#specifically t&t's theme... it always gets me...

[7-deadly-cats]

the bastard & the clown

★ P A I R I N G ★ boxer!rafe cameron x witty!barkeeper!reader + some platonic barry x reader

★ S U M M A R Y ★ you’re working a regular shift at the bar you run when rafe and barry drop by for a chill night out. but when a pair of men at the counter start running their mouths, rafe puts one specific bastard politely in his place.

★ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ★ rafe's pov, cursing / strong language, mild suggestive language and themes, (verbal) themes of toxic masculinity/sexism/misogyny/domestic violence/tradwife, semi jealous!rafe, also flustered!rafe hihihi, physical violence (a punch) & mentions of blood

★ W O R D C O U N T ★ 6.4k+ (it was supposed to be 3k help)

★ A / N ★ been wanting to introduce this duo in a while now and thought they could fit @zyafics campaign. also, thought it'd be ironic if rafe got to put some asshole in his place who basically represents some of these twisted versions of him. a lot longer than intended but i got a little carried away. also only proofread twice so pls don't mind any context mistakes. anyway, hope you guys enjoy and lmk what you think <3

ps: idk if it gets clear throughout the fic (or the title hahahah) but each man at the counter is assigned a term. so don't get confused, 'clown' always refers to one guy and 'bastard' to the other.

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"Ahhh, now I get why you insisted on coming here, Country Club," Barry said with a fuckass grin as the bar’s wooden entrance door swung shut behind them.

The two of them just came back from a boxing session, freshly showered, and now in need of some time out.

Rafe followed that idiot's gaze, a scowl already forming on his face.

The Bastard’s Lighter was packed with a mixed crowd of shitty people, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey. Round tables glowed under soft golden lighting, casting gentle shadows over laughing assholes and clusters of sweet girls beneath them.

Some of those girls had even turned their heads when the two of them walked in, flashing Rafe pretty smiles and giggles in their cute little summer dresses (god, how he loved this season for exactly that). They were probably hoping he’d come over and talk to one of them.

But he didn't give a shit about them.

Why should he? Because at the far end of the room, the bar awaited—a silver-lit, crescent-shaped counter with high stools offering seats with the view on the best part of this entire place.

You.

The hot bartender with the cheeky laugh and teasing smiles, the one who could outdrink any bastard who dared challenge you.

Or better: the girl Rafe had come here for tonight.

That scowl threatening to creep onto his face quickly disappeared, replaced by a faint smile and softened gaze.

"Come on, loverboy," Barry chuckled, clapping a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and nudging him forward. "Don’t wanna keep your lady waiting. Might be some other slick bastard trying his luck.”

And the scowl was right back.

Rafe turned around with a tilt of his head, eyes squinted, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he tapped Barry’s chest. “You fucker behave tonight, alright?”

“Me?” Barry raised his brows in mock innocence, shaking his head with an amused snort. “Dunno what you’re trynna tell me here, big boy, but I’m just here to drink and enjoy your delightful company. I ain’t ever—“

“Just keep count of your fucking drinks, yeah?”, Rafe said, brows furrowed as he held Barry's stupid grin. “You falling from the stool tonight, I’ll leave you there. I'm not dealing with the same shit as last time.”

Shit, Rafe had been so close to getting your number—hell, you’d already pulled out your cute little notepad and pen, that teasing glint in your eyes, the first two digits already written down—and then swamp rat Barry ruined this one-in-a-million chance by almost throwing up on the counter.

Idiot hadn't just embarrassed himself, trying to drink a dockworker the size of a bear under the table, but Rafe as well. And right in front of you on top of that.

Barry was lucky Rafe had even let him tag along tonight. He would’ve preferred bringing Kelce this time—that idiot at least knew how to be a decent wingman—but he was on some kind of detox bullshit and wouldn’t go near fast food or booze right now.

Barry let out a lazy chuckle. “Not my fault for—“

“I don’t give a shit”, Rafe cut him off, passive-aggressively fixing the crease he’d caused on Barry's tank top with a one-sided smile. “Don’t act like a clown, and I won’t treat you like one. Can’t be that hard, right?”

For a moment Barry just eyed him, mouth tugged into a downward smile, then he raised his hands in surrender. “A’right, a’right, Country Club. Relax your balls.” He nodded toward the bar. “Now get ya fancy ass movin', ya girl's been eyeing the wrong guy the past five minutes.”

Shit, what.

Rafe’s head snapped around.

Aw, hell no, fuck that.

There you were, a few meters down, chatting with some greasy fucker in his late forties, dressed in a cheap-ass Suitsupply suit (yeah, Rafe could smell that offense from across the room). And it wasn’t just one bastard you were serving with that practiced little smile—knowing full well they were disgusting pricks but also well aware you could squeeze some good profit out of them—but another one of this breed sat right beside him.

Rafe only saw the backs of their heads in those terrible excuses for suits, but he could still make out the balding patches from over here (not to mention the probably receding hairlines). He didn’t need to see their faces to know exactly how they were looking at you—lecherous grins and eyes creeping over places they had no business looking.

He knew their type. He'd seen men like these at business events of his dad.

Middle-class managers leading some irrelevant departments at some irrelevant company selling irrelevant shit. And when they weren’t sitting in their sad little three-square-meter offices, drinking bad coffee and pretending their phone calls were presidential briefings, they hit up country clubs and bars, puffing cigars and sipping whiskey, trying to make up for their miserable little lives by gathering in their self-proclaimed alpha circles.

And the worst part? They probably had a sweet wife and kids waiting at home, but instead chose to sit at a bar ogling the boobs and butt of a bartender in her twenties.

Pathetic losers.

Rafe's fingers were already twitching as he followed after Barry. And of course, as lucky as he was, only three stools left at the bar. Right next to those wannabe CEOs.

Fucking great.

Barry plopped down next to some sweet girl while Rafe had no choice but to sit down beside one of the pricks—at least one stool of space between them.

He would’ve loved nothing more than to just chase them off, but he didn’t wanna cause a scene in front of you. And, judging by the stack of glasses in front of them, you were at least making decent money off these pricks.

Besides, he knew you could handle yourself if you needed to. No reason to question that.

“Be right with you, boys,” you said with a cheeky grin, not even looking up as you mixed one of the losers a Jack & Coke (a pathetic drink for a pathetic clown).

God, but the way you worked the bottles so smoothly, not spilling a single drop. Rafe could watch you behind the bar for hours, soaking up your energy and that laugh.

“No worries, Boss,” Barry called back, matching your grin and already reaching for a peanut bowl next to him. “Got allll the time in the world.”

That stupid-ass nickname of his even made you laugh, making a soft smile creep onto Rafe’s face too.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” the clown next to Rafe slurred, voice already half gone, as you slid the glass toward him (Rafe could feel his blood pressure spike the second that fucker tried sneaking a look down your top).

You let out a light breath, pulling the drink back with a raised brow. “Aww, didn’t you see? ‘Sweetheart’ isn’t on the menu. Unless you’re cool with paying ten bucks for it every time.”

The clown had the audacity to gasp. “What? No way. Not happening.”

“Shame,” you said, pretending to pout. “You looked like a guy who could afford it.” You shrugged and started pulling the drink back again. “But I guess I was wrong—”

“I am!” the guy cut in, nodding like a maniac. “CEO of Bulk & Bloom. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Rafe almost burst out laughing. That fuckass health/gym/whatever store Kelce swore by? That's what he was CEO of? Most embarrassing shit Rafe had heard all month.

You tilted your head with a pondering expression, face all scrunched up like you were desperately trying to remember the sad little company he worked at (god, the way you played that clown, milking him for cash—shit was so fucking hot).

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," you finally said, fluttering your lashes at the stupid fucker (Rafe knew it was all an act, but that little gesture still stirred something vile in him). "Then I’m all the more confident that a man in such an important position won't mind coughing up a few extra bucks, right?" Without waiting for that pathetic clown's response, you slid the drink across the counter toward him, your voice slipping back into your true tone. "Just leave it on the bill later, sweetheart."

As soon as you turned to face Rafe and Barry, Rafe straightened up, unable to hide a smile as your pretty eyes landed on him for a second—

—before your gaze fell on swamp rat Barry.

“B!” A wide grin spread across your face as you leaned against the lower bar with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Good to see you. You recovered from last time? Looked pretty rough.”

Acting as if Rafe wasn't here. Ha. Funny. Fucking hilarious.

Barry nodded, swallowing a handful of peanuts. “Sure as hell did, Boss. Shouldn’t have mixed my drinks so heavy.”

You chuckled, a sweet sound Rafe wished had been directed at him. "Nah, you shouldn't have participated in a drinking game with Big Ol' Hank."

“Could’ve warned me about the guy’s skills. Man’s a bear,” Barry said, shaking his head with a lopsided smile.

You turned and pointed toward a portrait on the wall behind you—a big, grumpy-looking dude. Below him, a golden plaque read: Keeper of the Lighter since 1977. His fire never died, and neither did his thirst.

“I’m pretty sure that should've been warning enough,” you replied, amused, as you turned back to them, nodding toward Rafe. “Lucky your boyfriend walked you home that night. Would’ve been a real shame to find you washed up dead on the shore the next morning.”

"Fucker's not my boyfriend", Rafe said.

With a raised brow, you finally spared him a glance, that cheeky smile playing on your lips. “You sure? You two come in here every week, giggling like schoolgirls over god-knows-what, drinking the same kind of beer, and now you even got matching buzzcuts.” A chuckle escaped you. “Surprised you’re not wearing each other’s names around your wrists.”

Fuck that.

Rafe had the buzzcut first and a week later fucking Barry decided to chop off his hair too, for whatever fucking reason.

The worst part? You might actually believe Rafe was taken now.

“Boy’s lips probably taste like shit from kissing his daddy’s ass,” Barry said before Rafe could reply, and the fucker was lucky Rafe didn’t deck him right then and there. "Ain't wanna get involved with that mess."

Not a wingman. A fucking clipman, cutting off any chance Rafe might’ve had with you.

“I’m not—” Rafe started with a deep frown, but shut his mouth when some girl at the far end of the bar called your name.

“Coming!” you called back, then turned to Rafe with a teasing little smile in your eyes. “Sorry, Ralph, no time for—”

"Rafe."

“Right. Anyway,” you said, grabbing your notepad and pen from your waist. “The usual, I assume? Two Modelos?”

Barry nodded and motioned to the empty peanut bowl. “And refill this, would you?”

“For you, always,” you said grinning, scribbling something down, then looked up at Rafe with an expectant expression. “And you, handsome?”

Rafe blinked.

Wait, what.

Shit, why the fuck did he feel his cheeks heat up and why the fuck did you eye him like that? Like you were staring straight into his damn soul.

Rafe let out a baffled chuckle, scratching his jaw with furrowed brows. "Uh, PBR this time."

“Oh, feeling adventurous today, I see,” you teased with a grin, jotting it down. You quickly refilled Barry’s snack bowl and left with a “Be right back.”

Rafe’s eyes trailed after you, drinking up the way your hips swayed as you walked—sweet yet confident. That whole attitude of yours… shit was driving him absolutely crazy.

After Wheezie, you were probably the coolest girl Rafe had ever met. Always so unbothered, quick-witted, cheeky, and with the perfect flirt-to-roast ratio.

And Rafe still hadn't bagged you. Shit was starting to get embarrassing.

"Boy's in love."

Rafe’s gaze snapped to Barry, who was watching him with a way too shit-eating grin for someone who’d just narrowly avoided a punch to the face.

“You know if you’re trying to get your ass beat tonight, you’re on the right track,” Rafe said, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

Barry just chuckled and reached for another peanut, but Rafe grabbed the shitty-ass bowl and moved it out of reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” he said, gesturing to his chest with both hands. “Told you not to clown around tonight, and you go spouting bullshit like I’m not right here.”

Like, what the fuck was that ass-kissing comment about? Seriously.

“What?” Barry raised a brow, grinning as he leaned on the counter. “Don’t tell me Country Club’s scared I’ll shoo away his girl.”

More like cockblocking Rafe but yeah, same fucking thing.

“All I’m fucking saying is—” Rafe started, but Barry waved him off before he could finish.

"You’ve already almost won the race, bro, a’right," he said with that fuckass smile, jerking his thumb back toward where you were chatting with some other chick. "You think Little Miss Bar Queen would bother exchanging more than just your order with you if she didn’t already consider you rocking her world, at least a little?"

For a second, Rafe just stared at the idiot.

Could that be true? Were you actually interested in Rafe? Sure, you’d been cool enough to (almost) give him your number last time, but not even remembering his fucking name now… that shit felt like a punch straight to the gut.

Okay, shit, yeah, of course, you served all kinds of people every day, some shittier than others, and of course, there were guys in the mix who liked you just as much as Rafe did. A blind man could see how fucking gorgeous you were.

And of fucking course you'd flirt back. That’s just how you were. And as much as it gnawed at Rafe’s chest, as much as it stirred something deep and ugly in his gut, it wasn’t all that unlikely that you gave your number out to other guys too.

But swamp rat Barry claiming Rafe actually had a shot with you? That shit lit something in him. A wave of energy crashing through him, almost feeling as good as snorting a line (yeah yeah, Rafe was clean now, but the comparison still fit).

Shit, okay, so maybe he needed a new approach. Maybe he just had to—

"--beat up my wife if she'd dared talk to me like that", the bastard beside the clown said loud enough for Rafe to hear.

Shit, what the fuck?

"I'm serious," the bastard continued his bullshit, talking to the clown. "You let every woman talk to you like that, and pretty soon they start thinking they own you. When in reality, it's the other way around, ain't it?"

The clown nodded, letting out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right, Tommy, I just—“

“What’s with the scowl, bro?” Barry said, ripping Rafe out of the retarded convo next to him. “Tried cheering your sulky ass up and here you are—“

Rafe shushed him with a wave, brows deeply furrowed. “Shut the fuck up for one second.”

"Man, am I glad I'm not your boyfriend," Barry muttered, reaching over to pull his snack bowl back and skimming the menu.

Fuckass.

“—that’s why it’s important to put them in their place, alright?”, the bastard continued preaching. “Women want someone they can follow. It’s natural they seek a man who protects them and cares for them.” He tapped the counter aggressively. “Wonder why there are no female presidents yet? Exactly! We are born leaders.”

Oh, Rafe was this close to getting up and smashing that fucker in the face, knocking a few teeth out, and giving him a pretty little black eye to match. His knuckles were still warm from earlier, would be a shame not to put that last burst of energy to use.

But nah.

He held himself back. Now he was curious. Let that asshole keep talking. Maybe he was witnessing the dumbest fucker in world history present himself right here, and Rafe wasn’t about to miss that celebration.

"Guess that makes sense," the clown slurred, swirling his half-empty Jack & Coke. "Harris is always bitching about me getting home late and not helping with the chores. I think I just gotta remind her of her role in this family, right?"

The bastard knocked on the wooden counter, a filthy chuckle escaping his lips. "You get it, man! She's working remote, right? So what's she complaining about? Got all the time in the world to prep the house for when you get home."

Rafe's blood boiled just beneath the surface. He hadn't heard this level of fucked-up nonsense in a LONG time. Last time, some cocky little shit at the boxing club thought he had a chance against Rafe. Like, was there something in the air lately making people extra fucking stupid?

The clown sighed, staring into his drink. "I just don't know how to—"

"Okay, beautifuls, sorry it took so long." The sweet sound of your voice yanked Rafe out of this retard bubble. "Former high school friend decided to say hi."

With a soft thud, you placed two bottles of beer in front of the guys. The Modelo you slid over to Barry. "Here you go, B." And the PBR to Rafe, a bolt of lightning surging through him as you winked at him. "And this one for his cute boyfriend." You leaned back, drying your hands on the rag at your hip. "Anything else?"

Rafe blinked.

Cute!

Shit, why did that make the funniest feeling arise in his chest? He felt like some schoolgirl going insane over her crush.

Get a fucking grip, dude. Jesus.

"Get his fancy ass some ice," Barry mumbled, mouth full of peanuts, thumbing toward Rafe. "Boy decided to go gloveless at training today. Now he's hurting but too proud to admit it."

Rafe was gonna kill Barry the moment they stepped outside. Sure, his knuckles were still throbbing, but he wasn't hurt. What the fuck was that swamp rat even on?

Your soft chuckle melted Rafe's scowl, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah? Wanna let me take a closer look when I'm done here? I'm sure you could use someone to tape that up after such a session."

Oh?

A breathy laugh escaped Rafe as he raised a brow, nerves buzzing under his skin. "What, you some kind of part-time sports therapist or some shit?"

"No, but my aunt is," you said with a grin, tilting your head. "Picked up a few things from her. And I'm guessing it's real tough to reach your back on your own."

Fuck yeah. Now Rafe had officially been allowed in the ring.

"Alright," he said, smiling crookedly, fingers picking at the beer label. "When's your shift over?"

"As soon as the place closes down," you replied, grinning. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a few more hours."

Oh, you could bet your sweet little ass he would.

Rafe shrugged, corners of his mouth tugging down as he shook his head lightly. "I'm free." Then mirrored your grin. "Seats here are kinda shit, but I guess the view makes up for it."

And the genuine laugh that escaped your usually bold mouth felt like snorting three lines in a row (nah, fr, Rafe was clean, alright).

"Okay, then," you said, nodding at the beers. "If you need anything else, just holler. Got other customers to tend to."

With that, you spun your cheeky ass around and walked down to the other side of the bar where some old ladies were sitting.

"Shiiit, dude," Barry said with the biggest grin ever, gulping down a sip of his shitty-ass Modelo. "I think I just third-wheeled some telepathic sex right here. Might as well thank me for giving ya the nudge."

