his mattress.“The Tankard’s beds are gross and lumpy,” you whine, rubbing your hands against the soft quilt covering his bed, “and yours is so clean and comfortable.” 

Aeron swallows on a too-dry throat. “I believe you’ll find death to be far more uncomfortable than a lumpy mattress.” 

“Possibly.” 

You lift a shoulder in a careless shrug, one of your straps gliding down your arm. You don’t fix it, letting it pull the neckline lower, your cleavage spilling from it. Aeron’s resolve wavers, eyes dipping low. 

You smirk. “But it seems my luck hasn’t given way just yet.” 

Aeron wishes he was a stronger man. Wishes he was capable of resisting such blatant seduction—such manipulation! 

But alas, strength has never been a virtue of his. 

His boots scuff against the floor, abandoning his better judgment in favor of you you you—his most coveted possession and his most forbidden desire, the center of his universe and the bane of his existence. 

When he’s close enough, you reach out a hand. A hand grazes his chest, clutching the fabric of his tunic and pulling him down. His knees are pressed to the edge of the mattress, your lips hovering before his. “So, what will it be, Ser Bracken?” 

There’s a taunt there, a special brand of Blackwood impertinence that makes his very bones itch. 

“Will you make me wait even longer,” you ask him, “with your wasted lectures?” 

Your other hand lifts from the mattress. Thin fingertips graze up his thigh, inching closer and closer to where he most wants to be touched by you. His lips parts, his breaths coming shallow and fast as your touch drifts to his waistband, fumbling with the laces there. 

Indeed—strength was a virtue lost upon him. 

For you, Aeron Bracken would beg. 

For you, Aeron Bracken would do more than beg. 

He would put his titles and station on the line, let the realm question his honor as both a knight and a lord. He would disgrace and debase himself in the eyes of his House, let his uncle declare him a traitor to their line. 

With you, there was no line he wouldn’t cross. 

No threat he wouldn’t face. 

“Or,” your lips brush against his and he forgets what it means to breath, “will the little Bracken knight grow a pair and fuck me in his uncles castle?” 

a/n - wrote this in an hour because I was frustrated with my other work. can't write smut, so it ends where it ends 🫡 idk what this is honestly-but I'm posting it so I can delete it from my google docs lmao.

also my computer kept trying to autocorrect Samwell to Sawmill and I just thought you should know that

[cry4mina]

BloodRedRoses

(Chaeyoung x fem!reader)

Word count: 4.1k

Angst/Smut

Summary: Best friends to ???

TW: weed, blood, sex, cheating, Sana?, mentions of Jihyo. I think that’s it.

A/N: hey hi hello! Happy Chae day (early edition!) pls enjoy! :)

*edit* my dumbass forgot to tag @nr1chaedickrider for the pics! 🖤

—

The couch is cold, leather against your face as you lay there numb, eyes freely releasing tears. Sniffling into the emptiness of your living room, reliving memories of you and your best friend’s last night of hanging out together.

—

“Chae! Let’s gooooo!” screaming from the edge of the sand. It’s 3 in the morning, humid as hell but she wanted to go to the beach. Her stress from her schedules made it hard for her to relax and you just wanted to see her smile.

God, her smile? She radiated diamonds when she giggled. Glowing and sparkling, refracting pure joy into everyone who saw it. It melted you instantly every time and she knew that.

Chaeyoung runs from your car, black sweatpants too big for her and your hoodie swallowing her whole, catching up to you and linking your arms together. Now she’s the one tugging you to the shoreline as you find your spot on the rundown lifeguard stand.

Studying the carvings of initials into the salt-soaked wood, taking your pocket knife out and getting to work on a new addition while Chae lights the joint carefully, taking a long drag and then passing it to you.

“Do you ever think about what the future holds?” exhaling the smoke as she stares into the waves from her seat on the rickety railing.

Joint hanging out of your mouth, looking up at her in awh, trying to actually hear what she just said. You were mesmerized by her, always.

“Y/n? You okay?” Glancing over to you with concern in her big brown eyes, knowing you had something to say and giving you the opportunity to speak your mind.

Panic flashes through you, pulling from the joint and then passing it back to her, trying to figure out what to say as she pokes you to tell her why you’ve been stuck in your own head.

“Yeah I’m okay.” melancholy laced in your words, continuing to carve a heart big enough to fit initials in, almost dissociating into the deepened grain of the wood. Imagining what life would be like with her as your girlfriend, you sigh heavily and she catches that too.

“You’ve been off for weeks…are you going to tell me what's up? I thought we told each other everything…” looking down at her hands and watching the smoke cascade off the joint before snuffing it out to relight later.

“Chae…” looking up at her again, immediately enthralled by her soft expression towards you. The care in her eyes visibly tracing your frame, waiting for you to let out what you’ve been holding in.

“I…like you.” immediately shutting your eyes and returning your attention to the carving trying to escape the discomfort of having just told your best friend of years that you had romantic feelings for her.

Through your peripherals you see her rotate to face you, expression dripping with grief, watching you chip away at the heart with your blade.

“Y/n…I’m kind of…seeing someone.”

—

Tear after tear falling from your eyes, face not even contorting at them anymore. The night you stopped speaking to Chaeyoung flashes in your mind at least three times a day, so the sting isn’t new but reliving that night definitely rubs salt into the wound.

It’s 2 in the morning when you decide it’s time to go to your favorite getaway location for the first time in about a month, wanting to create a new memory there by yourself so you can heal that part of you.

Rolling a joint for your adventure as you set off, trying to escape the sorrow of the wound that keeps reopening.

—

Arriving at the parking lot and parking in your usual spot, you sit for a second. Sniffling and ruminating in the disdain you were feeling for the crisp ocean air, taking in the changes to the setting around you.

Hedges still line the sides of the parking lot, a few palm trees sway in the breeze, beach roses consuming the foliage even more than before, blooming in the moonlight.

Stepping out of the car and walking over to the flowers, you smell the rich sweetness they give off and go to pick one for yourself, only to be pricked by the thorns immediately.

“Shit!” dropping the flower instantaneously, thorns sticking out of your finger. Pulling them out one by one under the moonlight, dripping blood onto the rose on the floor, staining it with the sanguine colored liquid.

Putting your finger in your mouth to ease the bleeding, you head towards the tranquility of the beach and the familiar place, the lifeguard shack, to be alone with your thoughts.

Climbing the slope and viewing the graffiti, more initials than before etched into the frame of the small shack that was raised off the ground to avoid the water.

The heart you chipped into the paint a month ago has someone’s initials in it that you didn’t put there…suspiciously, they’re your initials.

Perplexed by this, you try not to assume who added to your art installation as you light your joint, attempting to burn the ends evenly so it doesn’t canoe. Something you were never good at, that’s why Chae was always in charge of the weed.

Pulling on the joint as you stare into the sea and think about how much you miss her. The long silly conversations, the meaningful moments, the way she always got you a little snack when you were grumpy, her knowing your coffee order by heart, and it was understandable she did. She was your best friend.

