l0verclown

[l0verclown]

Love and Deepspace Men Getting High With You For The First Time

warnings. dead dove themes, slightly nsfw includes shotgunning, mentions of marijuana. please read at your own risk.

notes. a request from @azziesbattybaddie. this prompt isn't typically for everybody, so consider considering before proceeding!

SYLUS

Acts like he’s done this before—calm, unbothered, like this is nothing new. In reality? He’s never done it, but he refuses to admit that. He wants to impress you. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The way perception warps under chemical influence. I wonder if reality has always been this fragile.”

Picks up on your reactions instantly. Watches the way your body reacts, how your breathing changes, how your eyes glaze over his body, he wants to keep memorizing it.

Hyper-aware of touch. He doesn’t touch you often, but when he does, it’s maddeningly deliberate. A casual brush of fingers. A slow press of his palm against your thigh, just to see if you react.

His voice gets lower, slower. He already speaks smoothly, but when he’s high? It’s like silk. Every word drags with a lazy, teasing edge. “You’re adorable when you’re incoherent.” If you’re zoning out? “What’s got your pretty head all fogged up?”

Doesn’t flinch when he gets hit with the high. Just leans back and exhales, as if he’s been waiting for this feeling.

Flirts without even trying. It’s not obnoxious, but it’s subtle, laced in the way he looks at you, the way he drags out his words, the way his fingers linger on your skin.

Absolutely shotguns with you, but in the slowest, most intentional way possible. Doesn’t just do it, he studies your reaction as he does.

Has a way of making everything feel heavier than it is. Even something as simple as passing the joint between his fingers, the way his eyes track your lips.

Doesn’t get giggly or weird—just… looser. Less of that sharp control, more of that slow-burning amusement.

At some point, lets out something too honest. "I could get used to this, you and me." And then? Covers it up with a smirk, pretending it didn’t slip.

SCENARIO

The room is dim, the air thick with a haze that curls lazily around the two of you. Sylus is leaned back, fingers tapping idly against his knee, watching you with that same unreadable expression he always wears.

You take another hit, exhaling a little too quickly. He smirks. "Too much for you already, sweetheart?"

You lower your gaze with a slight frown. "I’m fine."

His eyes flicker to the way your fingers tremble slightly around the joint. "Sure." A pause. "Come here."

You blink. "...Why?"

He tilts his head slightly, gaze darkening with something you couldn't quite grasp. "Trust me." There’s something about the way he says it—calm, certain, like he already knows you’ll listen.

You hesitate, but then lean in.

Sylus takes a slow drag, holding it in for a second before parting his lips. He doesn’t exhale immediately—no, he waits, watching you, letting the tension build between you.

Then, slowly, he leans in.

The warmth of his breath seeps into your mouth, the smoke curling between you, and for a moment, you forget everything else. His hand lifts, fingers barely grazing your jaw as he exhales the last of it.

"Good," he murmurs, voice smooth, almost approving. His thumb skims over your chin before he pulls back, smirking. "See? Not so bad, huh?"

You exhale shakily. He watches you with a knowing look, as if he’s fully aware of the way your heart just skipped.

Then he leans back, stretching lazily. "If I’d known this was all it took to make you look at me like that, I would’ve done it sooner."

You glare. "Shut up."

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

ZAYNE

• Doesn’t initiate it, but doesn’t refuse either. If you offer, he’ll raise a brow, hesitate for exactly two seconds, then say, “Just once.”

• Handles it with practiced precision. He takes measured drags, never coughing, never overdoing it. You almost wonder if he’s done this before.

• Doesn’t change much outwardly, but you can tell. His posture loosens. His usually sharp eyes soften just a bit. The corners of his lips twitch like he wants to smirk but won’t let himself.

• His teasing becomes slower, lazier. No more quick-witted remarks—now, it’s long pauses, lingering glances, low chuckles between sentences. "This is enough."

• Hyper-aware of you. Not in an obvious way, but in how his gaze follows your movements, how his knee stays pressed against yours, how he picks up on your every shift in expression.