Rafe scoffed with a shake of his head, taking a sip of his PBR and immediately regretting his choice of beer. "You can thank me for not beating the shit out of you later."

A giggle left Barry's lips and whatever smart-ass reply he threw back, Rafe didn't register, because right next to him, three seats down, he caught the bastard tossing another comment to his clown friend.

"See, Frank, and that girl right there?" Oh, that fucker meant you, huh. "Pitiful. Probably no man at home to teach her not to swing her ass around other men in public. Sad what girls are turning into."

"Say that again." Rafe had now fully turned toward the two sorry-ass losers, head leaning forward, eyes locked on the bastard behind the clown.

Both looked up. The clown blinked, confused. The bastard raised a brow like he couldn’t believe someone had just interrupted their little alpha circle jerk.

"Sorry?" the bastard said, eyeing Rafe up and down like he was sizing up if the boy in a polo and shorts deserved to be taken seriously.

Rafe nodded, letting out a sharp scoff. "Yeah, you're gonna be sorry if you open that fucking mouth of yours one more time."

The bastard's face scrunched up and in that moment he seemed to decide Rafe was beneath him. "Boy, best not get involved in things that don't concern you."

That’s when Rafe knew for sure: this asshole was getting punched tonight. Just a matter of when.

"Bullshit’s spilling out of you like this place is a fucking stable," Rafe replied with a crooked smile. "So yeah, it does concern me when your shit's reeking all the way to my seat."

The clown was already sinking into his stool, but the bastard apparently thought Rafe was the joke here. He let out a disbelieving breath, not even looking at Rafe anymore as he turned to the clown, gesturing in Rafe’s direction. “See that, Frank? That’s what happens when a father doesn’t raise his son right. His mother was probably—”

“Finish that sentence, and your loser friend can go ahead and reserve you a hospital bed.” Rafe’s voice had dropped to a low edge, his expression far too calm for how close he was to dragging that fucker’s face across the counter.

The fucking audacity—not just dragging you and his dad through the mud, but now even throwing Rafe’s dead mother in too?

“Rafe, bro, come on,” Barry said from behind. “Idiots like him ain’t worth it.”

But Rafe spared him no mind, gaze fixed on the bastard three seats down.

The clown of the duo just looked between them, then down at his sad little Jack & Coke like he hadn’t just sat in the middle of all this shit, like he hadn’t co-signed every word his bastard friend had said. (Don’t worry—Rafe would deal with his sorry ass later.)

“I know your type, boy,” the bastard went on, eyeing Rafe’s clothes again (if only he knew Rafe owned socks that cost more than his entire outfit). “Dropped out of school, probably had some rebellious phase, and of course no real man around to beat you into shape. What a shame. Society’s raised nothing but soft little men these days.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brows raised in mock confusion. “Funny hearing that from a pathetic loser like you. Talking about ‘real men’ like you even qualify.”

As soon as the bastard started laughing, Rafe was on his feet, brushing off Barry's hand as he stepped around the clown. He let out an amused breath and rubbed his jaw with a shake of his head as he came to a stop in front of the bastard. "Not sure what's so funny about that."

The drunk clown nearly tripped over himself pushing himself off the stool, mumbling something about needing to piss as he staggered away. The bastard only furrowed his brow, watching his loser friend stumble off.

“What do you know about being a man?” he spat, turning back to Rafe, the wrinkles in his face bunching up like worn-out leather. He nodded toward Barry. “Your friend’s a pogue by the looks of it, and you...” His eyes dropped to Rafe’s sneakers. “Either the same breed or some kook who lost his crown.”

What the actual fuck was even going on in this fucker's brain? Fucking apes had more relevant shit to say than him.

"Yeah, talking reaal big for a guy with a knockoff Armani suit two sizes too big for a small fucker like you," Rafe snorted, eyeing the bastard down for a second. "Suit's fake, Rolex fake, shoes look like you got 'em from TKMinimum, and what's that?"

Rafe let out a disbelieving scoff, raising his brows as he gestured toward the fucker's feet. "Socks matching the color of your cheap-ass suit. Lemme guess: trying to appear taller to compensate for your poor little ego and tiny cock. I mean, shit", Rafe ran a hand over his buzzed hair, grinning crookedly as his gaze zeroed in on the guy’s forehead, "Even your fucking hairline’s running away from the bullshit coming out of your mouth."

Sure, Rafe could've given him some preaching about how to treat women and how fucking stupid his fuckass worldview was but that idiot was too far gone already and the only way to put him in his place was to question his entire appearance.

That's what guys like him actually cared about. Not morals, not decency, just how they appeared in public and whether everyone saw just how glorious and wealthy they were.

And the way that pathetic loser looked at Rafe now? Worth more than all the silver, gold, or diamonds in the entire damn world.

And then the cherry on top: your chuckle from behind the bastard—light and effortless, like the ring of a bell announcing Rafe's victory after a boxing match.

Rafe hadn't even noticed you coming up but now he felt like a fucking winner getting to put a fucker like that in his place in front of you AND getting that sweet sound out of you for the second time tonight.

And then, that bastard made the biggest fucking mistake of his entire pitiful life.

He turned his head back, eyes daring to look you over as he let out a disdainful scoff. When he made a hushing motion with his hand, he said "Do me a favor, woman, and--"

Rafe’s fist collided with the asshole’s face, a sickening crack echoing through the air—nearly as satisfying as your chuckle just right now.

The guy let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled back from his stool, hands flying up to his broken nose just in time to catch the blood now spilling over his fingers and lips. He crashed chest-first onto the seat next to him, bleeding all over the supposedly precious leather cushion.

The area around the bar went dead silent, except for a group of girls giggling about something in the back and fucking Nickelback playing on the speakers.

Rafe quietly met your gaze as he rubbed at his throbbing knuckles, while the bastard on the floor dramatically moaned like he’d been shot instead of just having his nose broken.

And you cheeky little thing only raised your eyebrows at Rafe, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “I’m pretty sure the house rules say no fights.”

Oh, how much Rafe loved that glimmer in your eyes.

"And I'm pretty sure it needs two for a fight", Rafe replied with a scoff and gestured to the sorry-ass loser clutching onto the stool. "Bastard's nowhere near to even be considered a walking vendor for a match, let alone a contestant."

“Shit, Country Club, this ain’t no damn boxing ring,” Barry chimed in with a chuckle, tossing the bleeding bastard a wad of tissues onto the stool beside him. “Bro, you’re staining the seats.”

The groaning bastard finally pushed himself up and knocked the tissues off the stool, one hand clutched to his nose, blood running through his fingers and dripping onto his knockoff suit and cheap-ass shoes.

Aww, and even a bloodshot eye—how unfortunate.

Now that was a picture worthy of being framed behind the bar. Gold plaque underneath: Biggest Retard in the Universe (since birth probably).

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, you little shit,” the bastard groaned, eyes watery from the punch, glaring at Rafe with a face so twisted, he looked like he was mid-way through busting the world’s saddest nut.

Rafe almost let out a giggle. Instead, he just nodded, lips curled. “Looking forward to it. Be so kind and address it straight to Thornton LLP, yeah?” And on the bastard’s delightfully baffled expression, Rafe piled on: “A very busy man, but if he sees my name on the envelope, I’m sure you’ll get priority.”

The bastard’s jaw clenched, and he let out another theatrical groan. “And that would be?”

“Rafe Cameron.”

Boom.

That was when it finally clicked in that baboon brain of his. Face pale, eyes wide as he realized just how far beneath Rafe he actually was in this little imaginary hierarchy of his. Fucker looked close to either pissing himself or throwing up just thinking about how expensive his own lawyer would be if he actually pulled through with his complaint.

A crooked smile played on Rafe’s lips as he raised his brows. “Need me to write it down for you?”

The bastard just stared blankly at him, and shit, even had the nerve to look over Rafe’s clothes again, like he couldn’t believe some dude in a basic polo and shorts was the CEO of Cameron Estates and Ward Cameron’s son.

“A'right, my guy,” Barry said, pushing off from his stool and grabbing the bastard’s shoulder. “Guess that was ya cue to leave. Pretty sure ya got plenty of paperwork waiting back at home now.”

“Get your filthy hands off me,” the bastard spat, shoving Barry’s hand away—and that alone nearly made Rafe punch him again, give him a matching bruise on the other side. “Fucking pogue. Thinks he has any say around here.”

“No, but I do.” Your voice rang out from behind the bar, hands braced on the lower ledge, an amused smile on your face. “Looks like you should call it a night, mister.” Grin deepening. “Not before you pay, though. For you and your sweetheart of a husband, of course.”

Barry said something like “I’ll get him, Boss,” and strolled off toward the restrooms.

The bastard’s chest rose and fell, face as red as the blood on it. “Back in my day, a bitch like you—”

“Shiiit, man,” Rafe chuckled low, grabbing the fucker by the shoulder and patting his chest. “You’re really asking for it right now, huh?”

Oh, and Rafe drank in that anger and fear in the guy’s eyes up like liquid coke, too scared to shove Rafe off.

Rafe nodded toward you with a crooked grin. “You’re gonna apologize to the nice lady now, pay for the drinks you and your loser buddy have downed, and then get your pathetic asses outta here.” He raised his brows with a smile. “Sound good?”

Bastard already opened his mouth but Rafe shook his head, tapping his chest with a finger, grip on his shoulder getting just a little firmer. “You’re lucky if all that bullshit earlier was just talk. Otherwise, I’m sure the cops would love a chat with that wife you bragged about beating.”

That silenced that fucker very quickly.

Rafe raised his eyebrows, waiting. “I mean, unless you need a second reminder—”

“I-I’m sorry”, the bastard blurted out.

“Nah,” Rafe said with a shake of his head, gesturing from himself to you. “Don’t tell me that shit. Apologize to her.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as the bastard finally met your gaze, brows scrunched into a pained grimace. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe let out an amused breath, clapping the bastard’s chest. “Shit, see? Easy. Now you do the same shit at home and question your morals and maybe hell’s promoting your room just a level.”

And the fact that that was apparently the scariest idea to this asshole? Not surprising. Guys like him always preached about God and then used it as an excuse for all the shit they did.

“There ya go,” Barry said as he came back in, dragging the drunk clown from earlier along. By the looks and stench of him, he’d just thrown up. “Now go over there and give the lady a generous tip, a’right?”

He did. Both of these fuckers, as a matter of fact.

Rafe and Barry both watched over their shoulders as each of the two reluctantly pulled out a $200 bill (surprised they even had those—then again, probably received them at some sad little business anniversary).

You flashed a big smile as you accepted that 60% tip. “Thanks, dearies. Hope you had a fun night.”

Rafe didn’t even let them respond, just politely kicked the bastard toward the door while Barry dragged the clown along after him.

Outside, the same clown stumbled forward and hit the pavement, landing on hands and knees in a puddle after Barry gave him a friendly shove. “Shit, bro, nobody told you the South Side ain’t no place for suits?”

“Don't think those cheap-ass knockoffs even deserve that term,” Rafe scoffed, then nodded at Barry to head back in. He didn’t want to spend another second around these losers.

Shit felt like a stain on Rafe’s evening.

Back at the bar, they were greeted by a bucket of soapy water, a pair of old gloves, and a sponge. The vibe in the place? Completely back to normal.

“You made the mess, you clean it,” you said firmly with your arms crossed—very clearly talking to Rafe only. Then, with that familiar amusement back in your voice, you added, “Want me to grab you an apron too?”

Rafe chuckled, mouth twitching into a downward grin. “You’d love that, huh?”

Oh, and that cheeky little laugh you let out? Priceless.

You tossed the rag in your hand over your shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing hotter than watching a man do chores.”

Honestly? For you, he’d probably even get on his knees and scrub the floor in an apron if you asked for it.

Fucking shit. What.

Alright, Barry had definitely hit Rafe too hard in today’s training. Now it was catching up to him, frying his brain into thinking shit like that.

“Yeah, nah,” Rafe said with a strained chuckle, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “I got this.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, nodding. “Alright. You two enjoy the rest of your night. I’ve got guests to take care of.”

“Wait!” Rafe called after you just as you were turning to leave. “Your offer—it still stands, right?”

Geez, what the fuck was up with his voice? Suddenly almost desperate. Even fucking Barry chuckled beside him.

And you? You just shot Rafe that signature teasing smile of yours, flashing your white teeth as a chuckle escaped you that made Rafe’s stomach tingle in all the right ways.

“The stool won’t clean itself, boxer boy,” you said, then turned that sweet ass of yours around and walked over to some new guests at a table in the back.

Was that a yes?

Shit, that had to be a yes. Otherwise, you’d have said No, right? Right???

"A'right bro, you have fun cleaning that shit up", Barry said as he patted Rafe's shoulder. "I'll go have a chit chat with the lady that's been eyeing me the whole night."

Rafe grimaced. "That just some bullshit excuse to dip?"

As much as Barry pissed him off, he did fuck with his ass. And now he wanted to bail after Rafe had allowed him to come along? The fuck was that.

Barry chuckled. “Ain’t goin’ far, Country Club. See,” he pointed toward a smiley redhead near the entrance—one of the girls who had turned around earlier. “I’ll be just around the corner. No need to panic about being orphaned." He smiled lazily. "Besides, I’ve had enough of third-wheeling ya and Little Miss Bar Queen eye-fucking each other.”

Fuckass.

Fine. Let him dip.

Rafe furrowed his brows and waved Barry off with a flick of his hand. “Aight. Go do your thing, then.”

After the swamp rat called Barry had strutted off, Rafe eyed the cleaning supplies on the bar with a deep frown. Never in his life had he cleaned up after anyone, let alone himself. Probably would’ve been easier to just buy a brand new damn barstool and maybe some new floor panels than to stand here looking like a damn idiot.

He could already picture the headlines if anyone actually cared enough to report it:

Rafe Cameron, CEO of Cameron Estates and local boxing champ, ready to start a new career path as cleaning lady? Inquiries welcome.

Yeah, whatever.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

And right now? That meant cleaning up the mess he’d made in your bar.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he walked up to the counter, stepping around the small crusted pool of blood on the floor (the bastard had bled like a goddamn pig for someone with just a broken nose).

And when Rafe stretched his fingers out to pull the gloves on, his heart skipped a beat as he spotted a little note. Torn straight from your notepad, by the looks of it.

He expected to find some numbers written on them but this was even better.

Rafe stared at the note for a solid minute, eyes locked on your pretty handwriting, lingering on the way you’d written his name.

Then, carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

And just like that, the biggest motherfucking grin spread across his lips, feeling like he’d won the second round tonight.

If he played the cards right, the third was just right around the corner—set on a private stage reserved for just the two of you.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 ᨐฅ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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[furnass]

ohhh time to get emotional over the swq soundtrack again..

[rafey-baby]

what would sensitive!reader do without older!rafe protecting her from the invisible monsters in their home?

18+ mdni!

c/w: mostly fluff, her being scared & rafe comforting her while also being a menace, teeny tiny bit of angst regarding their age gap, use of daddy (once)

wc: 1.7k

unfortunately won’t be watching a single scary movie this halloween cause she’s literally me but happy kinktober & spooky season xx

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

She’s not exactly sure why she agreed to watch the new horror film Rafe’s friends wanted to see at a Halloween themed gathering he’d dragged her into. She wasn’t even the biggest fan of his friends, which is why she didn’t want to go in the first place.

However, when he’d mumbled a honeyed ‘it’s no fun without you ‘n don’t wanna leave my girl alone on Halloween’ into her hair, she’d reluctantly agreed; not one to refuse him of anything when he looked at her with that specific softened blue coloring his eyes.

And there was also the prospect of making him happy that finally made her melt into his wishes. 

And she wanted to like his friends, she really did. But it wasn’t exactly easy when they kept bragging about their accomplishments and how much money they had every opportunity they found in such an arrogant tone, it made her roll her eyes when they weren’t looking.   

Luckily, she could at least converse with their partners who were always fun company to sip wine with and giggle about anything and everything. And along with the warmth of Rafe’s gaze flickering over to her every once in a while, as he talked with his friends and coworkers, she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.  

Up until the point when someone suggested they watch a movie.  

“You sure you wanna watch this? S’okay if you wanna go home, could come up with somethin’ else to keep us entertained…” Rafe had murmured into her ear with his arms around her on the couch the whole group had settled down on.  

He knew how paranoid she could get; how easily she’d turn into a scaredy cat who once couldn’t sleep alone for a month after sitting through an entire scary movie in the cinema.   

And she truly doesn’t know why she didn’t just tell him she wanted to leave when the film started playing on the big screen of Topper’s television. She was going to, but when her eyes flitted over to him bringing a glass of whiskey to his lips in a carefree manner; she didn’t have the heart to ruin his fun because he seemed to be enjoying himself. After all, it wasn’t often he let himself relax due to his hectic work schedule packed with tedious meetings and whatnot.   

And on top of that, she’s already self-conscious over the age-gap between her and Rafe; sometimes gets a headache over the notion of him meeting someone more mature one dreadful day and deciding he doesn’t want to play house with her any longer.  

After all, his friends were all getting engaged left and right, while she still holds the title of being his girlfriend. And even if she isn’t sure she’d be ready for marriage quite yet, she’s still slightly upset that he’s never even so much as mentioned the matter.  

And she's not sure if it's because she's younger than him and he assumes she doesn't want a ring on her finger too soon or if he simply just doesn't want to make things too definitive with her.  