Always showing you unconditional love, even through telling you about her new boyfriend, your memories slip back into the night you last spoke.

—

“Y/n…I’m kind of…seeing someone.” whispered to you through the waves, words causing a small wind within you, taking in the information that makes you nauseous.

Humidity sticks to every part of your skin, hiding the sweat from the rush of adrenaline when your hands start to shake. Seeing someone? Who? She hasn’t mentioned someone to you…

Spiraling at the thought of someone else taking that place in her life. Why hasn’t she mentioned her? Why wouldn’t she tell you about seeing someone? Weren’t you important to her?

“Y/n?…can you say something?” eyes shifting down at the floor. She knows what you’re going to say, just needing to hear it from your own lips before she assumes your next course of action.

“…I don’t have anything to say…” through soft tears you were hiding from her. They drip against your will, unable to hold them back when she gets up to hug you from behind. Hands on your stomach, cheek on your back and eyes closed, sniffling with you through the sadness.

“I don’t want to lose you…please say something…” the crack in her voice ruins you, reflecting the fracture she just chiseled into your heart.

“Who is it?” reverberates through your torso to her ears.

Chaeyoung can hear how shooken up you are, lungs quivering as you try to keep your breathing slow. She’s known for a while you felt this way, choosing to ignore it because she didn’t want you to vanish from her life because she wasn’t ready, only to assume you didn’t feel the same way now.

“I don’t think you truly want to hear about him…” replied coldly, still holding you tightly, unwilling to release you.

Heartbeat now racing at the pronoun she just laid out for you, realizing she was gripping you so tightly so you would run away from her.

“Him?! Chae I thought you we-” unhooking her from your body with some effort so you can face her, eyes drowning in your tears without your consent. You wipe the streams on your face, emotionally exhausted and sleep deprived.

She winces as you do. She knew this day was coming.

“Y/n, please just let me explain.” somewhat begging for you to hear her out, pulling on your sleeves and looking up at you, peering into your soul, framed in sadness.

“I’m happy for you…Can we leave?” flatly falls from your tongue.

“Y/n, please…” begging for another moment with you.

“Chae, I want to leave.”

—

It rings in your ears.

“Y/n please…”

Hearing it clear as day in your mind. You haven’t heard her voice since that night and thinking about it just pulls at your heart strings, playing the melody of regret for words unspoken.

Back against the front wall of the guard station, sliding down slowly until you were firmly seated on the ground. Pressing the filter of the joint to your lips and pulling a huge drag before you ash on the floorboards, watching the breeze sweep away the dust of gray and white.

Calm quiet waves and the weed comfort you through the ache of not having her around. Chest always swelling at the thought of her, wondering if she was happy, wondering if she remembered to eat that day…does he treat her right?

Sighing into the darkness, another pull, another ash, another gust as you sit in the depths of your emotions. Allowing your brain to take you through your thoughts of Chaeyoung without resistance.

“i was hoping you’d show up here eventually…Is this seat taken?” cuts through your mind's eye like a cleaver, startling you. Looking over to see a pair of familiar pajamas and an oversized hoodie, black hair flowing down from under the hood.

Those big brown puppy dog eyes glancing down at you, seeing your disheveled state, studying the faint tear streams down your cheeks and the small wet circular water marks on the floor beneath you. Pouting at you…Chae always hated to see you so sad. Especially because of the decision she made to date someone that wasn’t you.

Unsure of what to say, you just raised the joint up to her- extending an olive branch, a peace offering.

This made her absolutely beam at you, taking her place next to you and happily puffing away at the joint, giving a satisfied shimmy of the events currently taking place before plopping down next to you in the wooden floor.

Unable to contain yourself, you giggle as your body finally lets you relax. She was here, everything was going to be okay…right? Even with a false sense of security her presence gave you, you wished you could shake the feeling of missing her.

Exhaling quickly and turning to face you, making sure to make eye contact as she nudges your shoulder playfully.

“I missed you, dummy.” through the smallest smile you’ve ever seen, she was just too precious and you were completely wrapped around her finger.

“I missed you too…how are…things?” hesitantly questioning how her life was going, worried about the answer.

“Better now.” pulling the joint again before handing it back to you carefully. You wished she wouldn’t do that. Implying that you improve her life when you know who she’s calling every night before bed.

Shifting your focus to anything but what she just said, fixating on her hands, tracing over her finger tattoos with your eyes before grabbing the joint between your own fingers, lightly putting it out.

Feeling her energy was almost enough, the decompression of your muscles from just being near her was substantial enough to push the devastation away, even if it was temporary.

“How is he?” reluctantly flows through clenched teeth, oozing jealousy and spite.

“He’s…good.” tapping her fingers against her knees as she curls within herself, knowing you’re only asking because you feel obligated to. Knowing you’re hoping for a different answer.

Nodding your head and biting the inside of your cheek, fiddling with the ankle cuff if your joggers and trying to keep yourself seated. Discomfort sneaks in, thoughts of her being happy with someone else being a wave of nausea, imitating sea sickness as you wobble a little in the feeling.

The signs of your care for each other was always there, you were just too nervous to face her about them and she was anticipating you making the first move. There were plenty of moments to do so and you just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything sooner. Locked in your own fear, ruining your own chance.

“Can I ask you something?” Chae's curious eyes peeked up at you while resting her chin on her knees, a pout placed on her perfect lips.

“Yeah.” refusing eye contact out of a familiar fear, wondering if she was going to ask where you were or where you’d been.

“Why’d you stop taking my calls?” cheek now resting on her knees, you can see how she’s trying to calm her breathing through the difficult question. Never being one to ask them, hating confrontation but she had to know why you took so many steps back from her. She just need to hear you say it.

A deep breath, eyes shifting anywhere but on her. How were you supposed to tell her the truth?

“I…uhm…didn’t want to talk to you.” little lies through your clenched teeth, grinding away at your heart like sandpaper.

“Don’t lie to me.” Chae’s brows furrow as she lets out a little annoyed shriek. It’s hard not to giggle at her when she makes what she would call her “angy” face at you. It’s too cute to be considered “angy.”

“Fine.” Sighing heavily and turning to face her, hands roughly running down your face as you prepare to tell her what she definitely already knew. Swallowing roughly, deep breath, and go!

“I stopped talking to you because it’s hard to see someone else making you so happy…I wanted it to be me…and with how we are or I guess were, with each other I thought that’s what you wanted too.” attempting to not sniffle as the tears trickle down your cheeks again, stinging your eyes and adding to the salt on your face.

Feeling a warmth on your right side and the pressure of a head resting on your shoulder, you lean into Chae and continue to silently cry a little harder.

Tears staining her hoodie as they fall, a hand reaches around you and holds your waist, lightly scratching in an attempt to comfort you.

“You’re right, you know.” matter of factly uttered through the breeze of the early morning hours surrounding you.