• Has a habit of speaking in low tones. And high? That tone gets even deeper, making everything he says sound more suggestive than it probably should.

• Shotguns with you—but doesn’t make it obvious at first. He just leans in, gaze heavy, voice calm: “Come here.”

• There’s a certain intimacy in the way he watches you react. He doesn’t gloat, doesn’t tease—you’re just there, close enough that he can see the way your pupils dilate, the way you hesitate before exhaling.

• Still maintains control. Even when high, Zayne doesn’t slouch, doesn’t get giggly—he just seems more relaxed, more undone.

• Finally lets out something softer than usual. "You drive me high." Maybe it’s the haze, maybe it’s the moment, but he says something he wouldn’t say otherwise. And when you call him out on it? He just hums, unfazed.

SCENARIO

The night is quiet, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as the smoke curls around you. Zayne is leaned back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. His fingers tap against his thigh, slow and rhythmic.

You pass him the joint, and he takes it between his fingers without looking at you. A slow inhale. A long pause. Then a smooth exhale, controlled and effortless, like he’s been doing this his whole life.

"You seem weirdly good at this," you note, raising a brow.

His lips quirk slightly. "Observant as always."

You narrow your eyes. "That’s not a denial."

He hums, gaze flickering toward you. "Would you prefer I pretended to choke on it?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

His chuckle is quiet, nearly drowned out by the soft crackle of burning embers. He takes another drag, then—without warning—leans in, exhaling the smoke right against your lips.

Your breath catches.

"You’re not inhaling properly," he murmurs, voice deep, calm. His eyes don’t leave yours. "Let me show you."

Your fingers tighten on your lap. "...You—"

"Close your mouth," he instructs, tilting his head slightly. "Now breathe in slowly."

His breath merges with yours, the warmth of it seeping into your skin. The room feels smaller, the air heavier. For a moment, the only thing you can focus on is the sharpness of his gaze, the way his fingers brush against your wrist ever so slightly.

Then he pulls back, exhaling slowly.

"...Better?"

You exhale shakily. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

His smirk is lazy this time, his amusement barely concealed. "Good." A pause. Then, with that same quiet amusement: "You should listen to me more often."

RAFAYEL

• He acts like he’s done this before. The moment you offer, Rafayel flashes a smug grin and takes the joint with zero hesitation, like this is just another one of his many, many talents. Spoiler: It is not.

• Immediate regret. He inhales way too fast, way too deep, and instantly chokes. The coughing fit that follows is violent—painful, even. You try to be supportive, but it’s hard when he’s practically dying beside you.

• Embarrassed but won’t admit it. His eyes are watering, his face is flushed, but he still tries to wave you off with a wheezy, “I’m fine. That was nothing, piece of cake.” It was, in fact, something.

• Tries again, somehow gets worse. This time, he inhales slower—but holds it in for way too long. You can see the struggle on his face before he finally exhales in a sharp, desperate gasp. "I'm going to fire you for this. I endure your existence in my life, and I get this?" (You didn't even force him, did you?)

• The high hits him fast and hard. One second, he’s his usual cocky self. The next, he’s slumped against you, blinking sluggishly, looking like he just discovered the meaning of life and immediately forgot it.

• He’s too aware of his body. “Why do I feel like my fingers are breathing?” He stares at his hand like it personally betrayed him. “Are they always this long?”

• He starts giggling uncontrollably. Not his usual smug chuckle—actual giggling. And once he starts, he can’t stop. You’re just sitting there, watching him lose his mind over absolutely nothing. You're starting to second-guess your choices.

• Tries to flirt but keeps forgetting what he’s saying halfway through. “You know, you’re—uh…” He pauses. Stares at you. Furrows his brows. “Wait. What was I talking about?”

• Fails miserably at shotgunning. He tries to be smooth about it, but when he leans in to exhale, he completely misses your mouth and blows the smoke straight into your eye. “Oh—shit, wait—” cue him panicking while you threaten to kill him.