Nonetheless, it's something she's been thoroughly overthinking and mulling over recently, even if she knows it doesn't benefit her in any shape or form. Apparently, her mind just likes to always have some topic to ruminate over and obsessively worry about, or else it'll have too much free time.  

Therefore, she can admit that she didn’t want to appear as a big baby who couldn’t stomach anything even remotely scary (she really couldn’t). And was it such a crime to not want to make a scene in front of all his friends?  

That’s why she ends up meekly nodding her head and assuring him she was fine — which he didn’t entirely believe — but smiled nonetheless at the fact that she was willing to get out of her comfort zone for his sake, before pulling her closer to his side.   

However, when the white letters of the end credits finally rolled after a few gruesome and eerie hours later, she was anything but fine.  

Her weakened frame is trembling and she’s entirely too jumpy even after they’ve said their goodbyes and stepped past the threshold into the safe haven of their home.   

“Told you we should’ve just left,” he tuts when she flinches when the October wind rustles the leafy foliage outside the window.   

“Rafe, what was that?” she squeaks out when she hears another sound coming from outside — presumably their neighbor — however, there’s always the possibility of it being a serial killer simply waiting for the right moment to pounce.   

“What was what?” he huffs out a chuckle in amusement, causing her to pout.   

“This isn’t funny. I’m scared,” she whines, heart beating faster than ever along with her breathing unsteady.  

“I know you are. Shit, forgot why I don’t let you watch scary movies,” he shakes his head, padding over to the kitchen to fill up a glass of water; her feet immediately running after him.   

“Hey, hey, m’right here, yeah?” he laughs tenderly when she practically glues herself to his big and comforting arm with how tightly she’s hugging it against her chest.   

“Promise you’re not gonna leave me alone?” she blinks up at him with her pupils dilated, nervous.  

“It’s past midnight. Of course, m’not leaving, m’exhausted. Let’s get ready for bed, yeah?” he suggests calmly, managing to placate her some with his appeasing presence. Although the spine-chilling scenes still play behind her eyelids with every blink.  

She follows him to the bathroom and he tries not to laugh when she insists on staying there even while he’s peeing.   

“Want me to check under the bed for monsters?” his sickly-sweet tone is a stark contrast to the annoying smirk plastered on his face when they pad over to their bedroom after brushing their teeth.  

“Ray…I’m being serious,” she scowls.  

“So am I?” he feigns confusion with a furrow of his brows.  

Before she has the chance to complain about him being mean, he’s already crouching down on the floor and poking his head under the bed into the darkness he’s braved himself to submerge into. And she’s far too curious not to peer down as well, however, she can’t really see a thing from behind his broad shoulders.   

Suddenly, he lets out a loud gasp — making her jump back and nearly trip on her feet — before his breathy giggle follows soon after.  

“That’s not funny,” she grumbles as exasperation drags her lips downwards.  

“I’m sorry, baby. You jus’ make it so easy,” he approaches her with an apologetic expression that doesn’t come off as all that empathetic when he’s fighting off an amused grin the entire time.   

“C’mere, yeah?” he coaxes before tugging her into his strong arms; not letting go even when she tries to pull away since she’s still mad at him.   

“This one really got to you, huh?” he murmurs into her hair before beginning to soothingly rock back and forth when she finally halts her pursuits of escape.   

A faint hum is the only response she grants him.   

“Think the last time you were this scared was when we went to that haunted house with your friends last year, remember?” his warm chest rumbles in a pacifying manner in tandem with his words.   

“How could I forget,” she huffs out.   

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t wanna watch it? I wouldn’t have cared if we left,” he speaks softly.   

“I don’t know…just didn’t wanna seem like a baby in front of your friends,” she sniffles.   

“Since when do you care what they think? You hate them,” he argues with a lopsided smile when he releases his hold on her in order to unzip his jeans and change into something more comfortable for the night.   

“Hate is a strong word,” she defends herself as she pulls one of Rafe’s old t-shirts over her head and tries to focus on his familiar scent still lingering on the worn-out fabric instead of the imaginary monsters lurking behind the windows.   

“Is it?” he graces her with a lighthearted narrow of his eyes.   

“Fine. I don’t like them but they’re your friends, which means that I want them to like me,” she mumbles out.   

“Don’t really give a shit if they like you or not, which they obviously do. Think a little too much since you can’t help but be the sweetest angel even to the people you hate,” he grumbles out as he walks over to close the bedroom door.   

“And honestly, would much rather just stay with you than those pretentious idiots. Next time you wanna go home, just tell me. Don’t want you lyin’ to me, okay?” he says with something sincere sparkling in the lagoons of his eyes.   

“Okay,” she promises when suddenly, he switches the lights off with a click, causing her muscles to tense.   

“Ray, why would you do that?” she sounds alarmed; inhales and exhales growing labored because the bedroom is now pitch black and there could be anything hiding in the murky corners of the room since she can’t even see herself.   

“Shh, calm down. I’ll protect you, yeah?” he croons, before he’s guiding her under the covers with a big hand on the small of her back; following shortly behind her and tugging her flush against his steady chest.  

“You’re safe with me. Daddy’s not gonna let anything happen to you, alright?” his saccharine murmurs reach her racing mind and offer it momentary rest on the soft petals of his tranquil voice.   

She hums against the skin of his neck as her eyes begin to slowly adjust to the darkness surrounding them; the dingy shadows crawling along the walls appearing less and less threatening by the second when she’s in the warmth of his protective embrace.   

“Want your stuffie?” he asks, knowing her all too well.   

“Mhm,” she nods against him before he’s reaching a hand behind the pillows because somehow her stuffed animal always manages to end up in the most peculiar of places. At this point though, he already knows where to look since he’s usually the one who has to locate it for her. 

Nowadays, she doesn’t need it too often since she has Rafe volunteering to be her own personal teddy bear, but whenever he’s working past midnight, she likes to hold onto something that brings her comfort because she isn’t particularly fond of the idea of sleeping alone.  

He soon offers her the plushy lamb and she gives him a grateful smooch against his cheek along with a muffled ‘I love you’.   

And that night, he lulls her into dreamland with a warm palm resting on her tummy and his mellow breathing placating her distraught mind. 

[howlettsdoll]

‘feverish nights’

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‘x-men’ logan howlett x gn! reader fluff but sexual themes implied

specifically put ‘x-men’ in here because it’s when his two little kitty tufts are prominent:3 (ex: the gif). i love them sooo much waah i had to write smth about them y’all omfg. i thought of logan in x2 here but you can take anyone you want really, just keep in mind those are mentioned.

summary ;

logan’s ruts are coming early, making him feel feverish and unable to sleep. you try to help him ease back down.

it’s the dead of night in the heart of winter. logan has you curled up to his body, a thick, meaty arm wrapped around your lower stomach through the t-shirt you’re wearing. however, it��s hard to stay peacefully asleep when all the man can do is toss and turn. you’re just trying to sleep, for christ’s sake, and he can’t stop being restless. eventually, you just give up and shift away from him, curling up to the pillows with a little grunt. he reached out for you, but groaned in response to not having your warm body against his anymore or in reach, the discomfort finally managing to stir him awake.

the realisation also made him grumble to himself and try to go back to sleep — but it was difficult; he was starting to burn up and even after removing his shirt and throwing the sheets to the side, he couldn’t seem to cool off at all, a sheen of sweat matting down the dark hair on his chest, and even starting to bead on his forehead.

that’s when he knew he had to get up, at least wash his face if not shower.

however, as he got up, he groaned again, feeling lightheaded and hazy.

this definitely wasn’t normal.

once he finally managed to walk and get his balance — using the wall as guidance — he entered the adjacent bathroom: grabbing a towel and dunking it under cold water as soon as he turned the sink on, wiping his forehead and taking a glance at himself in the mirror.

he looked awful. his hair was messy, face slick and shiny with sweat, as he wiped at the stickiness that began forming back on his face almost immediately again. it felt like a fever but then again, he rarely caught those, no, he basically never did.

it would have been too out of place, but it being anything else wouldn’t have made sense either. his thoughts however were interrupted as he heard your voice speak up, because in his absence, you had started to wake up too — turning around in an instant to look at you standing in the doorframe.

“lo? what’s going on?” you’d mumble tiredly, rubbing your sleepy eyes. a little growl bubbled up in logan’s throat at the sight of you, all sleepy and pretty like you always were, he tried to ignore the little tug he felt in his boxers.

“nothin’, bub. jus’ a fever.” he merely managed to grunt out, turning back to the sink to heavily sigh, his hands holding onto the sides of it tightly for balance, but it was clearly more than that.

“fever?” you asked, echoing his words. you didn’t believe that for a second, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion and instant worry as you walked over to him, taking advantage of the way he instinctively turned his head to look down at you: allowing you to press the back of your hand against his hot skin, which felt ice cold compared to him. “baby, you’re burning—we need to go to the medical lab.”

he immediately shook his head at your concerned words, shutting off the idea in an instant. “no, no. ‘m fine, trust me. besides, it’s too early to go now. don’t wanna wake anyone else up for this, ‘s stupid.” he huffed, pulling away from your hand. but to you it wasn’t stupid. his words made you sigh; you hated when he’d deny he needed any help.

“logan— no, come on, baby, this is serious. we gotta get you help.” you started arguing, trying to at least even get him to look back at you again as he was now just hunched over the sink. and his breath did hitch for a moment when you called him baby, which was unusual, it had him feeling tingly inside.

he finally turned his head to look at you, still sweaty, as he tried to stand up straighter. “darlin’, told you ‘s fine— nothing more than just a—“ he paused, his eyes almost squeezing back shut as suddenly a wave of dizziness overcame him again, a curse leaving his mouth as he gripped onto the sink tightly again, so as not to lose his balance. this didn’t help ease your concern at all, as you quickly tried to help him balance himself. “l-logan— listen to me-“ you said, trying to keep him conscious too as you noticed him start to lose it: but it was hard to focus on even keeping him upright, your body trying to hold his up had him feeling worse and hotter.

“baby, up, gotta stay up— let’s get you back to bed,” your words floated hazily around in his clouded mind, and you were starting to struggle with him as he didn’t want to cooperate still. you were trying your best and he groaned, leaning up against you, his hand still gripping the sink tightly.

“enough, listen, ‘m fine, just need to sit down, alright?” he grunted, his body so close to yours now you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. you huffed at his words and rolled your eyes, but sat him down on the closed toilet seat.

“okay, okay. just sit and stay there, i’m gonna get something. i’ll be right back.” you told him, hearing him grumble faintly as you left the bathroom — he hated it, hated how you told him to ‘sit’ and to ‘stay’ like he was some damn dog, but yet, the thought stirred something up in him, and made him burn up even more.

thankfully, it wasn’t long before you came back into the bathroom: with what looked like some ice cubes wrapped up in a cold rag. you walked back over to him, standing in between his spread thighs, his big hands instinctively going up to paw at your waist and hips as he tilted his head up at you so you could press the cold rag to his forehead — a low groan and sigh of relief leaving his lips as the coldness made contact with his burning skin.

“that’s it, feels better, doesn’t it?” you sighed, one hand keeping the coldness pressed to his forehead and the other starting to run through his hair, through the little tufts on his head.

“mmph.” he grumbled, feeling as you then moved it to press against his neck, hearing a slight wince from him before he eased into it — your little ‘shh’s’ shushing him too.

he leaned back against the toilet seat, only serving to make you giggle softly as you took the cold rag from his face and instead started to rake your fingers through his coarse hair, scratching gently at the little two tufts on them. “let’s get you back to bed now, lo. get some rest for the morning, hm?” you hummed, to which he grumbled again — but didn’t protest. you helped him up and to the bedroom, feeling him collapse onto the bed instantly; the mattress sinking down slightly with his weight. you chuckled and got into bed with him, not even bothering to pull the covers over you two as he was already hot enough.

“thanks for… takin’ care of me, darlin’..” he mumbled hoarsely, his throat slightly scratched up, as he glanced over at you: your eyes looking back at him softly, illuminated by the pale moonlight that highlighted your small smile at his words, as you pressed a kiss to his cheek, the scruff there grazing your lips, and slipped your bare thigh between his own.

“anytime.”

[pureastrologywisdom]

𝔖𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔖𝔢𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔓𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰

Lilith aspecting Moon

This is a very powerful placement for women specifically. The moon, which is your emotions, connected to the unconscious self, habits, comfort and femininity is connected to the point in your chart that is powerful and dark, a part fuelled by pain, and all about transmutation. These woman often have a very intriguing essence about them. Strong and seductive. It's like you are playing with fire. She enjoys being a little off putting and knows exactly how to be enticing yet intimidating all in one.

Neptune/Venus/Pluto in the 3rd House

The third house is often overlooked when people are speaking on seduction and sex appeal in astrology. People are so focused on visual they miss a key point. Seduction includes all the senses. Someone being beautiful doesn't necessarily mean they are seductive. It's the way someone moves, speaks, the things they say and don't say, how they hold themselves along with present themselves. It's subtle.

This brings me to why the third house comes into play. It inductees how we communicate. As mentioned words can be very seductive. Having planets like Neptune and Venus will give someone a sweet and sensual demeanour when talking. Neptune is very receptive and often these people are incredible at being able to asses the needs of the person they are taking to, it's a very intuitive placement. Neptune is also all about fantasy. Playing into a role you project onto them.

Pluto in the third's seductive tactics are centred around power snd control. Manipulation if you will - not always in the worst sense. They are good at digging for information getting to the base of the persons psyche that they are speaking to. Once again it's about understanding the people around them. You can see how Neptune and Pluto have this in common but the way they use this is different.

Scorpio Rising

I feel like you guys know this one has to be mentioned. And I am sure I have written about this before. However I feel it's important to explain why this rising sign specifically holds such seductive energy. I often hear people talk about their eyes, which is very true. But it goes much deeper than just appearance. Scorpio naturally rules over the 8th house, a house that is very deep and dark. It's shrouded by mystery and taboo, along with being a sexually charged house. Now think about all of these themes being brought into the 1st house. Being at the forefront of someones being in not only the way they look, but they way they carry themselves and interact with the world around them. It's very provocative energy.

But there is more. Though people may assume that because of this scorpios may give off an overt sexual energy, its not quite as obvious one one may think. Whilst there is this air of sex appeal around them, this often doesn't come from being so open and bold about these things, but rather from holding a little something back. As we know scorpio is about the things below the surface, secrets, privacy. This creates a dynamic where people can sense this energy, however they must peel back the layers and investigate more to truly see what these people are like. This can create a push and pull, a little bit of an enigma. It piques the intrigue of people and encourages the chase.

Mercury quintile/Bi-quintile Mars, Pluto or Neptune & Lilith in some cases

Very similar to the previously mentioned third house, Mercury rules over communication, along wit the way we think and process things. Having a quintile or Bi-quintile aspecting mercury it shows us that someone has a particular skill around communication. I have already explained why having Pluto and Neptune connected to areas of your chart dealing with communication creates seduction.

I also included Mars, as Mars is a planet of strategy. Often working towards a goal these people like to win, and are very good at 'winning people over' in conversation. Mars is more of a dominant planet so domination is a tactic often used by these people. Sometimes being commanded is sexy. These people speak strongly which is sexy.

The reason why I put Lilith as a case by case aspect is because as we know, Lilith often states as a place of wounding in a natal chart. It's only after someone has healed those wounds and understood the source of power that that area of their chart is with Lilith sitting there that they can truly start to embody and experience this. Though I will say having Lilith in a quintile or Bi-quintile is often easier. When developed Lilith is a very untamed energy, a little wild and unpredictable. Two traits that are extremely enticing.

Thank you all for reading my loves,

Pureastrowisdom x

Also a quick notice - I have a TikTok account under the name of

.plutonian.priestess

I would love if you would go and follow me on there too where I can post more image based content and eventually go into video style content too.

I am thinking of putting a face to my name and my account as I want you guys to see the person behind my work

[staarboyyy]

Spill

joe goldberg x gender neutral reader [ anatomy specific ]

18+ characters / scenarios - minors dni

> joe goldberg's internal dialogue

tags / warnings ; dead dove do not eat, "canon" joe, stalking, breaking and entering, voureism, somnophilia, noncon themes, masturbation, glove/latex play, reader has vagina, fourth wall breaks/unreality

summary ; hello you. im glad youre reading so much, you always know how to make my head spin.

word count ; 2.1k

a / n ; i absolutely love writing for joe! this was a concept i really wanted to mess around with, id highly suggest minding the tags and also minding the fact i write for joe out of pure morbid fun, not for fanservice! so proceed with caution of nonconsenual themes and general creepy behvior. But hey if you think most fics on here aren't in character, heres my doing my best to change that! mwa

You were right, this is... Different. I knew you liked writing. Maybe, not into literature as much as I am, but despite all my attempts at forcing your nose into a hardcover, it was precious. How cagey you were about your writing. I can see it now, that screen pressed flat to your chest, ashamed. You know I know, you have to. Your eyes are resting on the television in front of you as if you weren't thumbing your keyboard like a rabid animal just a few moments ago. What are you inspired by? Surely not the takeout, long cooled, sitting on the coffee table. But still, I like this game. I know it won't last long, and I know you'll cave into it - Into me.

Digital writing, not as much of a discrepancy to the world as I got to know you, got used to reading novels over your shoulder. I couldn't resist, not while you slept so beautifully, so deep in your dreams you wouldn't notice - No, not my business. I'm a good man, you need a good man; But trust is one thing, you caging your phone from me is another. Why are you protecting it like a live wire? One look then, just one.