“About what?” lifting your head to look at her while she elaborates on what she means.

“That is what I wanted…I just didn’t think you wanted to try because you never said anything or reacted when I dropped hints” nervously from her shaky lips while her own tears fell, her face now matching yours in the same sorrow.

“What? When did you drop hints?” confusion layered your words heavily, racking your brain for Chae’s attempts to show her feelings, completely oblivious to any hints she might’ve dropped along the way.

“Come on, don’t pretend like you don’t remember. I would always hold your hand, cling to you, cuddle with you…we even made out a few times over the years.” frustrated at your lack of knowledge, even though she never blatantly told you the level of what she was experiencing.

“Chae, we were young…I thought you were just an affectionate person or that it wasn’t serious. Like how Sana is?” a weak attempt to defend yourself from not making a move or telling her sooner.

“Sana likes you.” cold, flat tone, maybe a hint of jealousy uttered from her lips, body language shifting to show a little discomfort.

“What?!” complete shock consumes you, trying to take in the overwhelming amount of data you just received.

“Yeah, that’s why I never invited her to hang out with us after the first time…I didn’t want her to be that close to you” grief weighs her voice down to a whisper, the confession fresh even after years.

“Chae why would yo-” hands cupping your face almost immediately. She presses her lips on yours, tears mix into a painful spiral of what could’ve been between you.

Stiffening at the contact, you aren’t really sure what to do at the moment. Fighting to not lean into it, but not wanting to pull away either. She pulls away for a second to look at your face before placing one hand on your hip, pulling you into her, laying her lip on you again.

Not being able to help yourself after years of pining, you melt into it, quickly turning heated as she slides her tongue in your mouth. Her hands feel so comfortable on your skin, wrapping around your waist under your shirt, fidgeting with the hem of your pants laid on your hips.

Pulling away to press her forehead against yours, her hand descends down into your underwear before she whispers into your mouth.

“Is this okay?” eye contact is absolutely excruciating, completely drenching you in the dream you were living. Nodding your head aggressively and pulling her back into you for more.

The passionate make out session she started completely derailing into a full blown hook up, moaning into her while she’s gathering your wetness on her fingers to make small circles on your clit, eliciting more of the sweet sounds she wished she heard years ago.

There’s no way you’ll get caught here, it’s almost 3 am and the sounds of the sea will cover any noise you make so you allow yourself to be loud for her so she can see how badly you need her and how badly you want her.

Chae slides a finger into you, eliciting a gasp that she swallows whole. Curling her fingers up, you’re grinding into her palm and chasing the pleasure she knew she was giving you.

Breaking from the kiss, laying her lips down your cheek to your jaw and then to your neck. Biting down on your pulse point coaxing more whines from you.

“That’s right, baby, let me hear you,” softly spoken into your ear before she ran her teeth over your lobe, tugging at the skin, and resting her chin on your shoulder before whimpering when she felt your hand rubbing into her over her sweat pants.

Suddenly pulling her finger out and replacing it with two, she takes your hand and pushes it into her harder so you can feel how wet she is under her sweatpants.

“Can I..?” half moaned, clenching around her digits tightly, pressing into her so the seam of her sweats hits just the right spot.

“Not yet, gotta take care of you first” whined into your neck, still pumping her fingers deep into you at a steady rhythm, you thrust into her hands as you feel the knot tightening into your stomach.

“Fuck, chae…I’m gonna cum” hips sputtering, let out a string of obscenities and moans out, next to her ear.

Chae immediately removes her hands from you, kisses you and stands up, unable to look you in the eyes.

“I’m sorry.” walking away and down the slope of the life guard tower, leaving you to figure out your feelings and question everything that’s ever happened between the two of you and wondering why she would fuck you just to leave you here feeling unloved and unwanted.

—

“Do you think dinner will be weird?” Sana asks from the passenger seat of your car as you pull into the parking garage in front of Jihyo’s apartment building.

“I don’t think so. At least I hope it’s not. It’s been a while since I have seen her, so I can avoid her through conversation with everyone else.” putting the car into park and looking over at your lovely girlfriend of a few months.

Her eyes soften, she knows the details of what happened that night at the beach. Sana knows how detrimental that memory is to you, but it was Jihyo’s birthday and you were a good friend. You weren’t going to miss it because of Chaeyoung.

“Alright, Honey. But if you get uncomfortable, please let me know. I don’t want you to put your own mental health at risk for the sake of a small party, okay?” Placing her hand on your cheek to make sure you keep eye contact with her.

Putting your hand on hers, you move it over and kiss her palm lightly. She giggles at you, before leaning in to lay her lips on yours.

“Thank you, baby.” smiling at her after pulling away, getting out of the driver's side door and walking around the other side to open hers, offering your hand out for her to hold while she steps out of the car, intertwining her fingers with yours and squeezing softly.

—

“Oh my god! Y/n! It’s been so long!” Jihyo runs at you and envelopes you in a bear hug before giving you a once over, taking in how you’re glowing and happy.

“You look good!” knowing the last time she saw you was when a week or two after the beach incident. You didn’t have to tell her what happened for her to understand who it involved and why you were distraught.

“I’m so happy to see you and that smile of yours again. Thank you for dragging her out of the house, Sana.” giving a wink and then passing you off to the others, giving them a chance to greet you.

Everyone gave a similar reaction to seeing you as Jihyo, except the one person you expected to barely interact with. A small wave behind an even smaller smile.

“It’s good to see you.” eyes on the floor, hands awkwardly fiddling with themselves, feet shuffling and biting the inside of her cheek. Her anxious tells were showing in full force and you weren’t the only one to notice it.

Sana places her hand on your lower back, rubbing small circles to soothe you through this uncomfortable exchange.

“Good to see you too, Chae.” before stepping away to gather with the rest of the girls to start the birthday festivities, finding you and Sana’s seats next to each other with Chaeyoung placed at the complete opposite end of the table.

—

Stepping outside for a second to get some fresh air, being too full to even think about the discomfort of Chaeyoung being within such close proximity. You lean against the railing of the patio taking in the calmness of the night sky when the door opens behind you and closes softly.

Without even having to look, you already know who’s present behind you. A long sigh expels from your lungs, you know what’s coming.

“We broke up… I broke up with him…I’ve been trying to get into contact with you since the night after…the beach.” stated before you could even blink.

Finding a place next to you on the railing, she pulls out a joint and lights it before trying to hand it to you. Politely declining, she takes a few pulls and then speaks again.

“After that night…I couldn’t get you out of my head. Every time he touched me, I wished it was you.” Glancing to see what emotions were present on your face, finding stoicism where love used to be.

“I blocked you that night, Chae…can we not do th-” she pushes your shoulder to open up your stance and takes a step towards you, getting close to your face trying to initiate something more than she should.

Tilting her head lightly and leaning into you as you take a huge step back from her, you tell her the absolute truth.