• Gets so clingy. Once he stops freaking out, he just flops against you, arms wrapped lazily around your waist, mumbling about how soft you are. If you try to move? He whines like a motherless boy.

SCENARIO:

Rafayel takes the joint from you with a lazy smirk, twirling it between his fingers. “You really think I haven’t done this before?” He scoffs, leaning in to light it. “Cutie, please.”

He inhales. Too fast. Way too fast.

A second later, he’s choking so violently it sounds like he’s about to die. His whole body jolts forward, and he nearly smacks the joint out of his own hand in his desperate attempt to breathe.

You watch, unimpressed. “…Yeah. You definitely look experienced.”

Rafayel wipes his watering eyes, still coughing between words. “Shut up,” he rasps. “I just—h-holy shit—” He blinks blearily at the ceiling. “Why is the room moving?”

You snort, leaning back against the couch. “It’s literally not.”

He scowls at you, then at the joint like it personally betrayed him. Still, his pride is too big to back down, so he tries again—slower this time. The hit is barely better, but he forces himself to hold it in before exhaling shakily.

Then, it really kicks in.

He stares at his hands, flexing his fingers in slow motion. “…Why do my hands feel like they’re floating?”

You raise a brow. “Because you’re high.”

“No, no, but like.” He pauses, blinking. “They’re breathing.”

You stifle a laugh, watching him zone out so hard he looks like he’s questioning his entire existence. His usual sharp wit is gone, replaced by pure, unfiltered confusion.

Eventually, he turns back to you, blinking sluggishly. “Hey. Hey.”

“What?”

“You’re…you’re really pretty,” he murmurs, voice slower, softer. “Like…really.”

Your breath catches, heat creeping up your neck—until he suddenly snorts, completely ruining the moment. “Wait. Did I say that out loud?”

You groan, shoving his shoulder. “Oh my god.”

He just giggles—actually giggles—before collapsing against you, wrapping his arms around your waist with a dramatic sigh. “Mmm. You’re comfy.”

“Rafayel, get off.”

“No.” He nuzzles into your shoulder, sighing again. “…’M gonna stay here forever.”

You roll your eyes. You should probably push him off. But then again, his body is warm, and his weight is oddly comforting.

“…Fine. But if you drool on me, I’m shoving you onto the floor.”

His only response is a sleepy hum, arms tightening just slightly around you as he breathes slow, steady.

Yeah. You’re never letting him live this down.

XAVIER

• Looks like the most innocent one—until he opens his mouth. At first glance, Xavier’s calm demeanor and neutral expression make him seem like the most harmless guy in the room. But then he speaks, and the words that leave his lips are downright sinful. “You should rest. I wouldn’t want you too tired when I finally have my way with you.”

• You choke on air. “Excuse me?”

• He blinks, neutral. “I meant for our plans tomorrow.” A slow pause. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

• His suggestiveness is never obvious—but once you catch on, it’s too late. Unlike the others, he doesn’t make direct comments. He phrases things in an oddly poetic, unsettling way that lingers in your mind long after he’s said them.

• That emotionless face makes it worse. He’ll drop the most obscene, dark, or insinuating remark with zero change in expression—just his usual calm, slightly drowsy voice. And he’ll just watch you process it. You complain, “I hate when people beat around the bush.”

• Xavier, voice calm: “Mm. I prefer going straight in.” You glance at him. His face is completely neutral. You don’t know if he did that on purpose or not.

• Teasing is an art form to him. He doesn’t make fun of you outright—no, he prefers to lead you into traps. Coaxing, patient, as if waiting for you to realize the exact nature of his words. And when you do? That ghost of a smirk is barely there.

• Falls asleep in the most inappropriate settings—but it never feels accidental. One moment, he’s making the air thick with tension. The next, he’s napping like none of it ever happened. It leaves you spiraling.

• Dark humor, but in a way that feels almost too intimate. He never jokes at your expense—but his observations about people, about himself, always have an edge. A sharpness hidden beneath the quiet amusement.