Your attempt at a password is precious, did you know that? Biometrics, new school, even for me, but you couldn't part ways with your dearest number code. Clogged, different apps, the colors assaulted my eyes when you insisted on showing me a book you were looking for at Mooney's- You were thrilled when you did. My eyes will adjust. Now what app was it? I could feel the gray in my hair illuminating at the thought, but you refused to let me get too hasty over it when we met; I think you like it. Nothing too far gone in your notes app, aside from the occasional single words with nothing else. Do you ever clean out this garbled junk? Searching, and more and there it is, a little blue square, white T.

Navigating these things is not my expertise. I can feel the crows feet on my face blinking a flashing target on my back; I'm getting too old for this, but moving to your account, searching under 'drafts' pauses the train of thought. My name, pasted between filthy words - Did you write this? Legs, thighs, arousal; My heart is jamming, and I can't deny the sigh of relief breaching my lips. I glance down at you, still sleeping soundly beside me, your breathing even and soft. I'm the nice man at the bookstore, but you're twisting me around in your mind right now, aren't you? Are you dreaming of me? I glue my eyes back to the screen, resisting the physical urge to put a hand onto your warm body. You know I'm here, don't you? Stories, after stories - My hand on your throat, you crave this? The feeling of my heartbeat against your back, while I ravage you, fingers tangled in your hair, breathless. I can imagine it, just how you write it; It's not your fault you can't write me perfectly, but just seeing my name repeated, over and over, folded into your fantasies? You know me well enough to know I want you, well enough to know you drive me insane - Was this all on purpose? I try to be a decent man, a good man. And you trip into the reopening of Mooney's, small talk; That's all it was, but you knew.

Well. You... are a pervert, and trust me, I've seen everything; Describing my body? My cock, the weight and warmth of me in your mouth - Is it the writing, or the imagination that takes your breath when you touch yourself? The feeling of typing my name, writing it over and over like a mantra. I can picture you reading them, phone flush to your body, breathing wavering as you read over the words you wrote. You deny the real feeling, the feelings between us, but you can feel it. The pulse rushing from the words on your phone screen straight to your thighs; Fuck, why are you making me do this? Did you want to get me hard? This wasn't a part of the plan, and surely you know that. We've hardly even met, exchanged pleasantries. But I know you, now. The real you, I can see it now. Right now.

Hello, you. Reading more? I'm glad - I mean it, really, you know the nagging of the man at the bookstore is one thing, but you'll get used to the classics once you're mine. Really mine. Once I can wrap my arms around you while you sleep, once these aren't just fantasies; Some of these things are extreme, even for me, but you want someone who will do anything for you. A man who can thrust a blade to your throat, make you gasp for air, but also protect you from this evil world. It was irresponsible, but I'll remind you when you're mine to lock the windows before you sleep. For now, I've never been more thankful you're so forgetful - It's sweet. Your room is comfortable, breathable, and sharing your air is intoxicating. Can't you hear me breathing? Hovering beside you, watching over your most vulnerable and beautiful state? You're lucky to have me. Could you imagine if some random man broke into your bedroom at night? I'm here to protect you, protect our fantasy, you have no idea we share. I can't wait to come through the front door to see you after work, no more hiding under your bed, I promise. Unless you ask for it, of course. I'd do anything for you.

Joe's hand falls down over his body, the rustle wrenching a wince from his throat. Quiet, he reminds himself. His gloved hand white knuckled your phone as he palmed his cock. Sweat beads down the side of his jaw, the description of your perversions riding on the line of obscene - And he loved every moment of it. His breath shuddered, eyes dancing between the words on your screen and your sleeping frame. The thought of pulling back the covers, exposing your warmth to the sting of cold, his latex-gloved hands rolling over the soft of your stomach. Joe's shaking hand fumbled with his belt, the metallic click sending a shudder through your unconscious body. You shuffled slightly, kicking away the sheets; It was hot, the little knowledge of another occupant in your bed not reaching your subconscious. He broke the seam of his underwear, sweat sticking his pants to the apex of his thighs, pulling down just enough to free his throbbing cock. He hissed, the feeling of the latex glove on his shaft a sick reminder of this encounter; Unaware, but knowing more than you ever could. Choking back a grunt, he swallowed hard, squeezing at the tip of his cock. A bead of precum pearled at the slit, and Joe's heart staggered in his chest, thumb scrolling over your phone. He had been drooling, allowing the pool to spill into his glove before reaching down once again - He felt like an insatiable high schooler, dark eyes lulling half lidded between you and your fantasies on full display. Joe began slowly, imaging the vivid sight of splitting your cunt; You described it already, he didn't need to worry about supplementing his desires, or risk his saftey with tugging your at sheets and sleepshirt. Surely you know I'm here. Fuck, you feel amazing.

Joe hitched his hips upwards; He wanted to pound you into your squeaky mattress, crawl through the spaces of your room he so neatly memorized - All this for you, all of him for you. His chest tightened with a moan, head falling back ever so slightly, cock pulsing as his spiral fell deeper, darker. Joe shut his eyes, your phone falling onto his lap as he planted a hand over his mouth.

God dammit, you're tight. He could practically hear the swell of your moan, pitching to a whine as he reached the hilt. Relishing in the purely euphoric feeling of your cunt around him - He craved it, like an animal he trained to stay quiet, subservient. He groaned into his palm, panting softly as he stroked himself, wanting nothing more than the hot feeling of your cunt around him. Please, I've been good. I've played nice. Even while you read this now, you know how much I've resisted these things about myself - But you take pleasure in them. It horrifies me in every way imaginable, makes my stomach turn; I should be disgusted by the things you want from me. And here I am at the mercy of your body, your power over me palpable in your bedroom. The smell of you is surrounding me, suffocating me.

Joe stifles another moan, less hidden than he'd like. The veins of his cock surge, his chest swelling with the smell and taste of the air only you breathe. He wants to taste all of you, your hips grinding your cunt down onto his greedy tounge, your blood from a nick in the kitchen. Everything you could create, he wanted, needed. He sighed through gritted teeth into his gloved palm, teeth now clenching at the black latex. Why do you have to make this all so fucking difficult? I want to be what you need, not just a fantasy; We're more than a fantasy, you wouldn't come looking for me like this if it wasn't true - Does that scare you? That I can see you, all of you, the parts you obscure from your peers and family, and still love you the same? Fuck, you're going to ruin me, just the sound of your breathing gets me off.

Joe arched his back into his fist, chest quivering with a threat to let his voice spill. Clamping tight over his mouth, his eyes parted open to find your sleeping body; You rolled onto your back a few moments ago, arms tucked close to your chest. You were peaceful, unaware of the violation happening just inches away, in your own bed. The sight of it was obscene in Joe's mind, teeth breaking the thin barrier of latex as he clenched his jaw, feverishly stroking his cock. His sweat dripped from his jaw and chin, lips pursed as he focused on the rise and fall of your chest. Your lips, soft and parted, glossy with a smear of drool. I could do anything to you right now. And the idea of that makes your heart thrum - Is that not real? Real, true, romantic and fucked up love? I want to drown in you, taste every inch of your body and bare my soul to you. Joe tilts his head back, eyes glued to your face, his pace unwavering as the hot binding of his senses came to a rushing pulse. He bucked his hips, shuddering and making your bed squeak, spilling his cum into his hand and thighs. He couldn't tear his eyes from you, stroking himself more, somehow pushing past the peak. He frantically, sloppily used his cum as more lubricant, knawing into the latex of his glove. You would be so proud of my restraint - I want to follow every line of this, twist your fantasies into your reality until you can't tell why you crave me the way you do. I want to be in your dreams, to take up every one of your senses until I can call you mine; You already did these all for me, infected my dreams and urged my heart to keep you safe. Joe let a whimper pry from his throat as he came a second time, eyes rolling back at the image of you pleading on your knees for him. This time the rattle of your bed stirred your peace, Joe's shaking body just inches away. He just couldn't stop, the thrill sending a shockwave racketeering through his veins as your expression changed. Just a soft furrow of your brow, a soft hum passing your lips as you sighed, shuffling your legs. But it was enough to keep Joe on the edge, eyes pinning you to the spot as he slowed his strokes. The sloppy mess dripped over the knuckles of his gloved hand, staining the black fabric of his pants. His hips continued to tense at a steady pace, tongue clamped between his top and bottom set of teeth. Just one more, I deserve it, and you're loving this. Joe rubbed the tip of his thumb over his sensitive tip, lips parting with a painfully pleasured expression; He had to stay silent, he kept reminding himself. Though the obscene wet sound of his fist slick against his cock, in your bedroom, was more than he needed to finish a third time. His mind was numb, the smell of your sweat, the taste of the air you breathe - So much of you, all at once. The air was thick with Joe's heavy breathing, unsteady as he stood up from your bed, body still quaking with the ghost of pleasure. He pried alcohol wipes from his duffel bag, still catching his breath as he leaned down, beginning to wipe away any cum left on his pants. He can leave a thing out of place, underwear can go missing, but he refused to leave evidence of nights like these.

A weak moment, he told himself as he set your phone back down onto your bedside, resting every urge in his body to lean down and kiss your forehead. He let his eyes linger on you as he slowly zipped his small duffel bag, new items to keep nestled deep within the pockets. You wouldn't notice they were missing. Joe smiled softly at the thought, shaking his head as he moved back to his feet.

One day, I'll leave you something to find. You'd love that, and knowing that for a fact is something that will just make our love stronger. I'll be back tomorrow night, we have a date, now that you've given me so many new ideas.

[these-posts-arent-real]

Oh StarClan... your dash has turned into warrior cats again.

#sorry <3 #this one has parts that are based off of that #one post rhats like "if there were cat-people #do you think calico tboys would try to dye over their patches"

2 notes

🔁 🍲 ex-thundrclan-kipper Follow reblogged

🍲 ex-thundrclan-kipper Follow

Me & Night (my mate)!!!

🏞 trouttail-prefers-bass Follow

:O Kip's mate has finally been revealed!!! And his name is Night? Cooool.

🍲 ex-thundrclan-kipper Follow

Yeah haha. Technically his full name is Night Hunter, Bringer of Darkness, but it feels so weirdly formal calling him that, so I usually stick to just Night.

#life #kittypet #collar tw #cw collars #id in alt text

8,504 notes

🛤 carnation-stem-02 Follow

I find it really funny when I see cats on here vaguepost about big blogs. Like cmon mouse-brain everyone here knows who you're talking about. Just say their name.

#this is about that one mommy blogger shitting on kipper the kittypet #btw #in case some of you couldnt tell #would be funny if it wasnt so stupid

12 notes

🔁 🐍xviper-the-fagx reblogged

🥬 rxttencatmint Follow

Hahaaaaa.... my mother found out ive been slowly dyeing my ginger patches black...

🪺 robbbinpaw Follow

Why would you do that??? Being a tortie is so cool, I wish I had ginger patches! They're so pretty, why do you want to get rid of them???

🥬 rxttencatmint Follow

Uhm. Gender dysphoria??

Like. I know cis male tortoiseshells exist but they're so rare that most cats take one look at me and go "oh, tortie, must be a girl" and that hurts.

🪺 robbbinpaw Follow

OH STARCLAN im so sorry Rot i wasnt even thinking about you being trans, I probably sounded really insensitive... I do understand what you're saying now.

Didn't even ask, how did your mom take it? Does she know why?

🥬 rxttencatmint Follow

You're fine <3 I get it. And no, she uh.. has no clue why I did it, she thinks I'm in my "emo phase" or something.

🐍 xviper-the-fagx

Uhh unrelated but what do you use to dye your fur?? Asking for... science...

#"science" meaning i am also a tortie tboy #well technically i'm calico but ykwim

46 notes

🔁 🦋 lalala-bluegaze Follow reblogged

🦢 gentlesong-momof17 Follow

I can't be the only one here who thinks it's unfair to allow kittypets on this site. Posting pictures of themselves and their mates inside of the twolegplace, influencing the young kits on this site to abandon their Clans... surely everyone else sees the problem with this as well.

This is Clanblr, not "Kittypetblr". This was specifically made as a space for Clan cats to connect, not for kittypets to push their lifestyle on us.

They're going to convince our kits to abandon their home and their belief in StarClan just for a more secure life.

#EXACTLY #I only recently found out ex-tc Kipper was a kittypet #it was so upsetting to me because i've always loved his wood-scratch art #to find out he's a clan-abandoner was so saddening

2,447 notes

🔁 🐍xviper-the-fagx reblogged

🌻 l1llyst3m Follow

The recent drama surrounding Kipper the Kittypet is sad and I hate that he's being bashed just for existing, but it's also incredibly stupid. I believe the cat who wrote the original post said something like, "it's CLANblr, not KITTYPETblr," and then something about belief in StarClan and I just... do you even realize how many Clanblr mods are non-Clan and/or don't believe in StarClan?

To name a few, @s-t-a-r-burning is former WindClan now rogue & openly an atheist, @theshadowhaseyes has been a kittypet his whole life, and @ssuunnrraayy-p has made zir entire blog about how ze travels from one Clan to another & doesnt consider zimself a Clan cat. Those are all mods. "It's clanblr no-" shut up. Just shut up.

245 notes

🧷 name-lists-by-theme

Theme: Water

as always, these work as either part of your name, but they are intended as the first part!

-Abyss

-Bay

-Bog

-Cove

-Creek

-Current

-Dew

-Fog

-Lagoon

-Lake

-Marsh

-Mist

-Pond

-Pool

-Puddle

-Rain

-Shallow

-Sleet

-Spray

-Splash

-Storm

-Stream

-Torrent

Keep reading

383 notes

🐱 berrrrry-o Follow

I think a lot of cats put way too much emphasis on the parts of the warrior code that dont matter, and forget the parts that do, like "feed elders and kits first" and "never neglect a kit in pain or danger"... I feel like those are significantly more important than "a warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet," but maybe that's just me.

#berry yaps #I'm irritated by the kittypet drama going on on this site

16 notes

🔁 🛤 carnation-stem-02 Follow reblogged

🔲 sag3-chas3s-squirr3ls-deactivated

I feel like we don't talk enough about how SkyClan got chased out of their own territory during a time of crisis rather than all of the Clans trying to make room for everyone...

I mean, seriously. I know it's taught to all SkyClan apprentices, but I've talked to some of my friends from other Clans and they just. Didn't know that. They were never taught that the other Clans allowed SkyClan to be chased out due to territory loss.

🔲 sstep-xoxo-deactivated

:/ im pretty sure the whole thing about skclan being kicked out of their territory is just a conspiracy theory

🔲 sag3-chas3s-squirr3ls-deactivated

Imagine trying to tell a cat that they don't know their own Clan's history 💀

#ohh i finally found it again #that 1 fucker trying to say that skyclan's history is a "conspiracy theory"

20,056 notes

🌱 dirtdigger-23 Follow

:/ I do not like being stuck on the wrong site.

[munsonsmixtapes]

Hi friend!!! 💕💕💕 I have a request for you 😉

Another Taylor themed one for you because your Taylor inspired fics just ✨hit different✨

Smutty “So High School” inspired with maybe Gamer!Eddie?? Messing around with him when people are around and you need to be quiet- ‘touch me while your bros play grand theft auto’

Hi, friend!! That’s so sweet, of you to say! Ugh, I’ve been wanting to write a fic based on this song and that line specifically so this is the perfect excuse!

cw: MDNI (18+) fingering, use of the word whore

It’s late when you come home from work but Eddie and his friends are still very much awake, the five of them in the living room, all of them in the same positions, playing the same game they were when you left in the morning.

Eddie is sitting on the couch while the others in the floor playing the actual game. He’s never been a fan of playing it, but he likes watching. You wave to the boys the excuse yourself to go change into some sweatpants and one of Eddie’s t-shirts. You just need to be comfy.

Once you’re all dressed, you head back into the living room and sit next to Eddie on the couch, the two of you sharing a blanket as you cuddle into him, holding each other as you both watch the game on the screen.

But you’re not paying attention. You love cuddling, but what you really need is for everyone to get out so you can take your boyfriend right there on the couch. The day was long and rough and you just need Eddie. You need him so bad that you’re aching, your cunt so wet that you’re afraid that you’re leaking through your sweatpants.

Eddie’s so focused on the TV that he’s not even paying attention until he’s noticed that you’ve grabbed hold of his hand. He thinks that you just want to hold it and only catches on once his fingers dip into your waistband.

His eyes widen and he leans forward, his lips right by your ear so no one else can hear him.

“What are you doing?” He asks and you bite down on your bottom lip, suddenly afraid to tell him the truth.

“I need you,” you whisper back and he just chuckles as he pulls back to look at me.

“You can have me. We can go upstairs right now.” You think he’s so sweet for offering, but by the time you get upstairs and undressed, the need will most likely wear off.

“And leave your friends? No, your fingers are fine.” You push his hand further down your pants but he stops before they’ve actually gotten to your cunt.

“You’re going to make noise.” You know he’s right, but you’ll risk it. You just need him so badly and you need him right now. What part of that is he not getting?

“No I won’t,” you shake your head and he gives you a pointed look.

“Baby, you’re loud.” He’s got you again, but you don’t know how else to get your fix. You suppose you can just go upstairs and take care of yourself, but it’s not nearly the same and you know he knows that.

“Please,” you beg, jutting your bottom lip out, knowing that look always makes him give in. His hand dips lower into your pants and he adjusts his body so he can access you better.

His fingers graze back and forth across your slit and you’re whining already which causes him to slap his hand to your mouth with a warning look.

He shoves his fingers inside you with no warning and you try your best to stifle your moan. They move back and forth slowly to warm you up, but you don’t need any of that. You need it hard and rough just the way you like it. Eddie knows that but he gets off by being a fucking tease so that’s what he’s going to be tonight.