“Chae, we can’t do this. More importantly, I don’t want to do this. You had the opportunity and you wasted it. You used me that night at the beach for your own selfish gain and then left me there…alone. Cheating on your boyfriend and ruining our friendship on the same night…I don’t want to date someone like you.” stern in your words as you relive the night in your mind, again and again. Still grieving the past.

“I thought the love we had was pure and I’m trying to keep that memory alive so please, don’t remind me of what you did.” Stepping towards the door, pulling it open as fast as possible. You needed to get away from her. Now.

“I’m sorry.” muffled by her tears and the creaking of the hinges as you try to run away when she grabs your wrist and places something in your hands, not bothering to look at it before leaving her outside.

Not wanting to show your emotions to Sana, you rush into the bathroom before she can see the state you’re in.

Closing the door behind you and flipping the bright fluorescent lights on, you look into your hand and see a dried up beach rose that’s stained with dark crimson. You stare at it as you remember the thorns, looking at the tip of your finger where the scars were from that night.

Into the garbage it went as quickly as you saw it. Splashing cold water on your face, arms locked, leaning on the chilled porcelain sink trying to collect yourself so you can be present for the rest of the party when you hear a knock at the door.

“Baby? Are you in there?” the sweet voice warms your heart, as you turn the knob and crack the door to let Sana in.

“Oh, honey” immediately grabbing you to hold you while you silently sob into her. Rubbing your back and telling you that you were safe but you couldn’t help but keep wishing it was Chaeyoung. Always wishing it was Chaeyoung .

[shawnxstyles]

Omg! Panty stealer pt2 is sooooo gooood! Cocky and dom Peter absolutely blew my mind! Your writing is awesome!

Pleeeeease tell me that it will be third part to fulfill the panty trilogy! As humble suggestion maybe reader find out that Pete is SpiderMan and he will finally get head from her while he is in his spidey costume? Or maybe more than just blowjob?Hehehe Am I very bad and naughty that I'm typing this to you? 🥵🤤

Anyways love ya darling! You're smashing it!

in the suit

words: 3k

warnings: smut; (m- receiving [oral], dirty talk), language, and fluff of course. barely edited.

note: panty!peter blurb #1 coming up :D also, this is the way i believe y/n would have found out about spider-man, but i have another request for the same thing so i’ll probably do an alternative version!

—

you couldn’t stop thinking about it. how?

how does peter manage to get into your room every night? okay, not every night, but most nights.

most nights, peter magically and mysteriously sneaks his way up into your forbidden bedroom with ease. sometimes, you even wait and watch outside your window to try to get a peak at what he’s doing. but you never see him.

he’s just so slick. how does he do it?

you and peter have been together for over a month now, if you’re counting the day he broke in. the feeling isn’t necessarily new in your heart. you feel like you’ve known him your whole life. like he’s always just… been there.

through this month of stability yet craziness, you haven’t gone back to the frat house since the halloween party. you thought that after you guys got together you would stay there more often, but peter doesn’t want you to be ‘attacked’ by the guys. meaning, he doesn’t want them to ask a million questions when you guys are supposed to be private. you thought his excuse was dumb, but he was also just being a bit protective.

in reality, peter just didn’t know how to get you into the frat house without anyone seeing you. you both had agreed that your relationship was going to be kept private, very private. people could spread rumors and assume you two were together, but you weren’t going to show each other off. you guys liked it this way, it made your relationship more special because it was just for you two.

peter had a sixth sense, sticky fingers, and webs. it was pretty easy for him to crawl up into your room especially because you didn’t have security cameras (maybe you guys should get some at some point though…). you would constantly ask him how he does it since you live on the second floor and it was high up. but peter responds by not responding and instead laughs and kisses you. god, he was too good at distracting you.

but tonight, you were determined to find out.

peter had already texted you earlier and said he wouldn’t be able to stop by tonight because of overbearing homework. you completely understood, and sent him a good luck and goodnight to me then message. but truly, you were sneaking out and heading towards the frat.

you put on your sneakers and a hoodie, pulling the strings tightly around your head. the early december weather was no joke in massachusetts, and your thermal leggings were barely helping to keep you warm. as quietly as possible, you leave through the back door, making sure not to alert anyone or anything. not like you have a system to alert though.

you cut through some of the hedges until you’re in the front yard and the frat is staring at you from across the street. taking a deep, chilly breath, you cross the road with your frozen fingers tucked in your pocket.

all the lights in the top rooms were off, except one. you’re not totally sure which one is peter’s, but what other frat guy would stay up until 11 p.m. working on homework?

maybe ned, but he sleeps downstairs.

you walk until you’re under the window, the yellowish light taunting you. there was no latter, vine, rope, or magic hair to get you into the bedroom. the houses were built very similarly, and you know he doesn’t bring a latter with him.

so how does he do it?

you take a glance at your surroundings. the biggest difference of your houses was that the guys’ didn’t have large garden hedges. they just had a shit ton of messy bushes that they should probably trim once in a while.

having no ideas, you try to jump towards the window. great, that’s totally going to help you. maybe you’ll get some super jump that can spring you up and inside.

you feel stupid. yeah, peter may be the smartest person on campus and going to mit on a full academic scholarship, but how does he sneak into your room? with geometry? you didn’t think so.

wait.

what if… he’s hiding something from you?

that would explain why he’s so weird about it. letting the impulsive decisions take you over, you throw a rock at his window. hopefully, you’ll get his attention and he’ll come down, so you can see how he does it. or he’ll just go through the front door… whatever he does, you need to ask him this question right now. or else you’ll never be able to sleep again.

when throwing the rock gets tedious and noisy, you quit. just as you’re about to drop to the ground in annoyance, you hear a distant whipping sound. you hold your breath as if the person whipping will hear you.

fuck. it wasn’t a good idea for you to go out at night.

suddenly feeling anxious and scared, you slowly creep towards the sorority house. you don’t get too far before you see a body flinging through the air. the whipping noise gets closer and closer to you with every web on the streetlights. what the…

there’s only one person that could possibly be doing the impossible.

spider-man.

but what was he doing in your little neighborhood? this was one of the safest places in the area, so he didn’t need to check up here. there were so many more places in massachusetts that needed saving. feeling beyond curious, your feet scatter to hide you behind one of the untrimmed bushes.

you watch through crowded leaves as spider-man swings through the neighborhood, getting towards you. it’s like he can sense you and he’s coming for you. your heart thumps wildly in your chest, nervous about seeing him. you’ve never seen him before, and at least not in person. he was popular on the newspaper and television screens, but never on the street. unless you lived within the city.

with one long and final thwip, spider-man flings himself towards the frat house.

what. the…

you place your hand over your mouth, just in case your breathing is too loud. you intensely watch as the spider crawls up the white wall and towards the only lit window in the whole house.

no. fucking. way.

before you could fully register what you were seeing, you felt the gasp leave your mouth. you slap both of your hands on your face to shut yourself up. you nearly fall back on your heels as spider-man halts his movements. he scans his surroundings before jumping down the wall entirely.

your eyes are wide and your hands of shaking. you’ve never felt your heart beat so unbelievably fast, but you’ve also never been more afraid. what does he do to people that find out? what is going to happen to your relationship?

the body of blue and red stocks closer to the bushes with careful steps. you try to scoot away, but your back hits the fence. the wood creaks, your actions not quiet enough. his footsteps pick up speed as they rush to the bushes with determination.

spider-man jumps over the plant with grace, hoping to see a wild animal of some sort. but when he sees his girl with the most shocked and terrified expression in the world, he immediately falls to his knees.