• Knows exactly what he’s doing. He plays the part of the detached, socially unaware man so well—but every so often, he lets something slip. Something too precise, too perfectly timed. A reminder that he’s always watching. “Mmh.” He hums. Then, softly, “Would it be easier if I just messed you up instead?” Your brain short-circuits. But he just blinks at you. Innocent.

• His moments of possessiveness are subtle—but terrifying. He never says he’s jealous. Never demands your attention. But his gaze alone is enough to make people uncomfortable. Cold. Measuring. Like he’s contemplating something unkind.

• You can never tell if he’s joking or serious. His words always toe the line between playful and unnerving. And when you call him out on it? That neutral expression remains. “Does it matter?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “You like it either way, right?”

SCENARIO:

You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, inhaling the smoke as Xavier leans back beside you, eyes half-lidded like he’s about to doze off. The silence is comfortable—until he shifts slightly, voice soft.

“Would you let me ruin you?”

Is he that high?

Your fingers freeze against the joint. You blink, turning to look at him. “…What?”

He doesn’t react. Just keeps gazing ahead, the same neutral calm as always. “If I asked,” he continues, voice steady, “would you let me?”

Your breath catches. A sharp, involuntary thing. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

That’s when he finally looks at you. Directly. His head tilts, just slightly—studying you, like he’s waiting to see exactly how you’ll react. Then slowly, his eyes travel from your legs up until your neck.

You swallow. Something about his tone, the way he says it so matter-of-factly, sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

Then, just as suddenly as he started, he exhales, shifting again—this time slumping against you, head resting lazily on your shoulder. “Mmm. You’re warm.”

You blink, startled by the sudden change in mood. “You—what—”

“Shhh.” His voice is drowsy now, already fading into sleep. “Let me stay here.”

You stare at him. At the way his breathing evens out, the slow rise and fall of his chest. His face is peaceful, almost childlike.

Like he hadn’t just shattered your entire perception of him moments ago.

And yet, as you sit there, heartbeat uneven, one thought lingers.

How much of that was real?

And how much of him is just waiting for the right moment to show itself?

CALEB

• He doesn’t do things like this. Not often. He’s disciplined, focused—he has to be. But for you? He makes an exception.

• At first, he just watches you. Amused. Studying the way you exhale, the way your eyes lose focus.

• When you offer him the joint, he hesitates. Then, without breaking eye contact, he takes it.

• Slow inhale. Controlled. Even now, he’s composed. But when he exhales, there's a flicker of something... relaxation, maybe. Or something deeper.

• "…Huh." He tilts his head, lips curving slightly. "Didn’t expect it to feel like this."

• Leans back, arm draped behind you. He’s close. Too close.

• His voice is softer than usual. Smoother. "You feel like this often?" His fingers graze your wrist. Absentminded, but almost tender.

• "You look different like this." A pause. Then, quieter— "Pretty."

• He laughs at your expression. It’s low, breathy. He’s too relaxed.

• And then, because he’s too relaxed—

"I’d kill anyone who saw you like this."

His gaze lingers. A little too intense.

And just like that, the haze in his mind clears slightly.

• He exhales, shaking his head, chuckling under his breath.

"…Forget I said that." (But you won’t.)

SCENARIO:

The air was thick with the scent of smoke, the soft crackle of the joint between your fingers as you passed it to him. He looked at it for a moment, then raised an eyebrow, amused but unbothered by your nonchalant demeanor.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low, teasing. But you knew it was a game, a challenge.

“Of course I am,” you shot back with a grin, “You’re the one who’s always so in control, right? I bet you can’t handle this.”

He chuckled at the dare, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You have no idea what I can handle.” He took the joint from your hand, bringing it to his lips, the action smooth and controlled.

His eyes never left you as he inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs before leaning in close to you. “Open up,” he murmured.

You stared at him, confused, until his hand cupped the back of your head, gently guiding you forward. Without another word, he pressed his lips to yours, his breath mingling with the smoke as he shotgunned it straight into your mouth.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, his scent overwhelming, as you felt the smoke fill your lungs. He pulled away slowly, a grin on his face as he watched you. "Well done," he said, low and approving, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

You blinked, the effects starting to take hold as the world around you softened, your head spinning slightly. "Caleb... what the hell?"