But just as you’re about to ask, he shoves them both fully inside you, pressing his hand harder to your mouth to muffle your sounds as best as he can.

As his fingers are fucking you, he leaned forward again so that his lips are right by your ear for the second time. His breath is creating goosebumps along your arms and you wait for him to speak, just knowing that it’s going to be filthy.

“Yeah?” He whispers. “You like that you little whore? You think this is rough? Just wait until we’re alone.” You’re looking forward to it, knowing that he’s getting to be as needy as you are, desperate to have his sock inside you as he goes hard, wanting so desperately to fill you into he absolutely can’t anymore.

You moan again, louder this time and Eddie thinks you’re about to blow the whole thing, but the boys are still glued to the screen, not even paying the slightest attention to what’s going on behind him. He’s convinced that the two of you could have full on sex right there and they wouldn’t even notice.

His fingers are moving even faster and harder somehow and you’re now flat on the couch, Eddie lying against you, the blanket still covering your bodies as he’s working his hardest in order to get you to orgasm.

He watches your back arch and he knows you’re close. Your eyes are shut tight and he’s got on a smug smirk as you orgasm, his hand bringing the corner of the blanket to muffle your moans even more. God, he needs you and he needs you now.

As you’re coming down, he removes his fingers from your and licks them clean to get rid of the evidence then stands from the couch, moving to his friends, confiscating the controllers from each of them before ushering them out the door so he can fuck his girlfriend.

As soon as they’re all gone, Eddie puts the controllers back where they go and turns of the console and tv before picking you up from the couch and throwing you over his shoulder then hurrying up to the stairs to your room, slamming the door with every intention of making you scream as loud as you can.

[cosmicbucky]

A chubby reader who's super self conscious of her belly and bust? Like she's strong and stuff, comes with the higher weight, but just....

Cant really wear anything unless it's sweats and a sweater, or a t-shirt. Almost never goes out.

And one day Bucky comes to the compound. Reader immediately gets a crush, and has major anxiety over it, like "leaving the room when he comes near" anxiety. Bucky thinks it's his fault, that he's done something wrong and talks to you about it.

He decides to talk to you about it, crying ensues because insecurities, and then the fluff.

Sorry this ask is so long, I'm kinda scrambled XP

hi, lovely! 💫

first of all, don't apologize for bringing this beautiful request into my world! i was beyond excited to have the chance to bring this idea to life, and i hope the direction i took with it does justice to what you had in mind!

second of all, i am so sorry this took me so long to put out, this request is so lovely and i really wanted to make it the best i could.

i hope you enjoy!

matches

pairing: bucky barnes x midsize!reader

word count: 3974

warnings: insecurities and self consciousness, mild body image issues, brief self depreciating thoughts, angst, mutual pining, fluff, swearing, allusions to mature themes, let me know if i missed anything!

please do not read this if you're not comfortable with any of the above topics. while they are not heavily focused on, they are the main theme of this fic

a/n: big thanks to @buckylattes for reading this and catching some of the dumb ass mistakes i made lmao

《《《《 ♡ 》》》》

Being part of the Rescue and Reconnaissance division of Stark Industries wasn't the most glamorous job, but you loved it. You got to work nearly hand in hand with field agents every day, formulating plans for raids, rescues, infiltrations, or general takedown missions to make sure all those involved worked as safely and efficiently as possible. 

You were the one they turned to when a new plan was needed; when they were at risk. There were a few agents who refused to listen to anyone other than you when it came to these times - specifically asking for you to help them through. 

Agent Barnes was one of these people, and though you could never voice it, he was your favourite to deal with. He was always kind and courteous, understanding in the fact that despite not being in the same rankings as him, you damn well knew what you were doing. And, well, it didn't hurt that he always found a moment to be a charming little flirt. 

You have no idea why he had such faith in you. Maybe it was because you always took what he suggested into consideration when calculating next steps. Maybe it was because your ideas were as crazy as his sometimes. Maybe it was simply because he liked the sound of your voice. 

You never knew. 

You never actually met him.

All your dealings with field agents were done from the safety of your control room. You never minded it, though. It was nice, in a way. You absolutely loved doing what you do, but you would never be able to handle being around field agents all the time. Not when they look the way they do, and you…. well, you're you. 

Your thighs touch when you walk, your belly shakes when you laugh, your arms jiggle when you move. You have to painstakingly pick out the right kinds of shirts, otherwise your chest will make it seem like you're three times as big as you really are. 

You were the chubby girl who always hid in the shadows, too afraid to let the world see how bright you truly shine - you were a flame ready to ignite, but no one around you ever offered you a match. 

You were used to it. You made peace with it a long time ago, finding solace in your own company instead of relying on other people to enjoy your time with. It still bothered you from time to time, and you let yourself have days where you wallowed in it, wishing things were different, wishing you looked different. Though, for the most part, it stopped bothering you so much the older you got. 

Until the day you finally met Bucky. 

It was a strange day, being sent to the compound. You've never been sent anywhere before, always planted in your seat while talking to field agents across the world. Yet here you were, being requested by Tony Stark himself. 

You must have spent hours trying to find the right outfit. One that showed off your curves without accentuating the extra pudge around your middle. One that complimented your chest without highlighting the size. One that showed off your ass without making it look massive. One that carefully hid your arms. One that you felt comfortable in. 

It felt like your heart was in your throat the whole time. The butterflies in your stomach turned into a full on frenzy, and you had to take deep breaths every few seconds to stay calm; and to not throw up. 

You barely heard it when Tony said he wanted you working under him. You could hardly process it when he said he created a job just for you. You didn't quite understand it when he told you there was space for you at the compound, and he wanted you here full time. 

All you could do was dumbly nod your head, trying to focus on what he was saying instead of the fact that Bucky Barnes was just outside the conference room. 

By the time the meeting was over, you felt lightheaded. You clutched the contract you were given against your chest and took a final deep breath before leaving the room, hoping to get by unnoticed. It's not like he even knew who you really were, right? 

A gentle calling of your name told you that you were very, very wrong. 

Your feet became rooted in place as you squeezed your eyes shut, focusing all you could on calming your nerves before turning around. And jesus christ, nothing could have prepared you for how beautiful this man actually was in person. 

"Hi," you breathed out, a tiny shy smile gracing your lips. 

"Hi," he said, unintentionally mimicking you. 

His eyes travelled over your face before taking their time roaming your body; you shifted uncomfortably and clutched the contract a little tighter as he stayed fixed on you. A smirk graced his lips, but it was gone before you could really focus on it. 

"It's, uh-... it's nice to finally meet you, Agent Barnes," you muttered sheepishly, hesitantly offering him your hand. 

"You can call me Bucky," he said, smiling warmly as he took your hand in his, sending fire throughout your whole body. "I'd like to say thank you for saving my ass as often as you do, but thank you doesn't seem like enough."

You chuckled, feeling your face flush under his gaze. "'Thank you' suffices just fine, Bucky. I've only been doing my job."

"Speaking of," he started, tilting his head a little as he eyed the contract you held. "You gonna take it?" he asked curiously, his eyes snapping back to yours. 

"What?" you asked, caught off guard by his question.

"The job," he said, gesturing between the contract in your hands and the conference room you just occupied. "You gonna say yes?" 

"How do you know about that?" you asked curiously.

"I know things," he said passively, shrugging his shoulders. "How 'bout I show you around? You can see the place before you decide anything."

You wanted to say no. You wanted to run away and retreat into yourself once more. Though something about the way he was looking at you made it hard to do so. 

So, you agreed. 

And that's how everything started. 

You took the job, moving into the compound a few days after that. You quickly made friends with the girls, and they became your support group; they would help you when it came to shopping for clothes or finding the right outfit for events. They offered to go for walks with you or do yoga - anything you felt like doing, really. You still felt inferior to them from time to time, but not because they made you feel that way; no one at the compound did. 

Only yourself. 

When it came to the boys, it was more or less the same thing. You felt comfortable around them, and you never minded close contact or them seeing you in tighter fitting clothes. 

Everyone was family, and it never felt awkward or uncomfortable around them. 

Except for when it came to Bucky. 

You still grew closer to him over the months of you living at the compound so far, but it hasn't been easy. It was a constant challenge, and it grew harder for you day after day.

When it came to you working alongside him on his missions, everything was great. Nothing with him changed, aside from him throwing out a few more flirty comments. And, since you still had the safety net of being behind comms, you threw some right back at him. 

Once the missions were over, though, it was hard to be around him. You wanted to be around him, but it was nearly impossible. Your feelings for him grew, and the stronger your feelings were, the more distant you became. 

You were careful to only wear sweaters or loose tees paired with sweatpants around him, making sure he would never catch sight of the extra weight you carried around. You quit eating around him; it's not like you had bad eating habits, but you couldn't shake the panic that he would somehow be disgusted, that he would think the reason you're so chubby was because of your diet. You stopped sitting near him during movie nights, and you never hugged him. No matter how much you itched to wrap your arms around him when he came home safe from missions, you couldn't risk him feeling the rolls your body carried, or how soft and pudgy you were. 

It was driving Bucky crazy.

From the minute he finally set his eyes on you, he couldn't get you out of his head. He was beyond thrilled when you agreed to Stark's offer, and he couldn't wait to take the opportunity to get to know you - which was a massive step for him. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling he did something to upset you. 

He grew more confused every day. When it came to conversing over the comms during missions, you two were like a well oiled machine; giggles and flirting and jokes of previous missions. No one would ever know something was amiss. 

Yet when everyone would return home, it was like a switch was flipped. You greeted everyone with hugs and smiles and affection, and Bucky always waited patiently for his turn: but it never came. Instead, you turned to him with an awkward smile and shining eyes and gave him the traditional "welcome home, soldier" that, despite everything, always pulled a smile from his lips. 

He racked his brain every night trying to figure out if he did something, if he said something, but he could never come up with anything. He could never find a reason for the way you would some days leave the room as soon as he entered, for why you always hid away from him when he would catch you off guard in workout clothes or formal attire. He could never come up with an explanation and it was eating him alive. 

The final straw came for him on the night of Pepper’s birthday party. 

He didn’t want to go, he never wanted to go to these things, but ever since you came around he found himself more willing to at least make an appearance; if only to see you. However, he wasn’t even positive if you were going to show up this time, given the way you’ve been so distant lately - and that made him not want to go at all. So he was biding his time, sitting in the kitchen and emptying a bottle of whiskey, trying to not make it obvious that he was waiting to see if you’d wander out of your room before he slipped away to the party.

You stood in front of your mirror for what felt like hours, never before feeling more diffident as you assessed your reflection. You’ve been to some of Tony’s parties before, but this was for Pepper - it was the most grandiose one you’ve attended to date. You weren’t left much choice but to dress your fanciest, and you felt so unfamiliar with your own body as your hands trailed down the fabric of your dress. It was form fitting, hugging every curve you had and accentuating your figure in a way you weren’t used to seeing. The straps were small and the cut was low, it travelled midcalf and had a small slit up the side, showing way more of your leg than you wanted. You had a burning desire to change, but Nat insisted you looked incredible, and Wanda already applied a touch of makeup to match the dress - not to mention you were already running late as it was. 

With one last heavy sigh, you steeled yourself before slipping on your heels and marching out of your room. You thought of anything and everything you could as you marched down the hall, doing your best to pay no mind to the way you felt the fabric clinging to your body with every move you made. God, you really should have put on shapewear. 

Bucky heard you before he saw you, your footfalls echoing through the floor in the same pattern he came to memorize in the months you’ve been here. He took a deep breath, prepared for the fact that you would most likely brush him off once more. He was not prepared, though, for the sight of you as you rounded the corner. 

You were not prepared to see him sitting there, clad in a pressed suit, or for him to quite literally choke on the drink he was nursing as he took in your presence. 

“Jesus, Bucky. Are you alright?” you inquired, conflicted between staying where you stood and approaching him. 

A dismissive wave of his hand had you staying in place, your arms wrapping around your middle as you began to feel exposed to him. 

“I’m fine, I’m good,” he coughed out, refilling his glass as if nothing happened. 

You stood there quietly, completely unsure of what to do next. The silence was becoming louder and louder but you didn’t want to draw his attention to you. Not when you were looking like this. Not when he’d be able to see every curve and divot of your body, the protrusion of your stomach, the ample raise of your chest. You were really starting to regret not changing. 

“Are you gonna stand there and stare all night or head to the party?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the glass before him. His tone was playful, but his voice had a rasp to it that sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Oh, uh - sorry,” you muttered, clearing your throat as you slowly advanced in his direction. “Are, um-… are you gonna join the party?” 

He huffed a small laugh, his eyes finally raising to meet yours only to find that you were looking almost everywhere but at him, effectively wiping the small smile from his face. 

“I’m not so sure,” he said lowly, downing the contents of his glass as he kept his eyes on you. 

You hummed, looking down at your hands before chancing a glance at him; his gaze on you so intense that you immediately looked away again. 

“Well, I- I hope to see you there,” you said sincerely, wringing your fingers together. “You look really nice, Buck” you added quietly, looking up at him just long enough to flash him a warm smile before continuing through the kitchen. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he called after you, the hurt in his voice impossible to miss. 

“What?” you asked in confusion, turning to glance in his direction. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he repeated, leaning back in his chair. “Because ever since you moved in here, it’s like you can’t stand the sight of me.” 

You couldn’t help the nervous chuckle that left you, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not true.” 

“No?” he asked, his tone taking on a new edge. “Are you sure? ‘Cause you can’t even fucking look at me right now. You practically run from me when I enter the same room, you do everything you can to avoid me, and let’s not forget the fact that I’m the only one around here who you don’t hug after getting back from missions.”

“Bucky-” you tried to explain, but the lump forming in your throat stopped you short. 

“I just wanna know what I did,” he carried on, voice softer this time. “I don’t know if you’re angry with me or- or if you’re scared of me-” 

“I am not scared of you,” you interrupted, finally meeting his gaze. “Please don’t think that.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” he asked quietly. “Everything is fine when I’m out on the field, we- I get along with you better than anyone. But then I come home, and it’s not the same.”

“It’s not-... it’s not like that, Bucky,” you whispered sadly, unintentionally looking away from him again. 

“Yeah, if you say so,” he said curtly, sighing in defeat as he filled his glass again. “Just enjoy the party, okay?”

“You’re not coming?” you asked, unable to keep the disappointment from your voice. 

“Well, you’re just gonna avoid me anyway. Might as well make it easier for you and stay here,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the twirling glass in his hands. 

“I don’t want you to think like that,” you admitted softly. “I- I don’t mean to do the things I do.”

“Then why do they happen?” he inquired, his eyes meeting yours and displaying a painful mix of hurt and confusion. 

“Because,” you started, feeling your bottom lip quiver. “I mean, look at me, Buck,” you finished, as if that was explanation enough. 

“Believe me, I’m looking,” he said gently. “And you look-... well, I wanna say you look beautiful, but that implies you don’t always look beautiful, so, I- I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” he added, his voice so low he may as well have been speaking to himself, but you heard every word he muttered. 

“...What?” you breathed out, staring over at him. 

“What?” he questioned, glancing up to catch your eye.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat but it just kept on growing, forcing you to choke on your words. 

“Hey, wait, don’t-... okay, now I really said something wrong, right?” he asked quickly, starting to panic as he watched your eyes fill with tears. 

Shaking your head vehemently, you delicately wiped your eyes, hoping not to smudge the work that Wanda did for you. “No, you- I just didn’t expect you to say that. I-... I'm not used to hearing that." 

"You're not?" he asked, genuinely surprised. 

You almost laughed, and you probably would have if it wasn't such an embarrassing thing to admit. "No. I'm… guys don't really call girls who look like me beautiful." 

He fell silent for a minute, eyeing you carefully before shifting in his seat, resting his arms on the table.

"You know, I've been alive for a pretty long time now," he said conversationally, as if you weren't on the cusp of a breakdown. "And I've also been quite literally around the whole world in that time. Some of it I remember, some of it… not so much. But even so, do you know what the one thing I can say with complete certainty is?" 

You waited for him to go on for a moment before realizing he was actually looking for an answer. "No, what?" you manage to croak out. 

He smiled softly, relaxing in his seat again. "I have, quite literally, never met anyone as beautiful as you. And I mean in both appearance and personality." 

"But I- I'm not… I don't have the kind of body like the other women around here," you murmured, casting your gaze downwards as if you were ashamed of your words. 

"So?" he asked incredulously. "Do you seriously think that you're automatically not beautiful just because you aren't the same size as them?" 

"No, it- you can't- I'm not-" you tried to argue, but all you could get out were a few utterances before you had to choke back a sob, completely lost on how to express yourself. 

"Is this why you've been avoiding me? Have I done something to make you uncomfortable?" he asked anxiously, fighting the urge to approach you. 

"Yes. I mean no, I-" you cut yourself off with a sigh, taking a moment to consider your answer. "I've been too embarrassed to be around you. I-... I was afraid you'd be repulsed by me and that I'd lose you." 

"Repulsed by you? A woman who puts fucking goddesses to shame?" he asked in disbelief. "Did me choking on my drink earlier not prove how taken by you I am?" 

"Is that what that was?" you wondered, letting out a watery laugh. 

"Yeah, that's what that was," he confirmed with a soft chuckle. "A guy does a real life spit take when he sees the girl of his dreams looking like the focus of a goddamn renaissance painting and she doesn't even realize it," he mumbled in exasperation, yet his eyes carried a playful sparkle. 

"The girl of your dreams?" you repeated in shock, your voice a nervous whisper. 