“y/n,” he calmly says, slowly inching to you. he doesn’t hesitate to comfort you as peter. you don’t move, you just listen. “it’s okay. i promise.”

now that he sensed you, peter could hear your heartbeat overbearingly in his ears. he could hear your muffled breaths under your palm, and he just wanted to soothe your fear.

“baby,” he wanted to cuddle your body until you stopped shaking. you weren’t crying, you were just in shock. peter takes a quick glance at his surroundings before yanking off his mask and kneeling, so you could see his face reflecting off the moonlight. “it’s just me.”

“i…” you whispered as your hands fell from your face. peter doesn’t hesitate to grab them gently with his gloved ones. “…knew it.”

“you knew i was spider-man?”

“well… for like five seconds,” you flusteredly laugh while trying to recover. you still haven’t gotten used to this. well it’s only been a minute. “i knew you were hiding something.”

“what are you doing out this late anyway?” he stares straight up at the moon as it shines vehemently over you both.

“uh… well,” you start, “i was kind of curious as to how you always snuck into my bedroom without a latter or something, so i went to see? i don’t really know what i was looking for.”

peter chuckles. “but you found your answer, yeah?”

“yeah, i did,” you smile with sweetness as peter helps you up from the grass floor.

—

“it’s different breaking into your room rather than mine,” you say as you sit on the edge of peter’s bed. you watch as he tosses his mask inside of a box labeled books. “so that’s what was in the box. not dirty magazines.”

“surprise?” peter laughs and you giggle at his shyness. his cheeks and nose were red from the cold, but also from the slight blush that crossed them. you made him feel all warm and tingly inside, and even a little gooey.

his hand reaches for the button on his chest. it deflates, instantly becoming huge around him.

“wait,” you stop him before he undresses himself. he looks towards you. “can i just… look at you for a moment? in the suit?”

a small smirk creeps up his face. peter clicks the button again and his suit encloses on his body, outlining his muscles perfectly. every ridge and curve of him was being shown off by the spandex. you felt a spark of lust fire inside of you at the sight.

“like me in my suit, baby?” he teased as he trudged over to you. you stood up from the bed to meet his buff chest. you nodded with a bite of your lip.

he nearly growls before attaching your lips. it’s barely been a day since he’s last kissed you, but that’s too long for him. his gloved hand grips your jaw to deepen the kiss while your hands explore his messy hair.

the heat between you was undeniable. you were getting worked up over peter in his suit, and that’s something you never thought was possible. because you didn’t think peter being spider-man was possible.

is there a spider-man kink?

you take your shirt off after breaking the kiss, but resume it in no time. as he pushes you onto the bed, you stop him, having a new idea in mind.

“peter,” you sigh, spandex body hovering over yours.

“you okay?”

“yeah, yes. i just…” you swallowed, “can i…”

you didn’t really get your question out. you just slithered your body off the bed until your knees were digging into his carpet. peter’s eyebrows shoot up as he stares down at your figure, submissive below him.

“fuck. you want to touch my cock?” peter was already growing hard at the idea of fucking you in his suit. he found it hot that you found his suit hot. everything seemed to be a turn on right now. but now you were on your fucking knees like an angel and damn near begging to touch him?

how could he say no?

“go ahead then, sweet girl,” peter allows, but you stay still.

“how do i take it off—?”

“right—”

he unzips a zipper that you swear wasn’t there before. you barely take him fully out before you’re drooling at the sight. he was big and thick, and you don’t think you’d ever get used to looking at and feeling him.

your thumb drags over his weepy tip and he winces at your freezing touch.

“sorry!” you exclaimed with a funky smile. he forcefully laughs while you spit warmth into your hand.

“it’s okay, baby.”

your delicate hand wraps around him as you shift up and down. he sighs into the air, eyes fluttering back. your other hand scratches his thighs lightly. then, you fondle his balls until he’s groaning above you.

“fuck, darling,” he moans as his rough hand rests on your head. with his grip on you, you feel inclined to put your mouth on him. you’re barely an inch away, so what are you waiting for?

your lips pucker as you kiss his veiny shaft. you see from the top of your eyes how his face floods with pleasure, and your ego rises.

“if you look at me like that again, i’m going to explode, baby,” peter husks with his fingers laced in your hair for support.

with a hummed chuckle, you finally place your mouth on him. you suck on his leaky tip as a deep groan elicits from him. his noises always give you a bunch of reassurance, so you hum against him in satisfaction.

“takin’ me so well,” peter forces himself to stay still and let you do all the work. although, his hips just want to break free and ram into the back of your throat until you lose your voice. for another time… “love when you’re on your knees for me.”

you vibrated a moan against his cock as you took him deeper, a little more than half way. you were never the best at giving head because you couldn’t go that far down without gagging atrociously, but after peter showed you a better technique, for breathing and comfort, he thought you were a professional.

“you like being on your knees for me? or for spider-man?”

a groggy moan rippled around his cock from your filled throat, confirming his suspicions. you were definitely turned of the idea of peter as spider-man, and because of that, he was too. every time you were horny, peter was too.

you released your hands from him and braced them on his thighs. you focused and remembered the small notes he’s given you before. you take a long breath before sinking his cock deep in the back of your mouth. your thumb stabs your palm to eliminate your gag reflex, and it works. your nose nudges the base of his cock and you can see up close how his abs contract tightly.

“fuck! doing so good for me. going to make me come, sweet girl.”

hearing this, you bob and twist your head with a goal. your tongue swirls exploring around each ridge like it’s never tasted the plain before. peter was delicious; he was sweet with a pinch of saltiness that made you a fan of giving head. you would get on your knees any day for him.

his cock twitches in your mouth, warning you that he’s coming. you feel his hips buck into you as he strongly yanks your hair. you groan as he lets himself go.

“where do you want it? on your face? chest? or are you going to swallow it like a good girl?”

even when his dick twitches again, you don’t make an effort to move. you lick the underside of him, which sends peter over the edge.

a string of hushed groans fall from his pink lips as his muscles clench. ropes of his orgasm spurts down your throat, and you swallow every drop like a champ. well, almost all. parts of his come drip from the corner of your lip as he slowly pulls out of you.

the second he exits you, your jaw is instantly sore and achy, but it was worth it. to see the flustered and breathless peter above you was worthless everytime. peter was nearly disoriented by how fucking incredible your mouth was. how you were.

he tucks himself back into his suit as you remain on the floor. he leans down and helps you up, your knees popping in the process.