He tilted his head, the playful smirk never leaving his face. "You think I’d let you have all the fun without getting in on it?" His eyes sparkled with something dangerous, possessive. "Not a chance."

You felt his hand on your thigh, his grip firm but not forceful, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Next time, pip-squeak,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a dangerous promise. “You don’t get to play without me. Understand?”

You nodded, still too dazed to protest, and he chuckled, pulling you into his chest, the smoke lingering around you both as he stroked your hair.

"Good girl," he repeated, his voice a little too pleased. "Now, don’t go getting all shy on me."

His fingers brushed over your wrist in that possessive, almost claiming way, and you realized—maybe this was his idea of fun. Maybe it wasn’t just about the smoke.

Maybe it was about you, with him, in ways you weren’t sure you fully understood yet.

[l0verclown]

i'd like to offer to you the idea of zayne who stays in the bathroom to wash his hands a little longer than what's usual inside the confinement of one's home, the habit of scrubbing in staying with him even outside the walls of the hospital. one day after you two return home from an outing, you've long patted your hands dry, but he's still standing in front of the sink. thick foam of soap covering his dextrous fingers, spreading all the way up his forearms, ending slightly below his elbows. his moves are thorough and practiced. scrub the nails in a back-and-forth motion approximately 30 times. 10 strokes across the surface of the palm. divide your forearm into thirds, scrub each third 10 times. once you scrub an area do not go back, he recounts internally, the words of instruction replaying in his mind with enough familiarity that he doesn't really notice them anymore, nor the way that his hands are following them, even though the sink in front of him belongs to your bathroom, not to the hospital.

the fact that he never noticed this habit before only occurs to him when you mention it, leaning against the doorway, watching him as patiently as he washed his hands. "your hand soap certainly smells more pleasant than chlorhexidine," zayne notes in response as he passes by you on his way out, pressing an amused kiss to the crown of your head.

[l0verclown]

Xavier deserves more love.

There! I said it!

The man has loved mc for three life times now, made a deal with the devil (Ever), traveled across time and space, moved planets, lived on Earth for a few hundred years to save / find her, and prevent catastrophe from happening to her, fuck even saving her as Lumiere when she was young.

She is the only one that sees him as himself. As Xavier.

He is kind, and comfortable, and selfless. He deals with immense survivors guilt and loves so deeply.

We talk about Rafayel and Caleb being the yearners and clingers. But have you seen Xavier? He is clingy as fuck, and wants nothing but her. Nothing.

Some fun things I love about him, he has one of the biggest appetites but cannot cook for shit. He is unironically hilarious, when he starts telling his little horror stories or ghost stories trying to scare MC, it’s so funny.

I feel like he gets overlooked so often, partially because he’s not as showy as the rest of LIs. I’m sure some might see him as boring, but he is safe. His relationship with MC is one of closest she has, aside from Caleb. They’re neighbours, and colleagues, and best friends. He is deeply ingrained in her life, and a foundational pilar of support for her.

Put some respect on his name.

[l0verclown]

academic rivals who make out between classes for “morale” reasons

[l0verclown]

respectfully, i want to experience an angsty academic rivals-to-lovers where they keep trying to outdo each other in class, but secretly cheer each other on in private. like, imagine this:

they’re constantly swapping first and second place on the leaderboard, pretending not to care, but both secretly keep a mental spreadsheet of each other's wins and losses. they send each other articles on the topics they "missed" with passive-aggressive captions like "thought this might help for next time." meanwhile, she's stress-baking at 2 AM, wondering why her rival’s handwriting is suddenly so attractive.