"Was that too cliché?" he questioned, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

"Maybe a little," you said playfully, sniffling quietly. 

"I know how it feels, you know," he said softly. "To feel uncomfortable in your own body. But if you'd let me, I'll spend every day proving to you that I see you as nothing short of perfect." 

You could only nod, giving him a weak smile as you fought back a wave of tears. "Yeah, I-... I could do that, too," you agreed quietly. 

He grinned softly, greedily taking in your appearance once more before tearing his eyes away. "Come on," he urged, downing his drink before standing up. "You owe me about seven dances." 

"Where does that number come from?" you asked with a laugh, watching as he approached you. 

"For how many parties you snubbed me at so far," he replied casually, stopping as he stood before you. 

"I never snubbed you," you grumbled, peering up at him. 

"Sure you didn't," he teased, carefully wiping the tears from your face. 

"Do I still look okay?" you asked nervously, fidgiting slightly under his touch. 

"Gorgeous as ever," he replied sincerely. 

You couldn't help but grin, laughing a little anxiously. "Okay. Come on, or else we won't have enough time for all those dances." 

Bucky laughed happily, taking your hand and rushing to join the party, having you giggling in his wake as you did your best to keep up. 

You let him whisk you away for the rest of the night, leading you through all the dances you owed him; and a few more, for good measure, as Bucky put it. 

He stayed true to his word, and there wasn't a second that you spent with him where you didn't feel like the most ravishing woman to walk the earth.

Especially when he took his precious time in the dark of the night to memorize and worship every inch of your body over and over again.

So as you sat here now, watching from across the room as he danced with the crowd, you couldn't help but feel foolish. Foolish for letting your thoughts take away the extra time you could have had with him, foolish for ever thinking this incredible man would ever judge you for something so trivial. Foolish, foolish, foolish. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" you heard from beside you, ripping you from your reverie.  

You turned your head, grinning as you saw the very man himself had taken up the seat to your left. "What, get tired of dancing already, old man?" 

He gasped, feigning offense as he took in your words. "I'd watch who you're calling old, sweetheart," he warned playfully. 

"I'd watch who you're calling sweetheart. I happen to be a married woman now, you know," you replied jovially.

"Married, huh? Should've known I didn't stand a chance," he lamented, shaking his head. "How about a pity dance?" he suggested with a grin, holding his hand out to you. 

You giggled softly, taking his hand with a grin of your own. "Lead the way, Mr. Barnes." 

"Anything for you, Mrs. Barnes," he replied with a wink, leading you to the dance floor. 

And just like he did three years ago, he whisked you away and led you through a whole seven dances; and a few more, for good measure. 

You were a flame, finally ignited, and Bucky was your match.

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 2

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, y/n being an awkward mess, subtle and indirect mention of sexual themes

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ you and rafe were paired up for a 2 week-long art project. you agreed to meet during lunch break to start working on it. after a little breakdown in the girls' restroom, you picked him up after PE. finally free of kelce and topper, you two headed for the school’s dining hall.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 3.3k+

✿ A / N ✿ i don't have much to say for this one as it's just an immediate continuation of the last one but i'm very thankful for the likes and comments on the first part. i didn't expect any at all so a big thank you to everyone who decided to support <3 i hope you also enjoy this one as well :) (also super excited when i’ll get to future parts where y/n gets to be more silly :3)

Important: I started using dividers after chat convos that include more than one screenshot, so you guys know when to switch back to the written story. Yk you usually click on the image to get a full-screen mode to read the messages easier, so whenever the blue rectangle image pops up, you know when to back out. Makes it easier to avoid potential spoilers, hope that makes sense :P

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // M O N D A Y

The dining hall at Kildare Academy was moderately full. Most students’ classes were already over, and a lot of Kooks went to the restaurants down the street, even though the serving station offered fresh high-quality food.

Okay, fries weren’t exactly healthy but they probably made them from potatoes grown specifically for Kooks (yes, as a Kook yourself, you were their biggest hater).

Whatever. The dining hall wasn’t the reason your heart was about to explode in your chest.

No. You were having lunch.

With. Rafe. Cameron.

If someone had told you this morning, you would’ve laughed.

Because, hello??? Rafe had been your crush since you’d first set foot in Kildare Academy in fifth grade.

Okay, not exactly special—what Figure 8 girl hadn’t had a crush on Rafe at some point?

But that wasn’t the point. This whole ... thing just felt so surreal.

A crush had always been just that—a crush. You weren’t the type to walk up to a guy and say, Hey, you’re cute, let’s go on a date. That would mean putting yourself out there and making yourself vulnerable.

And the last thing you ever wanted was to be seen.

Not in a physical way. That was unavoidable. No, what scared you was someone actually seeing you, the parts of yourself you kept locked away.

Ew, that sounded so fucking dramatic.

So while your 11-year-old self was doing backflips of joy, your 18-year-old self was having a full-blown existential crisis.

Okay, maybe not that bad.

“You were right,” Rafe said, pulling you from your thoughts. He was sitting across from you, pushing his fork through his quinoa-veggie bowl.

You eyed him confused. “About what?”

Rafe nodded toward your fries, the corner of his lips tugging into a subtle smile. “I am a fries guy. Quinoa tastes like shit and rocks.”

You glanced at his bowl before meeting his gaze again, a knowing smile on your face. “I guess it’s the color. Red and black ones are usually more bitter and more firm than their white counterparts.”

Rafe raised a brow, amused. “As a quinoa expert, you could’ve warned me.”

Your cheeks heated. You kind of had, with that dumb joke outside the gym earlier. “I thought you already knew what it tasted like.”

“I do,” he shrugged, taking a bite of his bowl anyway. “Maybe I just didn’t want you to label me as the fries guy.”

Wait—was that a joke? And why did he care what you thought about him?

God, I suck at whatever this is.

So you just forced a chuckle and took a sip of your water.

…

…

...

Shit.

Now there was that awkward silence you always dreaded in conversations.

Okay, okay, stay calm.

Should I say something? Should I offer him my fries?

You almost laughed. Hell no, that’d be so weird. Plus the quinoa part of his bowl didn’t even take up a third of the whole meal.

You wished Cara were here. She’d know exactly what to say and how to act. She went on dates all the time, made out with guys at parties just for fun, and could hold a normal fucking conversation with a guy she was interested in.

“So, you like… a real artist or something?” Rafe asked absentmindedly, breaking the unbearable silence. “Since you picked Art as an elective?”

You looked up, quickly swallowing the bite of fries in your mouth before giving him a nervous smile. “Yeah, I mean—no, I wouldn’t call myself a real artist, not like Da Vinci or such.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I just draw sometimes when I’m bored.”

Jesus Christ, did he have to look at you like that? His blue eyes were drilling into your entire existence.

Rafe nodded. “Digital or traditional?”

You blinked at him, stunned.

How the fuck did Frat Boy Rafe Cameron know the difference between digital and traditional art?

Your expression made him smirk. And as if he had read your thoughts, he said, “My little sister Wheezie draws random shit on her iPad all the time.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, figured it was a thing—”

“No, I mean—yes, totally,” you blurted, immediately turning red because you just cut him off. “Most people start with pencil and paper but drawing on a tablet or iPad is just as legit. Um… so, yeah … I do both, to answer your question.” You smiled awkwardly.

Help, he would’ve had a more entertaining conversation with a rock.

Rafe barely raised a brow, a lazy smile on his lips. “It’s cool that you draw. Guess I got lucky having you as my partner for this project.”

WHAT.

Okay, everything’s chill.

NO, NOTHING WAS CHILL.

Is he flirting with me??? Is he just being nice ??? WHAT DOES ALL OF THIS MEAN.

What were you even supposed to reply to that?

Hahaha, thanks, did you know I made our Sims get married in eighth grade? Topper was your best man by the way.

WHAT THE FUCK, NO, STOP.

Whatever, just say something. Anything.

“Thanks,” you mumbled with an embarrassed smile, eyes fixed on your fries and salad.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe lean back, pushing his half-eaten bowl aside. He shrugged. “Only sucks for you. Art’s not really my thing.”

No shit.

Also, what was that supposed to mean? Was he fishing for a compliment? Like Aww, no, come on, I’m sure you’re great at it.

Holy shit. Was Rafe Cameron secretly a pick-me guy? Were all these years crushing on him wasted?

“Yeah, I figured. Most people just take art class thinking it’ll be an easy A”, you said before he could say more and give you the ick.

OH my god, take it back, take it back—

When you saw his expression, you wanted to crawl into a hole and never come back. He looked… surprised? Confused? Maybe a little offended…?

Then the tension in his face eased. His lips twitched slightly before curving into a lopsided grin, making him look unexpectedly boyish.

“Shit, yeah. Guess that makes me ‘most people’”, he said with such ease, it was like you hadn’t just called him out.

How the hell did he manage to turn all your miserable attempts at a normal conversation into something so smooth? If you were in his place, you would've already walked out and dropped art class.

Yo, Mr Smith, this chick you paired me up with, she’s got the social skills of a dead fish.

This was so frustrating. It wasn’t like you were socially incompetent—not really—but around him, your brain just seemed to completely shut down.

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, furrowing your brows, annoyed at your own nervousness.

“Nah, it’s true,” Rafe replied, shrugging. Then he looked at you, a teasing edge in his voice. “So, if your art grade tanks, you know who to blame.”

Okayyy, he was either trying to get on your good side or looking for a smooth way out of this project—and you weren’t sure which was worse.

You swallowed your last fry and gave a chuckle. I sound like a fake ass bitch. “I’m sure you'll manage. Art is not about drawing perfectly — it’s more about the ideas and how you approach them.”

Jesus, you sounded just like Mr. Smith.

Rafe’s lips twitched into a cocky smirk. “Alright, then I guess you’ll have to help me be more creative.”

...

HUH?

OKAY. I MEAN SURE.

Be for fucking real, did he even realize what his words did to you?

Of course, he did—he probably flirted with girls daily. Or was he just lucky to be born with full charisma stats?

Probably both.

God, this was so embarrassing. Your face probably screamed HI CAN YOU MARRY ME, and to him, you were just some random Kook girl he was stuck with for a boring art project.

Okay, wait no.

Now YOU sounded like a pick-me.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” you said, cheeks pink, before clearing your throat to change the subject. “Okay, so… maybe we should start brainstorming some ideas? Like a mind map or mood board or something?”

Rafe leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his biceps which flexed slightly as he moved. “Mood board? You talking about Pinterest type shit?”

Okay, wow, Rafe was absolutely not the type of guy you thought he was. Did he know about this stuff from Wheezie? Or some friends-with-benefits girlie?

Um, no, Y/N, none of your business.

You gave him a quick nod. “Yeah, something like that. We can also just start by writing stuff down.”

Rafe shrugged in agreement. “Okay.”

Okay.

He looked at you expectantly.

Ugh, did he really expect YOU to be the one taking notes?

Well, crush or not, he was still just a guy, after all.

You reached for the iPad in your bag, grabbed the Apple Pencil, and opened the Notes app.

As you scribbled down today’s date and gave the note a title, Rafe leaned in even closer, glancing at your screen. “Is this the iPad you use for drawing?”

He was so close now, his woody-aquatic aftershave filling your nose, giving you a strange feeling in your chest … and a very special part in your lower body.

“Yeah,” you replied shortly.

“Show me something then.”

“No.”

HUH?

“No?” Rafe’s gaze flicked from the screen to your flushed face, his lips curling into a crooked grin. There was a cocky glimmer in his gaze.

Good heavens, up close his eyes looked even more beautiful. They were the kind of blue people wrote bad poetry about. To you, they were a pretty contradiction—cold in color, warm in the way they lingered on your own eyes.

Heart racing, you looked away and laughed nervously. “I mean… maybe we should focus on the project first, you know, time pressure and all.”

With an amused scoff, Rafe leaned back again, glancing at his phone (wow, rude) for a second before saying, “To the boring part then."

Somehow it felt like you'd scratched his ego.

Girl, how could you mess up this badly? He probably thought you were some pretentious nerd now.

“So… do you have any ideas?” You twirled the Apple Pencil in your fingers, just praying for this painfully long lunch break to end.

Rafe pressed his lips together, scratching his jaw. The glass of his Rolex reflected a spectrum of lights under the ceiling’s lights. “Uh… dunno. What’s the prompt again? A modern take on the Greek gods?”

“A reinterpretation,” you corrected — then realizing you sounded like a know-it-all, so you quickly added, “but yeah, a modern version could definitely count.”

He nodded absentmindedly, fingers drumming on the table. “Okay, so…", he gave a dry laugh and ran a hand over his face. "Shit, what a stupid prompt."

You chewed the inner part of your cheeks. Okay, he clearly had zero interest in spending his free period working on some elective class’ project with you.

But it had been his idea to meet during lunch, you reminded yourself.

Forcing a smile, you offered, “We can always do this later. We still have two weeks.”

Rafe raised a brow. “You got plans or something?”

Oh. Guess that didn’t go over well.

You shook your head. “No, but if you’re not feeling it—”

“I’m not,” he cut in, his fingers stopping their steady rhythm against the table. “But we’re already here, so.”

That didn’t sound very motivated.

“Yeah, I guess”, you said, cringing at the sudden bitterness in your tone.

By the shift in Rafe’s expression, he must have noticed but before he had a chance to comment on it, you quickly picked up on what he’d said earlier. “So, a modern version of Olympus sounds fun. Maybe we can make it about the gods’ roles in today’s society or something like that.”

Rafe eyed you quietly, his expression impossible to read. He then tilted his head, scratching his nose. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe Zeus as the CEO of Olympus Industries or some shit. He’s the big boss, right? And everyone else just kinda works for him.”

Your lips curled into a soft smile. A corporate structure? Why were you not surprised.

“What?” He looked genuinely confused.

You shook your head, cheeks heating up again. “Nothing, that’s… that’s good.”

He raised his brows, a challenging tone in his voice. “You think it’s crap.”

“No,” you replied quickly, then adopted a more serious expression. “Really, it’s a nice take. Maybe his wife — Hera I mean — could be his girl boss PR manager, always cleaning up his scandals?”

A grin tugged at his lips, and with that, the weird tension in the air seemed to fade. “Shit, isn’t she also his sister? Well, yeah, guess she’s gotta cover up his dozen affairs. That guy’s a huge player.”

Okay, real talk—where did he get all this information from? He really didn’t seem like the guy to be interested in greek mythology.

It was cute though.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “You seem to be an expert in this field.”

He scoffed amused, leaning back into his chair. His eyes mustered you with a strange mix of entertainment and irritation. “You think I'm a fuckboy or some shit?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion. Huh? What did he mean—

…

Did he-- ... OH SHIT.

A revolting feeling spread in your stomach and your cheeks probably invented a new shade of red.

WHY ON EARTH HAD YOU PHRASED IT LIKE THAT?!

Some evil gods or spirits must be messing with you right now because there was no way this situation could get any more awkward.

Frantically, you shook your head. “What? I… oh my god, no. NO! I was referring to the Greek gods. Not… you don’t give off such vibes. I mean, it’s none of my business anyway.”

Hey, if there’s a sniper out there, please take me out.

In your mind, you already estimated the cost of moving to another country. Canada had pretty landscapes and New Zealand--

A laugh escaped his lips — cocky, yet carrying a certain warmth. It made your heart stop and race at the same time.

“Relax,” he said bemused, leaning forward with his arms crossed, biceps flexing again. “People have said worse things to my face.”

No, this didn’t sit right with you.

You shook your head again, daring to meet his eyes. “No, I’m serious, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just … surprised about your knowledge of Greek mythology.” You froze, realizing this also sounded stupid. “Not that I took you for clueless…” Shit. You sighed. “It was stupid of me to phrase it like that and I don’t want you to think I take you for a fuckboy. It’s a shitty term anyway.”

Your nerves were going crazy and you fidgeted with the case of your iPad, waiting for his response.

Rafe silently STARING at you didn’t help at all. He seemed … surprised, maybe a little perplexed even.

SAY SOMETHING PLEASE.

“Alright”, he finally said, his usual cocky expression returning to his face. He slightly shifted in his seat, avoiding your gaze for just a second but long enough for you to notice. “Guess I picked up a bit from Wheezie when she had to do a presentation for school or whatever. She couldn't shut up about it. Shit was annoying as hell.”

For a moment, you didn't know what to respond. Why wasn't he offended? Why didn't he mock you for being so awkward?

You smiled, trying to relax your nerves. “Sounds like we could use her little expert knowledge on this project.”

Rafe gave a low chuckle. “Well, I believe we’ve already got a little expert right here”, he said with a crooked smile, his eyes burning a hole into your soul.

Oh. My. God.

The teasing edge in his voice made your brain shut down. This had to count as flirting, right? RIGHT?!

You chuckled nervously, cheeks a deep shade of red, and placed the Apple Pencil back on the screen. “Then I hope whatever I picked up from reading Percy Jackson will be enough.“

That's it, Y/N, you are officially banned from doing any more jokes.

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In English class, you could finally breathe again.

Your suffering was over.

During the rest of the lunch break, Rafe and you had talked about some more ideas. Gladly, you hadn’t embarrassed yourself any further (if that was even possible because you’d definitely reached your peak today).

At the end of lunch, Topper had picked him up and they’d left for their own English class. Your goodbyes had been a little awkward but you’d managed.

Right now, you were grateful they didn’t attend the same class as you because you certainly didn’t want to listen to them laughing about what a weird ass person you were.

Okay, just breathe. I did it, it’s over.

You tried to concentrate on whatever Mrs. Andrade was talking about but only half the students truly paid attention.

Afternoons in the Outer Banks truly were a cruel thing.