“how was it this time?” you croaked, voice cracking horrendously. peter tries not to laugh as he wipes away the nearly dried sperm on your face. you open your mouth without a thought, and he sticks his thumb in your mouth for you to lick it clean.

“it was good. fucking amazing. impeccable. exceeded expectations. outstanding performance—”

“okay, okay i get it. you’re a nerd!” you brokenedly laugh as you shove his chest. you got a sudden wave of chills because you were starting to get a bit cold. your body was still running hot because you were still, well, turned on.

“nerds are awesome, okay? they know everything.”

“like what? impress me,” you challenge as you throw your leg on top of his lap and get yourself seated. he smirks, feeling his cock chuff up a bit already. you were beyond soaked in your panties, and you just couldn’t wait for peter to destroy you.

peter knows you didn’t actually want him to say anything nerdy, so he made it a bit sexual. as always.

“they know how to… kiss.”

“you’re probably the one nerd that knows how to kiss.”

“okay, fine. i know how to kiss,” his hand cups your face as it leans closer towards his. he places a soft, longing kiss on your swollen lips before pulling away way too fast for your liking. “i know how to touch you, i know how to rile you up. right? i’m doing it right now. and you’re probably soaking.”

a warmth wave floods through your body at his words.

“i know how to talk to you too. bet these dirty words are going straight to your little clit, huh?”

“peter,” you whimper. he was right. he was beyond right.

his hand trails down your bare stomach and hovers over your clothed cunt. he can feel the heavy heat radiating from you through your leggings, begging for more.

“i can feel you. i can smell you, too. a perk of being spider-man,” he smiles, “guess this nerd is pretty great.”

“peter!” you shook his shoulders in desperation, but he didn’t move. you had a love hate relationship with his teasing. he indeed got you riled up, to the max, until you were begging him to touch you. he just dragged it on and on and on. he loved hearing you beg for it.

“okay, okay, sweet girl,” peter chuckled as his fingers fumbled down the waistline of your leggings. they were thick, so you helped him get them down. “just want to hear you say how awesome nerds are first. how do you think i made these webs?”

“you’re the hottest, super-nerd i’ve ever met in my life. now can you please fuck me?” you begged as your cunt ached.

“aw thanks, baby,” all he did was laugh at your misery with a smirk. “all you had to do was say please.”

—

note: not my best work, but i hope you enjoyeddd. literally posting this at 1 am :D

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crossed out= not able to tag

[mvlionheart]

34 lestappen

Mini fic / Ficlet prompts (Open)

34. Things you whispered in my ear (Halloween edition!) Max/Charles | 984 words | Rating: Teen

Dr. Leclerc's Monster

Max loves Charles. Not a big enough word, love. Charles is everything to Max. The spindle around which the thread of Max’s existence is wound. Charles is the lamplight that splashes back the inky darkness. Every moment they’re apart the tide of apprehension in his chest threatens to drown him. Charles is the tide, and the shore, and the moon. 

Max loves the lab. The small, cozy room is always fire-warm and smelling of familiar chemicals. He spends all his time in the lab, thumbing through Charles’ extensive collection of books–dusty tomes barely holding their binding, newer volumes and folios, some manuscripts from his fellow colleagues at the university. Charles would talk about them sometimes, never naming them, but assessing their intellectual acumen and scholarly integrity. 

Charles doesn’t believe in death. Max does. He feels like the expert; Charles disagrees. Any argument resulted in further reading assignments and tutting about how young Max’s mind must be. Regression, he calls it. 

He explains the terms–the reasons he’s right; hooks Max up to wires and sensors. He delights in his research and so does Max. Well, in part Max enjoys it. Charles touches him, his skin–the sensation of warmth–he craves it, but it’s like diamonds. Rare, hard, cutting. 

Max hates pain: the electricity that floods his veins, the wretched noises gutted out of him, the smell of burning flesh and the taste of iron and ash on his tongue. The pain is necessary, Charles assures him, wiping the sweat from his brow and looking at him with kind eyes.  

Sometimes it takes him back to the blank; the dark place. It’s not bad, but there’s no Charles. It’s not something he thinks while he’s there, because he’s not there, but when he comes back he feels an ache of longing–the same ache he feels when Charles steps out to go for groceries or pick up his mail, the long days he spends out. Just out. He doesn’t tell Max where he goes, just comes back with the result. 

Charles loves results. They put him in a good mood. Max’s mood reflects the weather of Charles’ disposition. Storms would roll in if the desired outcomes were not so easily grasped. He’d curse in English, then again in French. Max doesn’t know French–none of his books teach it–but he does know the sound of French: the curl and hiss of the sharp phrases as Charles stomps around the lab. 

Max doesn’t leave. Max never leaves. Charles traces the scars that wrap his bicep when he tells him. It makes Max angry sometimes–the confinement. Maybe he’d call it imprisonment after finishing The Count of Monte Cristo, if it weren’t for the way Charles touches him. Max doesn’t leave, but he does peel back some of the newspaper covering the windows. Just at one corner. The view is obscured by overgrown hedges, but Max can make out the moving shapes and colors of people. 

Charles hates people. Max thinks he doesn’t understand them. Charles is smart, but Max thinks he’s not patient enough for people. He huffs at that suggestion when Max mentions it. 

“A ridiculous assertion,” Charles scoffs. 

“The laughing man,” Max offers, thoughtfully and without malice. A man had come to the door. It was during the cold months when everything turned pale: the ground, Charles’ skin. “He was nice.” Max is right about this. It’s objectively true. He had been forthright; funny; careful with Charles as his temper soured. 

“He was not nice, Max.” Charles nears him and Max flinches. Max loves Charles, but he flinches. Charles doesn’t notice. He simply brushes a thumb over Max’s cheek. 

“Beautiful, simple, don’t think of this too hard.” 

“He said Max.” The name Charles has always called him. “He was nice.” 

Charles hates to argue–they don’t argue–so Charles doesn’t respond. But there’s a shift in the green of his eyes. Something flat and hollow, dwelling in the swirling depths, makes Max think long and hard afterward. He sits and stares at his hands, the tangle of veins under the patchwork of his skin. He knows some things are true when Charles says they are not. 

Charles loves Max. Charles hurts Max. Charles lies to Max. 

After that he read The Time Machine and The Death of Ivan Ilych, and he understands better how things can carry two different aspects in a singular, or he tries to understand. It makes a sharp pain jolt behind his eyes, then it lingers there. It helps him. He wants to continue reading, and also he doesn’t. He loves Charles, and he also fears Charles. 

The next time he’s on the table, wide leather straps holding him down, he asks Charles to clarify a part of the puzzle. 

“I’m Max, but also I am not Max?” Charles tightens the buckle at his chest. His knuckles brush the vertical scar running between his pecs. 