[l0verclown]

This isn’t really tgcf but i gotta post my ronin fanart bc the fandom seems to be quite active here :3

[l0verclown]

Ik the community is kinda small, but there's not enough love for Brittney. Figured I should add to the pool since she's my second fav character in the game

[l0verclown]

[l0verclown]

HE'S YOUR DEVIL

HE'S YOUR DARLING

(HE'S YOUR EVERYTHING)

very very quick ronin rkgk because i need this man in my mouth NOW

[l0verclown]

He posed 10 minutes for this btw 😭😭

[l0verclown]

Some doodles I did for tkatb and 14dwy

[l0verclown]

gluttony gods ronin vs killer chat ronin

because people have been asking! hope this clears some things up :)

[l0verclown]

a bit rushed but here’s Ronin as Luka <3

[l0verclown]

Anyone else do this or am I the weird one

[l0verclown]

Satisfied

Gender Neutral Reader x Ronin

A self reflection of the path you're going down by romancing Ronin.

Teeth tearing into soft skin, ripping flesh from bone. A whimper of pain. A laugh of pure glee. He raises his head, eyes locked on you as blood trickles down his chin—your blood. It pauses, grows, amplifies itself until gravity overtakes it, bringing the blood droplet down. It stains your skin, it tries to dig itself back into your skin, to return back from where it came from.

You relate to it, in a way. That yearning for an escape, for familiarity. For normalcy.

But there’s no way out. Not anymore. No more running away; away from this, away from him, away from yourself.

Away from what you've become. 

You are not in love with Ronin Beaufort.

Whatever this is—this twisting, oozing ugliness inside of you—it’s tainted. Impure. Rotting. It’s rotting away at your core, eroding your final fragments of sanity into ash. 

You think it might have been love, once. Back in the beginning. Back before you let him sink his claws into your skin, back before your world chose to become stuck in his swirling vortex, back before you’d known the feeling of muscle and bone.

You want to hate him for ruining you like this.

You hate that you still want him anyway. 

(You know that it’s not his fault; you were complicit from the very start. Why couldn't you have just been satisfied?)

Before he was your lover, Ronin was your muse. 

You looked at this man and his dark eyes, his horns and spikes, his sturdy walls, and you saw a story bursting at the seams. He was the perfect Protagonist: just the person you needed to break free of your mind's restraints and create a character with life. And he gave you more than that, too. He broke your chains with his teeth and introduced you to the true bloody world you'd been unable to find.

You had just wanted a glimpse, a peek into the abyss, a single frame of the dark reality that he thrived in. And yet, somehow, you've found yourself getting pulled deeper, deeper, down into the depth of his darkness and destruction. Your insides burn with every gruesome picture sent. Your mind sends itself into a rush with his violent promises and pretty words. You want him, gore and all, and it scares you, because how could this story have a happy ending?

“Maybe I want someone I can get worse with,” you'd said. You didn't mean it. Not really.

But didn't you? Didn't you continue to pursue him after everything? Aren't you still here, holding hands with the devil's butcher and clinging to his world? Can you really say that you'll ever truly be satisfied?

(The rotten truth sits just beneath your skin. Your ending is inevitable. And yet you continue down the path anyway.)

[l0verclown]

(After a long time, Astrea has returned.)

Anyways! Since i have a writers block, i decided to draw someone, and with someone, i mean Ronin!

(Drawing skills are still as bad as ever but hey..!)

Also, Have a Ronin-Inspired Thought(?)

(Also i started playing Gluttony Gods, very confusing but it makes sense in such a way it reaches you somehow.)

There's something about him, I don't know what but it's like a poison- you don't know until it kicks in. How he looks, how he sounds, so ideal yet he has the mindset of someone so decayed, so rotten. Give, and you shall receive, Yet is it worth the blood and flesh of a human? Such sin is not to be committed, yet what is 'Sin' if not given, yet received. Corrupted, Yet so pure that it hurts. So imperfect in many ways yet perfect in Grotesque Areas. "To be or not to be", He's so perfect, Like an ideal me, yet he is so imperfect, someone i would despise. But embrace, melt into one and understand, that to embrace is to understand. So receive the good, and embrace the bad that comes with it.

[l0verclown]

Once you start playing Killer Chat and play Ronin’s route you won’t be able to Ronout…This man will sink his hands into every crease of your brain.