So you decided to check your phone:

Sighing quietly, you put your phone away and rubbed your temples. A thousand thoughts raced through your mind, yet at the same time, it felt so empty.

Maybe I'm lucky and tomorrow I’ll wake up to a big newsflash: This just came in, Kildare Academy was reduced to ashes by a sudden fire.

But when had you ever been lucky?

Your phone buzzed again but you really didn’t feel like talking and thinking about Rafe anymore.

This guy had thrown you off track in just an hour but in the best and worst way possible.

And even though every part of you wanted to run from the thought of seeing him again — the way that uncomfortable feeling in your chest wouldn’t let up — there was still a small part of you that found yourself oddly eager to see him again, work with him on that stupid little project and listen to his stupid little laugh.

Because somehow in just sixty minutes you’d learned more about Rafe Cameron than you had in nearly seven years at Kildare Academy.

For instance, he was a lot kinder than you’d expected. Not that you’d ever thought he was like a high school movie bully or some shit but his occasional soft smiles and the way he didn't mock you when you'd said some stupid shit had definitely surprised you.

Plus he seemed to care about his little sister which was such an attractive attribute (and the bare minimum let's be honest).

All of this was so strange.

It sounded stupid but Rafe Cameron had always been just a concept to you. A crush you enjoyed looking at and maybe making up your own little idea of (and some scenarios to fall asleep to be for real).

But now he was... real and—

Bzzrt.

Seriously, Cara had class too—and with Ms. Langford, no less. And unlike Mrs. Andrade, she wasn’t exactly chill.

You picked up your phone again, expecting some delusional text messages—but the moment you saw the notification on your lock screen, your heart stopped.

No fucking way.

NO. FUCKING. WAY.

Holding your breath, you unlocked your phone, and the second your eyes landed on the profile picture, your heart took off in a full sprint. You didn’t even register Mrs. Andrade calling your name.

Because by some strange twist of fate, Rafe Cameron had gotten your number and decided to text you—after what you were sure had been your ultimate humiliation today.

You didn’t know whether to grin, cheer, or jump out of your seat—shit, maybe all three—but instead, you just sat there, wondering if there really was a god of luck and if he’d just decided to bless you.

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

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T A G L I S T F O R M If you're just interested in this series, it's enough to drop a comment, no need to fill out the form.

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Hi Skyen, hope you're well! I'm seeking some advice and since you used to work doing mainly art commissions I figured asking you was worth a shot.

I'm a furry artist and I'm looking into doing commission work as a side gig while I finish animation college, and hopefully acquire enough experience/clients/notoriety to turn it into a full time job once I graduate.

Do you have any advice for someone literally just starting out with fresh accounts and zero following? Especially when it comes to reaching people and getting your first clients, and anything that one should take into account when working with NSFW specifically. Also advice for pricing your work is always useful 😅

No need to answer obvs but I'd appreciate your viewpoint if you want to share!

Got 2 asks on this exact subject so I'll write up what advice I can. One big caveat: I haven't worked as a commission artist for like half a decade at this point, and this job has a tendency to change fast, do not take anything I say as gospel. This is advice from a limited perspective, be critical of what I say and trust your peers and the people you are in community with before you trust me.

building audience

Step one is getting people to notice the artwork you create. Literally nothing else can happen until you have eyeballs on your work, and the most consistent and reliable way to make that happen is fanart. Ideally you'd want to produce fanart in a fandom you are personally engaged with and passionate about and familiar with, and which also has a sizeable community whose attention can help you build recognition and a base of followers.

This isn't always possible, and there's many a working artist who creates work for fandoms not out of deep personal connection, but because the fandom is large and relevant and a good way to capture the goodwill of algorithms and content feeds.

This approach has some downsides. For one, genuine fans can usually tell when someone's engagement with Their Thing is shallow, and for another it can be deeply creatively exhausting to chase the algorithm. I don't recommend this approach, but it is a valid means of building a business.

Another important consideration, especially when you are early in your career, is that volume tends to trump quality. Every artist will eventually learn that their shitty joke-doodle they sh*t out in ten minutes on a whim will get a billion reposts, and their complex personal work that took eight weeks to finish gets 2 likes from their closest mutuals and a comment from a bot saying "wow!"

In the age of the algorithm, what machines and for you pages value is a consistent, high-volume of output that generates user engagement. You will generally get further, faster, by producing a lot of work than you will producing great work. Again, this can be rough on your mental state, and a fast way to burn the fuck out, so please be careful and mind your health before all else.

The best way to build something that will last is to build your audience in communities and around fandoms and themes and ideas you genuinely care about and enjoy exploring and interacting with. Being your authentic self and creating work from your authentic interest is generally both healthier and long-term better for your career than trend-chasing. Treat trend-chasing and volume > quality output as tools in your toolbox, as creative and business decisions you can make to achieve a specific purpose, never ever EVER let them become the center of your praxis or your philosophy. Never ever EVER allow the Numbers™ to be your source of validation and accomplishment.

building business

Ok, so you've got eyes on your work. You've got some followers. How the hell do you get them to commission you?

Well, again, by demonstrating a capacity to create kinds of art for which there is demand. In the furry community, there's brisk trade in things like ref sheets and character design, for example. For most fandoms, ship art is a product which tends to be in demand. Being able to do really good expression sheets is a marketable skill. Being able to create compelling and clear emotes for streamers and creators is a marketable skill.

Showing the capacity to work in a wide range of styles is valuable. Showing the capacity to work in a wide range of genres is valuable. If you can do both comedy and romance your appeal expands. If you can do shonen-like action and angst as well, it expands again.

Equally, being incredibly good at a specific niche is valuable as well. Focusing hard on an under-served niche of work can give you a lot of opportunities to be the Go To person for that specific kind of thing.

Perhaps the hardest part of all of this is marketing yourself. Not only showing that you have the skills, but actively informing your audience that you are available, eager and willing to practise your skill for a fee. You have to sell yourself. It sucks, but you have to do it. You have to advertise what you can do, and you have to suffer the rejection and annoyance that comes along with doing that.

You have to ask people to commission you. You have to raise your hand and demand attention. It's not fun, but it's business.

Walking the line between self-promotion and being a person is hard. I can't help you that much with it, it's a very personal balance to find. Stay in touch with your soul, but kill the part that cringes at yourself.

Ultimately, you best marketing asset is your portfolio. Every time you do work, show it off. Repost it, retweet it, spread it around. If someone is happy with what you've made for them, do your best to make sure that other people see that happiness. Ask your clients (politely) to tag you when they share your work.

Oh, and for the love of god, sign everything you create, slap watermarks on anything that's likely to get reposted, and make it impossible for someone not to find your business email on your profile.

building network

If you're a commission artist, you are in community with other commission artists. You share interests, you share experiences, you share needs.

Practise solidarity. Absolutely seek out professional peers to help your business, but equally seek out opportunities to help them with theirs. If someone comes to you for art and you don't have commission slots open, point them at a colleague who you know can do the work too. Gas up your peers and spread their work.

Be a symbiote, not a parasite. Respect the craft of your peers, and don't chase celebrities and big names in the hope of coasting on their coattails. It will fail.

smut

If you're a working artist, at some point you have to reckon with smut and r34.

These genres are excellent sources of income, and fertile ground to build a business and network of customers. BUT. Do not ever make the mistake of thinking that they are "the easy way" or a shortcut. Do not ever make the mistake of thinking you can simply offer to draw tiddies and rake in the cash.

It's work and graft same as literally any other form of labor, it's challenging on both a technical and creative level, and the audience can sense if you're looking down on them. If you approach this from a position of shame, of "eugh, I'm debasing myself by doing this for rent money," it will not work, and you will lose standing and respect in the eyes of every peer whose support you need to succeed.

Just as in all other forms of creativity, if you treat the audience as morons who will slurp up whatever slop you serve them, then you will attract clientele that agrees with you, and you will deserve the misery they will inflict upon you.

If you are going to work in smut, establish your boundaries and enforce them. Know that good clients will feel safer and more comfortable with an artist who clearly states their red lines and earnest interests than they will with someone who tries to attract more clients by pretending to be open to work that they are actually uncomfortable with.

Never, ever, EVER let a client push you to create work you are not comfortable creating. It scars your soul in both the short and long term.

Also, when working with this kind of content, know the rules of payment processors and know how to hide the nature of your business from them. PayPal should never, EVER know the details of the content you sell with their service. Frankly, neither should your bank, most likely.

Look to your peers for advice and best practises about this. And be meticulous about your bookkeeping.

money

I want to tell you to charge at least minimum wage for your time. I want to tell you to charge substantially more than that, because your labor is specialized and highly skilled.

But the economic reality of commission work is that there is a crushing downwards pressure on the labor price of art, which has only been made more devastating by the rise of generative AI, and especially when you are a young artist just starting out, you're going to find yourself in a position where charging even minimum wage for your time will turn away a huge proportion of your potential customers.

Again, your portfolio will be the greatest argument for the value of your work, but you have to build that portfolio first, and very often that means doing a f*kton of work for not remotely enough pay until the pressure of demand finally works in your favor.

I don't condone or justify this state of affairs. It is horrid and I hate it, but I don't know how to fix it either.

Making a living from content creation of any kind requires you to get lucky, on top of working obscene hours and foregoing rest and vacations. It's not a safe or sensible plan for a career or paying your bills.

My sensible advice is to get a "normal" job you can survive doing, and do your creative work on the side, and resign yourself to the possibility that the creative work may never actually pay your bills.

And that is soul-crushing, but I cannot stomach pretending that hard work and gumption will guarantee anyone a decent living if they just try hard enough.

There are people who are better at every aspect of my work than I am, and they struggle harder and work for longer, and they will never see half the success I have, because I happened to get lucky, and they happened not to. It's wretched.

I'm not telling you not to chase your dreams. I'm telling you to do it with your eyes open, and with compassion for yourself first before all else.

All of this to say: I can't tell you what to charge for your work. It depends on everything from your competition to your niche to your genre to your community to your economic situation. You have to figure it out on your own.

All I can tell you is never forget that your work is worth more than the market will let you charge, and to raise your prices as soon and as much as you can. Try to reach at least minimum wage for your time as fast as possible.

in conclusion

Again, I haven't been a commission artist full time for a long time, please do not take any of this as gospel. Listen to your peers before you listen to me.

But trust me about the solidarity. It will save you when all else fails.

[pvtpunsart]

Masterpost

My name's Rhys and welcome to my Pieces... of art. Haha, gottem.

This is a masterpost, as mentioned previously. By the title, you might have seen him around. He likes to check in sometimes. The titles of the tags below will be links, and this post is of course subject to change when I am able. It's not always going to be up to date, and for that I apologize in advance.

Please note that my art should not be interpreted as t-cest, ever.

Yes, you may color any sketches or lines i post unfinished unless otherwise stated in the post! All I ask is that you tag me when you post it so I can see too!

Asks - I use this tag for responses to asks. This is not an askblog, but I do want to challenge myself to draw a response for any ask I answer. Feel free to block the tag if it becomes annoying; control your dashboard!

Coloring book - These are drawings other people have colored!

AMV tag - I edit sometimes!

Categories for tag sorting are under the cut so as not to clog up the blog/dash.

Series Drawings

Sets of drawings where I draw at least the 4 core turtles in a specific scenario or theme.

Gear Swap - The turtles with weapons, gear, or powers switched around!

Let's hang out with Dad - The turtles get to go on father-son bonding time with Splinter. This tag encompasses anything where they are just being a loving family.

Super Smash Brothers - Small series where the turtles get smash bro victory screens

Crossovers

Those pesky turtles, showing up in all my franchises..!

Overwatch - No trickety tricks, it's the turtles as characters from Blizzard's Overwatch

Pokemon - Drawings where I give the turtles Pokemon! Self explanatory.

AUs

It's what it says on the tin, baby, fun little canon divergences where I, the artist, enact my will on my blorbos

AU Where Everything Is The Same But They Have a Cat - It's an AU where everything is the same, but they have a cat named Klunk because Rise deserves one too!! Because my cat is perfect and beautiful, it is modeled after my perfect and beautiful cat and her antics.

Youngest Big Brother - This AU tag is a catch-all for Turtle Tots content. Mostly when I draw the tots it is keeping the scrapped episode in mind where Leo, Raph, and Donnie are cursed and become Little Kids, and Mikey has to step up as a big brother.

It Gets Better - Good timeline future turtles living life, being happy, being heroes. It's been 20 years. They learned, grew, and stayed silly. A very self indulgent AU for me and my friends.

Other Tags

If you have a kind of drawing you like that I do and want me to group it, send me an ask! I'll update 'em and pop 'em on the masterpost for you.

Incorrect quotes - Text posts from Around The Web, but turtle-flavored

Emoji Expressions Meme - An ask meme for some emoji mashups

[untilmynextstory]

sugar on the rim | stripper!honey summary: pope didn't really want to go to a strip club for his birthday, but maybe it's not so bad when he receives a private dance by the headliner, Honey.

T-Shirt | 18+ chapter summary: It wasn't until last week that he realized that Honey dressed in themes differently from the other girls. She didn't wear traditional lace and bodysuits.  Her attire was almost theatrical  - an experience. A part of him tried not to feel jealous at the thought of other men getting such an experience.

warnings: smut, mentions of assault (man grabs dancer), fighting notes: hi guys, somehow my writing inspiration returned after watching the pitt and I decided to rewatch animal kingdom. This character was originally for a jax teller story, but writing her with pope became easier! I also am not the best smut writer, and I was hesitant to include it in this, but it flowed better with it. i do for sure have two more little blurbs/one-shots, but I have gotten really attached to this iteration of this honey that there will probably be more. additionally, I have more versions of honey planned that I hope my inspiration stays for me to write. i also want to give a shout out to @girthgrudgefear as their small piece of pope x stripper!reader gave me the push to fully go through with fleshing this out more and to post this.

WESTERN

Like most jobs, there were the pluses and minuses. Stripping isn’t something Honey is ashamed of. Stripping is the one way for her to remain close to one of her loves in life, which was dancing. Dancing is her one escape in the world ever since she was little. Despite what most would think, there isn’t any cattiness backstage amongst the girls and the bartenders, bouncers, and owner ensured they were safe and cared for. Most girls wanted to come in, do a shift, and go home. The girls are trying to pay their way to college and pay bills. 

Being one of the older dancers, Honey is almost a mother figure to them as she would help them navigate the world of college, loans, and being a young woman. 

Besides, dancing keeps her in shape as well.

One of the job's minuses is the specific clientele. 

98% of their clientele are men, and 2% are women. 

Men could be grabby, rude, and over all assholes. Not all of them, but most. 

The women for Honey were always her favorite to dance for, especially at parties. The women are there for a good time, and their joy is infectious. It always felt more fun dancing for women, especially when they would try to join her in dances. 

Yet, most of the time, Honey dances for men who thought she owed them or was something to be bought. 

So tonight, she isn’t particularly looking forward to the private party she and a few other girls are booked for, especially when she knows that her fellow dancers have offered things off the menu. Honey doesn’t judge; she just cautions them to be safe and not to serve everyone. 

She is familiar with the party for which she was booked. The Codys are as infamous as the beaches in Oceanside. Honey was fortunate enough that she had been growing up just a little out of the age range of the boys’ social groups; out of all of them, she is more familiar with Craig due to his presence in the club, and he used to mess around with a few of her friends. 

They were more into surfing, and she lived at a dance studio. So her interactions with the Codys were few and between. 

Though it is one of the brothers’ birthdays, Andrew, or Pope, as he went by, she heard Pepper and Jasmine talking amongst themselves about one of the brothers specifically requesting girls who offered more. 

Honey is confused about how she landed in the middle of all this. However, the Codys had money, and even her boss isn’t ignorant that one of the brothers, Craig, was a frequent high-paying customer, and he wanted the best. 

She assumes this was why she is alone in a room with Andrew Cody. 

One thing she learned and honed in on as a dancer was to dissociate. It was easy to get lost in the music as she undulated her hips. And even though most girls found it a bit tacky, Honey made sure to have theme nights for herself. And tonight happened to be her Western theme. Besides being a headliner, she needed to give people reasons for coming back. She needs to provide these men with fantasies, as that is why they are here. They want to escape and feel powerful. 

And Honey finds it’s not hard most days as she gets plenty of offers from men wanting her to be their mistress, who will put her up in her place in the more exclusive areas of The Strand and Oceanside overall. 

Yet, tonight, she thinks her little outfit isn’t catching the eye of her customer. She has a bedazzled bra and ass-less chaps, yet for the sake of earning more tips, she has on a pair of black bikini briefs that she only untied at the end of private performances, and only for her loyal, high-paying customers. 

While dancing, it is essential to make eye contact, yet in dim lighting, it is easy to look over men’s shoulders and give the illusion of empty smiles. 

Yet, this customer sat stone-faced in his seat as his hands clutched the armrests. She wasn’t even sure if he was enjoying the dance, even as she undid her bra. Usually, that gets her a reaction; he does nothing except stare. 

However, as she moves from the stage to his lap, she assumes he is enjoying it, if what she feels beneath her is any indication. 

When the 30 minutes are up, he stuffs her hand with cash and politely waits for her to redress herself before they leave the room. 

He is her easiest customer for the night. 

CHEERLEADER

Honey doesn’t think about the Codys, or Pope, specifically, for the rest of the week, despite the enormous tip that Pope had given her. Instead, she focused on her routine for Sunday for her headliner performance. And it was the week her two longest customers, Mr. Briggs and Steven Carmichael, were making their routine visit. 