“Your name is Max.” Charles answers. It’s not good enough. Max makes a noise of protest as Charles presses the wooden bit between his teeth. He struggles against the straps and hears the table creak. “Stop this!” Charles demands, and Max stills. 

Max is scared of Charles. So he stills. 

“You are the only Max.” Charles whispers into his ear after a moment before leaning away. He pushes the hair off of Max’s forehead and stares into his eyes, somehow seeing and unseeing. “My beautiful Max.” 

He’s far away when he says it and he flips the switch a moment later. 

Charles works and Max suffers. 

And suffers. 

Suffers. 

Time passes and Max learns to understand why Charles doesn’t believe in death. He isn’t scared of the darkness, of the nothing, because he’s never faced it. 

Max reasons that he should. 

It’s a late night when Max wraps Charles in a hug. They don’t touch often, but to Max’s surprise Charles leans back against him. Max tightens his grip. 

Max loves Charles.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sneak Peek🩸🌧️

this is a sneak peek of my HUGE fic coming out on halloween!!!

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 507

Warnings: choking, blood, violence, mind control, knives

Series: Leg's Tuna Tober

The hedges rustled a few yards away. You froze in place, heart beating a mile a minute. Your knees audibly clicked as you crouched against the hedge. Wincing quietly, you kept your attention focused on the source of the noise. Whatever it was, whether it be friend or foe, it was growing closer. Animalistic grunts and snuffles filtered through the gaps in the bushes. Your knife, with the blood filled pommel, was nearly silent as you slid it free from its sheath. The steel blade glinted silver in the moonlight. You gripped it tight in your fist. Adrenaline pumped under your skin as you readied for the creature just on the other side of this hedge. Another grunt, almost pained, came from around the bend as the leaves rustled against your back. The sound reached you like a coughed groan. It was strange, but it almost sounded... familiar? A thick, leather boot planted in the mud to your right. You plastered yourself to the hedge, making your body as small as possible, as you peered up at the owner of the boot through wide eyes. Dark hair coated its head in styled tufts. Narrowed, almost feral eyes surveyed the space across from you. Pointed canines poked out over a wary grimace. Logan. It was Logan! He was a little roughed up, suit tattered and stained with God knew what, but he was alive. Unharmed, breathing, shadow looming over you like a tall mountain. "Hey!" you whisper-shouted, using the hedge to pull you to your feet. Relief flooded your mind like a summer breeze. You weren't alone anymore. Logan and you could work together to find an exit, reach the others, and get the hell out of here. You squeaked when a thick hand wrapped around your throat. The digits dug painfully into your sensitive skin, blocking your airways, making you grip desperately at Logan's sleeve. A second hand joined the first. Sharp branches dug into your exposed skin as he pushed you against the hedge. His eyes... How had you not noticed before? The usual hazel gleam was clouded in murky white. All life and laughter was devoid from his furious glare. Logan snarled, grip impossibly tightening on your neck. "Logan! Please!" you wheezed breathlessly. Your poor, overworked lungs shriveled inside your chest. The edges of your vision started to fade. In a last ditch effort, you swung the knife still in your hand. The blade sliced through the flesh of his face. Blood shot from the wound in thick spurts as he lurched away. Crisp air filled your mind with clarity as you heaved, Logan's hands clutching at where the tip of his nose used to be. "I'm sorry," you rasped, voice nothing more than a cough. The Wolverine straightened to his full height. He towered over you, head tilted as he cracked his neck, flesh filling itself in record time. Every bit the terrifying predator that lurked deep in his subconscious. As soon as his lifeless eyes fell open, there was no evidence of your attack. Just a splash of crimson below his left, white eye.

i'm so fricking excited for this fic. y'all have NO idea. SO MUCH WORK has gone into this. hours of research, planning, drafting, editing, making a COVER. i'm SO frickin proud of it :)

taglist: @just-a-nightdreamer @www-interludeshadow-com @lemurianstarship @ripleyswife @venomqueen2002 @amphitrite-5 @yarrystyleeza @c1eepypas1a @theestorm

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[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

"The Edain came at last over leagues of sea and saw afar the land that was prepared for them, Andor, the Land of Gift, shimmering in a golden haze. Then they went up out of the sea and found a country fair and fruitful, and they were glad." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Akallabêth"

[ID: An edit comprised of six banners, each showing a different landscape in primarily shades of blue, green, brown, and grey or white.

1: A rocky shoreline, with cliffs rising into the mist. White text in the center of the image reads "forostar" in all caps and under it, "the northlands" in smaller white cursive / 2: A beach bordered by conifers. A sloping mountain rises in the background. Text reads "andustar" and "the westlands" / 3: Cultivated fields bordered by lines of trees and hedges, rising into low mountains in the distance. Text reads "hyarnustar" and "the southwestlands" / 4: Sun shining through evergreen trees in a forest. Text reads "hyarrostar" and "the southeastlands" / 5: Grassy highlands in golden sunlight. Rock faces are visible on the sides of the craggy hills, and there's a small pool of water towards the bottom of the image. Text reads "orrostar" and "the westlands" / 6: Snow-capped mountains rising from a grassy plain. Text reads "mittalmar" and "the inlands" //End ID]

[novaauster]

Jean Moreau is dying.

Renee Walker has this opening line prepared as she uses the heavy knocker on the door of Campus President Andritch’s house. It thuds through the house like a drum, but nobody answers. 

She counts to sixty and knocks again. Then she starts looking around for other entrances, climbing over hedges, brazenly treating the mansion as an obstacle course. If anybody saw her they would be suspicious, of course, but she would have time to flee. It is five in the morning, and she is dressed formally, and she is white. They cannot stop me, Mom. Her own voice rings in her ears. 

She finds no unlocked door, no easily-accessible windows. Most importantly, she finds an empty garage.

Jean Moreau is dying. 

Renee leaves the house behind. Chasing her terror behind a solid brick wall in her chest, she gets back in Andrew’s Maserati and waits for her phone to connect to the speakers. “Mom, Andritch is not at home.”

“Okay, baby,” Stephanie says, and though her voice is strained by the phone’s poor audio quality and the stress of staying up all night with Renee, Renee can still imagine the warm tone of her voice at prayer. This is what brought her to Catholicism: not God, not Jesus, not even Communion, the first taste of alcohol that had not been aimed at dulling her senses and bringing her under a Hound’s heel. 

On the night of her initiation to the Bloodhounds, she had been given two shots and called it, too, a kind of communion. That would not have been much, had she not also been ten years old and starving. It earned her the nickname Featherweight.

No, Renee worships Mother Mary with her hands clasped. “We can find someone else. Here, I have an address, the Dean of Students…”

“No,” Renee says. “We are out of time.”

Here is what she has not told Mother Mary: she stopped at a hardware store five hours back.

edit: full version can be found here! updates twice a week

[not-poignant]

Raphael has a very poetic and grandiose way of speaking that is absolutely not the norm for day-to-day life. How do you get in the mindset to come up with his dialogues? They're perfection and I just can't even imagine how long it would take to do one paragraph of the way he talks, but you're writing an entire story with him...

Oh I love this question because I can answer it, lol sadlkjfsda

Okay so, Raphael's character is tough for me.

Normally I do a lot of dialogue research before starting to write a character in fanfiction and original fiction, but Raphael actually gets proportionately very few lines that really show his full emotional range (compared to say, Astarion), and he's got an incredibly specific way of talking that sounds similar to Astarion but at the same time is very different.

They share enough similarities (calling people darling and dear for example) that it's easy to fall into the trap of giving them the same 'voice.'

I find Astarion's voice a lot easier to 'get' and I feel like I can hear him better when I'm writing him. But Raphael I'm taking into emotional spaces we simply never see in the game, and then I have to really guess how he'd sound (like coming up with the idea that the theatricality vanishes when Raphael is genuinely panicking).

I ended up listening to a lot of interviews with Andrew Wincott, the Voice Actor for Raphael who is an incredible actor and extremely articulate. He was very clear in one of his interviews that one of the reasons he was selected to play Raphael was because, in part, he already sounded like him. Obviously there's differences / skill in changing cadence and more, but for the most part, Andrew Wincott uses similar vocabulary and talks in a similar manner to Raphael naturally, so I had an abundance of interviews that I could then listen to in order to get a feel for Raphael's voice. I picked the things that felt more 'Raphael' and added them to my dialogue notes.

I often have to go back and edit Raphael's dialogue. Sometimes it's very simple things, I had him say 'much more' in the chapter I'm editing right now, and I edited it to 'far more' because I think he'd just phrase it like that. Sometimes I expand a sentence into an entire paragraph.

I've also leaned a lot from Korilla's transcripts in the game, which have been super useful. They really cement, more than anything, how much he loves lullabies, nursery rhymes, children's tales and more.

HOW TO DO DIALOGUE RESEARCH:-

If you're new to dialogue research, it mostly involves listening to - and watching a character and then literally taking notes of how they talk. The things you observe are:

The tone of their voice - Fast or slow. Loud or soft. Musical or flat. Theatrical or matter-of-fact. High or low. Questioning or complete statements. Considered or hedging (i.e. very well constructed sentences, or a lot of pauses, ellipses, broken sentences). Rambling or concise.

How often they talk - Some characters actually say a lot with very little. Raphael is actually a lot of observation and facial expressions and eyebrow movements in between his dialogue. Little smirks, hand gestures and more. Do they interrupt or let people finish their sentences? Are they comfortable with silence? I find Raphael oscillates between long theatrical paragraphs, single sentences or words, and then a lot of silence. He's actually not very conversational, in that you can have a conversation with him, but I doubt he'd see the point of two hours of small-talk. (At this point you might be realising that dialogue research is also character research, how a character talks tells you so much about a character.)

The words (and metaphors/subjects) they use - This is a big one and I'm going to break this down a little bit more:

How they pause if they don't know what to say. Is it 'um' 'uh' 'ah' 'hm' 'mm' 'mn' or nothing at all (or something else) because they've mastered self-control over their dialogue? If Raphael says 'ah' he does so on purpose.

Filler words. Things like characters saying 'like' in a sentence. 'He was like, 'I can't believe it'' etc. This is very similar to how they pause, but it's the things people say to get from point A to point B. People who don't do this have often had training or think very hard about what they're going to say before they say it. But people say 'like' or 'and then' or 'well' or 'i realised that' or 'i thought that' etc. to carry them on. Some are more acceptable than others (people do just have realisations for example).

Profanity. How often do they swear, and how intentional is it? Some characters only swear when they get hurt or stub their toe or get angry. Some characters swear all the time for fun. Some characters only use some swear words and not others. Be specific. Be aware that some swear words are cultural! This includes blasphemy. In Faerun they use 'gods' and 'gods damn it' more often than we use 'god' or 'oh my god.'

Vulgarity. This is useful for Raphael (and Astarion) because he's very happy to be vulgar. This is like... how comfortable are they talking about sex, about sexual subjects, being crude, being seductive, flirtatious? And if they use it, do they use vulgarity to shock, seduce, scare, threaten, or for humour?

Salutations and farewells. How do they greet people? Silence? A calm hello? (A lot of greetings are omitted in dialogue but this is still good to know). How do they say hello, goodbye. How does that change between friends and enemies and strangers?

Single word sentences. This might sound weird, but sometimes when a character hears something that shocks them, or needs to acknowledge something, they may say anything from 'huh' to 'yeah' to 'fuck' to 'okay' to 'all right' to 'sure' to 'go on' to 'indeed' to just laughing out loud. The list goes on. Raphael is team 'indeed' lmao.

Sentence structure. Raphael's sentence structure is - when he's most comfortable - gently provoking, teasing, vaguely threatening, and makes liberal use of simile, metaphor, fairy tale, rhyme, sayings, colloquialisms and more. Raphael talks like someone who knows someone could quote him at any moment lmao. But from here, how a character structures their sentences can be helpful to know. Go back to 'the tone of their voice.' Those notes will give you an idea of structure.

Emotionality. How emotional are they? Do they have rage rants? Joyful giggling dialogue? Do they infodump with little emotion? Or with sheer excitement? Does their dialogue feel fake or real? Opaque or transparent? Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, and others will never be able to say 'I love you' in anything other than actions. Raphael's emotionality in dialogue is more present in his anger and irritation, and also when he feels triumphant and/or turned on.

The symbols, sayings, colloquialisms and metaphors themselves. Not all characters use these. But some people/characters will talk through analogies, colloquialisms. This is actually Raphael's biggest dialogue departure from Astarion, imho, aside from the fact that Astarion is a lot more emotional with his dialogue.

Take into account their culture, ethnicity, conceits, upbringing, education and the people they're close to:

This one is vital. Firstly, some people tend to 'absorb' elements of those around them. A person raised by affluent people will often 'sound affluent' and a person raised in poverty will often have dialogue that reflects this and if they don't there will be reasons for that. It might be a conceit (some people self-teach themselves different accents), it might be education, it might be training, it might be the subculture/s they've entered into, and so on.

~

When doing this research, you'll end up with a kind of master-list of actual words and probably some sentences you've written down, along with a lot of notes. You can also do this for any original characters you're making at all, you're just then making it up based on the character, and this research will also give in many ways the shape of the character.

It's a fun exercise and I highly recommend everyone tries it literally for people who don't exist and also observe your friends and family, and do a dialogue cheat sheet for some of them. It's pretty eye-opening! Even one page will teach you more than nothing at all. You can go deep and write many pages, or you can do what I do and keep it lean at 2 pages. Anyone who struggles with characterisation I suggest at least try this exercise, because anyone can put on a YouTube video and/or streaming service or even a favourite Tiktoker and start doing dialogue research! It's a way of building a character from the top down while also getting information about their foundations.