Mr. Briggs is an elderly investor, entrepreneur, and businessman who owns things in and out of Oceanside. He is old enough to be her father, and she is sure his youngest daughter is her age or younger. She knows he is married to a highly conservative Christian woman, who is highly involved in a local church. When Mr. Briggs comes to the club, it’s always through a special access door that leads to one of the private suites for privacy.

Since she showed up at the club at 23, he has requested Honey.

He is nice despite consistently trying to pay her for things off the menu or, worse, constantly offering her his home to be the weekend lover. She doesn't want to call him sweet, as a man like him has to be ruthless in business. Yet, she knows to be sweet and seductive with him, as one night with him, she makes her rent payment for the month. 

Steve Carmichael is a retired pro-surfer. Now, he has his merchandise line associated with surfing and sponsors local talent. He is single, but she is under no illusion that in all the places he owns a home, a girl is waiting in an empty house like the one he consistently tries to place her in. 

Although Honey blames herself for being young and naive and allowing him to be the only customer she ever slept with. 

Yet, she may have another regular customer. 

It’s late on Thursday night when she spots him. He looks awkward and out of place in his button-up. His eyes glance around the dancers. She watches as a few dancers try to approach him, but he rebuffs them.  She shakes her head in amusement as she approaches him. His eyes lock on her, and he trails down her body over her outfit, which was that of a cheerleader, as she walks to him. 

She throws him a coy smile. “Want a dance?”

He nods awkwardly before she leads him to a private room, nodding towards Cliff, who keeps guard of the area. 

She gently guides Pope to a chair. “So that you know, this is only a dance.”

He nods in compliance before she begins moving to the song playing. This time, she doesn’t fake eye contact with him as she moves around. She notices his eyes can't seem to stay focused on her face. In fact, he seems entranced by her belly ring. 

Despite his being here, he still seems stiff. 

While she cages his lap with her legs, she grabs his hands and places them on her hips. He looks up at her, alarmed, but she gives him a bemused smile. She leans down next to his ear, “Relax.”

It takes a few minutes, but he does. She smiles at him genuinely as she continues her routine, and not once does he move his hand from anywhere other than her hips. 

POISON IVY

“Do you always dress in theme?”

Honey looks at Pope inquisitively. She believes these were the first words he had ever said to her. She shuts the door to the private room and twirls in her costume for show.  

She is wearing a red wig in a half-updo with two buns on top. Her outfit is a one-piece monokini with a scrunch-butt bikini bottom. The bundle of leaves mixed with rhinestones is strategically placed to cover her breasts.  

She smiles at Pope underneath her eyelashes as she leans up to his ear and grazes the spot on his stomach above the lines of his jeans with her nails. “Do you like it?”

She thinks it is adorable watching the tip of his ears turn red. “It’s nice,” he settles on.

She laughs as she removes her elbow-length fishnet gloves and stuffs them in his front pocket. 

“Just nice?” She teases. 

Pope doesn't reply, but she can see the flush building in his cheeks. 

He is turning out to be her favorite customer. 

NURSE

Pope didn’t expect to become a regular at a strip club. He hadn't been thrilled when his brothers added that as a stop in his birthday celebration, and even worse when Baz announced he got him a private dance with the headliner, Honey.

He didn't know what to expect when entering the private room. Craig had already moaned about him getting to have a private dance with Honey. Apparently, Honey wasn't cheap, and Craig never had the cash for barely 15 minutes with her. 

Pope swears he remembers Craig coming to him with a busted nose when he was 16 from a girl named Honey. 

Pope didn't get to ponder those thoughts as he watched Honey come out in a lasso and assless chaps, fake guns in holsters to her sides. 

He had watched in a trance as she controlled her lasso and the way she moved her hips. The way her gold dripping honeycomb belly ring glinted under the club’s light. Worse, the feeling of her pert ass grinding on him and the smell of something sweet like marshmallows, vanilla, and caramel infiltrated his senses long after the dance. 

Yet, he noticed she didn't dance like she was scared of him or that she was dancing for a Cody. He felt normal just being a customer. Even with his brothers, they walked around on eggshells. In that room with Honey, he was just another customer. 

He thought that would be the last time he would see Honey. 

After another night of no sleep and another re-run of Planet Earth, he had idle time.

He had made his way to the strip club before his mind caught up. 

He tried not to feel disappointed that he couldn't spot her. A part of him felt foolish for having hope. Yet, he spotted a figure approaching him in a skimpy cheerleader outfit. She seemed happy to see him. 

He followed her silently into a private room and recalled the look she threw at him and her words, indicating that she only danced. He had nodded, as he did not argue, and he would never push for more despite knowing a few girls offered. 

Despite the warning, she did place his hands on her hips. He could still feel her heat and the smoothness of her skin. The smell of her perfume infiltrated his senses. He recalled her sweet smile and the way it reached her eyes. He can't remember the last time someone smiled at him. 

Returning home, he fell asleep easily that night. 

It wasn't until last week that he realized Honey was dressed in themes. She didn't wear traditional lace and bodysuits. 

Her attire was almost theatrical  - an experience. A part of him tried not to feel jealous at the thought of other men getting such an experience. 

He had to admit her poison ivy costume was his favorite. She gave Uma Thurman a run for her money. He recalled the bikini bottoms he itched to pull and wondered if she would let him. He knew that she would never let him touch her in that way. Yet, the fantasy of her and her sweet smile fueled him to feel longing, the craving of a soft touch. The way she sometimes giggled at him despite his lack of words in his responses was enough to forget the demons perched on his shoulders. 

Instead, he had pulled the green fishnet gloves out of his pockets, inhaling deeply for traces of marshmallows, vanilla, and caramel, and held them tight in his fist while he worked to find release. 

Walking into the strip club, he is curious about her outfit tonight. 

. . .

Tonight is a night of hell for Honey. 

Most would think it’s common for men to get quite grabby, but it's not. Sure, they had assholes every night,  but most strip clubs have their regulars who respect the rules and look out for the girls. It’s typically any out-of-towners, or fresh 18-year-olds, and drunk college boys that get a little too hands-on. 

Tonight is one of those nights, especially since some surfing events are happening. Everyone is on edge, especially regarding a table filled with some Portuguese surfers. Cole, their bouncer, had walked over to them several times, especially as one seemed to be getting rough with Jasmine. 

Honey typically had no problem taking over a rough table on such nights. She had done it for the green girls, who didn't know how to regain control. 

Yet, she feels she might have gotten a little over her head with these guys. 

At most, on the floor, Honey only goes topless. It is for private dances with loyal, high-paying customers that she ever went full nude. Yet, this table did not seem to understand the word no as the men kept tugging on the strings of her bottom despite the clear no-touching signs. 

She would usually redirect with a laugh and a quip, so that the men usually knew they were reaching their limit. After all, men loved to test boundaries. 

Yet, the man kept persisting with his friends, egging him on. 

“Sir, I think it's time for you and your friends to take your party elsewhere if you can't respect the club rules, " she tells the group. At this point, she knows Cole needs to escort them out. 

Yet, in her move of walking away, she makes a fatal mistake of turning her back. The man grabs her roughly, causing her to cry out in shock at the pain of his grip. 

She goes to scream for Cole, but she is ripped out of the man's grip. She is in a stupor as the Portuguese man is thrown on the floor. 

It takes her a while to recognize the bulky form of Pope. 

Cole is trying to intervene as Pope continues to punch the man. The club is silent as they watch Pope beat this man to death. 

Cole and Cliff finally manage to pull Pope from the man. Pope is heaving in anger. She can hear her boss telling everyone the show is over as he works to try to get the club to focus on the drinks and the dancers. Honey follows Pope, who is taken outside by Cole.

Cole frowns at her following them. 

“I'll be okay,” she answers his silent question. Yet, she knows Cole is still waiting on the other side of the door for her to walk back to him. 

Pope is silent and staring at the moon. 

She isn't sure what to say. She has seen her fair share of violence. She isn't queasy or revolted. It is just the intensity she had seen from him. And she is familiar with the Codys, particularly Pope, who is known for violence. 

“I'm sorry you had to see that.” He tells her without turning to look at her. 

Honey licks her lips and folds her arms around her chest. “Can you give me a ride home?” she asks gently. 

She is unsure if he even hears her, but he nods.

She holds out her hand for him. He looks so confused at her, but he does grab it as she leads him back inside. She doesn’t bother changing into her sweats and tank top and just switches her platform stilettos into her slip-on Converses and slides on her jacket. 

She follows Pope silently to his truck and thanks him quietly as he opens the door to let her in.

The ride is quiet, and she is unsure what to say, so she is silent as Pope drives her to her place. She lives in a small two-bedroom house on the Strand. It was a bit pricey, but it is her home since she returned to Oceanside.

Pope pulls up in front of her place. She notices that he is clutching the steering wheel hard, and in the light of the moon, she can see the blood on his knuckles. 

“Come inside?” 

He looks at her with wide eyes as if he is shocked she would ask that. 

 “Please.”

She almost misses his nod, but he opens his door and escorts her to her door. She wonders if she is making a mistake. 

Sure, she is aware of the Codys, but she doesn't know them. And most would think her crazy, out of all the brothers, she would have Pope in her home. 

She directs him to sit on her green velvet couch before she escapes to her bathroom for her first aid kit. 

Returning to the living room, Pope looks stiff and out of place. Reminiscent of how he was during their first dance. 

“Let me look at your hand.”

Pope seems to realize that his knuckles are bloody as he looks at them and flexes them. “You don’t have too…”

“I want to,” she tells him as she settles in front of him between his thighs. “Besides, it would be a shame for my outfit to go to waste.”

Pope’s eyes zone in on her outfit for tonight, which was that of a sexy nurse. The skirt is barely existent, and her top was of a pleather material that made her modest breasts look like a C cup. 

She notices his eyes are stuck on the zipper, threatening to burst. 

He doesn’t fight her as she begins to clean his hands gently. 

“Are you okay?” She asks him. She looks up to find him already staring at her. She feels her cheeks become warm. 

“This is nothing,” he replies quietly. “Are you?”

“Not my first bar fight, slugger,” she replies, almost laughing at his sour look. 

She finishes wrapping his hand and kisses his bruised knuckles. She can tell he is uncertain, and being in an unfamiliar place probably makes him more anxious. 

“Thank you.” He tells her as he gently flexes her hand.

“I’ll see you next week?” she asks, leading him to her door. He nods before making his way to his truck. She laughs as he doesn’t pull away from her house until she closes the door and is safe inside. 

PLAYBOY BUNNY

“It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Honey, who has found her home on Pope’s lap, leans back in and raises an eyebrow at him. She is surprised when she feels his hand squeeze the fluffy cotton tail of her costume. His healing hands trail to the front of her strapless corset teddy. They look better than they did last week. 

Her hands trail up from his broad shoulders into his growing hair. She thinks she can distinguish little curls forming in his dark hair. She had been eager to see him since last week. It didn't help that the days were slower, as if the universe knew her feelings for Pope. 

She knows her tips were shit for the night as she barely worked the floor waiting for him to stroll through at 1 AM, an hour before closing. He had barely made it in before she was dragging him to a private room. 

She leans down to his ear, “Like you didn’t have a favorite playmate?”

He doesn’t give her a verbal response, but his hands tighten around her waist, especially as she grinds purposefully on him. It’s not the little teasing moves she makes on the customers. This is purposeful in movement. It’s meant to elicit a response. She wants his response.

At this point, Honey has concluded that Pope isn’t a regular customer. He intrigues her, and he is probably the only customer who has. She wants to know what's hidden beneath his guarded stares and the stories of his rough hands and scars. 

She can feel him beneath her, and she is sure a wet spot is forming between the two of them. His eyes trail over her form. She can see his want more clearly than any other night she has been on his lap.  “I don’t recall you being a centerfold.”

She wraps her arms around his neck, the air between them thick and heavy. “Take me home tonight?”

. . . 

It's under an hour that Pope has Honey naked in bed with his head buried between her thighs. Her clothes are scattered across the floor of her bedroom. Honey only managed to get his shirt off and jeans undone before he gently threw her on her bed. 

“Andrew,” she keens as he drags the flat of his tongue across her folds, fingers tightening on his growing hair. Her thighs are trembling with the promise of release as she arches her back. 

“Look at me,” he commands once he realizes her eyes are shut. 

Honey obliges with no complaints even if it's a struggle as he closes his lips around her clit.

“Fuck,” Honey moans as he sucks gently. “Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-”

Honey's back arches off the bed as she gushes against his mouth. Yet, before she can come down from the aftershock, she feels two of his thick fingers breaching her entrance and his lips closing around her clit again. 

She gasps as she protests, “It's too much.”

Pope's fingers are steadily pumping in and out. “You can give me another one.”

Honey is breathless as she whines and withers before him. Her body tightens again with the promise of release. However, Pope's thick fingers vanish and she feels her pussy flutter around nothing. 

“Andrew!” Honey's eyes snap open as she finds him standing at the edge of her bed. Admiring her slick form. She can see her release on his lips. His hair is mussed from her fingers.  

“Are you sure you want this?” He asks gravely. A part of her is in disbelief that he would ask her that after he was just buried between her thighs. Yet, as she catches her breath, she feels the question is filled with a heavier meaning than just sleeping with him for the night. 

“I want this,” Honey replies without hesitation. 

He doesn't second-guess himself, or her, as he removes his pants with his boxers in one move. She swallows as she sees his length, stiff and aching, as he places a condom on. 

She is sure he is the biggest she has had based on girth alone. 

He crawls over her slowly, hesitantly. Honey can't help but kiss his nose and nibble at his lips when he reaches her face. He pulls her into a deeper kiss as she spreads her legs wider, as she feels him heavy against her thighs. 

He pulls back and looks into her eyes. “It's been a while for me.” He says shyly.

She smiles softly, “Me too.”

Honey had been sure that he would have entered her in one sharp thrust. Yet, she is taken back as he sinks into her slowly until he is buried fully inside her. She can feel him trembling. She sighs as her body adjusts to him. 

“You okay?” He whispers as he kisses her neck. 

Honey nods as she takes a breath. “Please move,” she begs. 

He doesn't need to be directed twice as he begins a steady pace that has Honey sighing as her head falls back against her pillow. She brings her legs up higher, and she groans as she slips deeper into her. 

“Oh fuck,” she whimpers when his fingers begin rubbing circles on her swollen clit. 

Pope continues to push into her slowly, deeply. Honey winds her arms around his neck and pulls him into a kiss as her fingers tangle in his curls. Yet, she needs more. 

Suddenly Honey nudges him on his back and in one swift motion she sinks back down on his cock. 

“Fuck,” Pope groans as he nudges a spot deep inside that her her squeezing around him. “I'm not gonna-”

“Let go,” Honey whispers as she brings him into a messy kiss as she grinds down on him. 

Pope sits up and delivers a sharp thrust. His arms wrap around her tightly as his thrusts turn brutal. Honey's nails dig into his shoulders as she clenches around him abruptly, which triggers Pope's release as he fills his condom. She laments the use of the condom. 

She finds herself being turned to lie on her back. She shivers as Pope gently removes himself. 

“Sorry,” he says as she hisses at the feeling of the emptiness. 

She watches as he removes his condom and throws it in her wastebasket. She lets out a startled yelp when he picks her up bridal style. 

“What are you doing?!”

“You need to piss. Don't want you to get a UTI.”

Honey thinks she is going to fall in love with this man. 

CIVILIAN 

Honey wakes up feeling completely rested, but sore. She moans slightly as her body slowly returns to consciousness despite her wanting to stay asleep. However, she remembers why her body feels so sore, especially as she feels the weight and warmth of a person wrapped around her. Or more particularly a hand underneath the shirt she is wearing, gripping her tit. 

A grin takes over her features, and she thinks about last night with Pope. Pope had taken her a second time after she had made a late-night snack. To say it was intense would be an understatement. She knows she will walk funny and must take it easy when dancing. 

She grabs his hand and presses a kiss to his fingers, and she is startled when she feels it flex. 

“How you feeling?” His voice is rough from sleep. 

She turns to face him, a smile on her lips. “Good. How are you?”

“Best sleep I’ve gotten in a while.” He admits. 

Honey almost preens at his words. She knows he has just been released from prison, and his mom's place is too crowded from the little they speak. She can only imagine how that messed up his sleep cycle. 

She pushes him to lie flat, which he does with no resistance, and she straddles him. 

She giggles as his eyes focus on her breasts that are conveniently covered by the opening of his button-up shirt. 

In her haste to remove his clothes, she had broken the buttons with a promise to mend them. 

His hands grip her thighs, and his thumb rubs circles on the flesh, causing her to shiver. It's quiet between them, and she knows there is no going back. He isn't just a customer anymore. 

“You know, I think this is my favorite outfit,” he tells her. There is a vulnerability in his eyes. 

She smiles at him and rubs soothing circles on his chest. She can fill his heart pounding, “I think it’s mine too.”

[quicksilversnails]

The Princess contains death within her multitudes, and no vessels embody death and the fear that it inspires more strongly than the Nightmare and Moment of Clarity.

It's a major theme to her route, from how you get to it in the first place - ruminating in fear of what she could be until her presence is enough to make you die of fright - to the Paranoid's chant constantly reminding you of your (perceived) mortality, to her goal to make the world afraid in the same way that she makes you afraid.

Because of the Nightmare's close connection to death, I think there's a lot of interesting comparisons to be drawn between her and the Narrator. I'm writing this post to explore some of their connections and also to spread my vision (TLDR they are foils. To me.)

As we know, the Narrator is characterized by His fear of death, both by His own admission...

...and by the Shifting Mound:

Meanwhile, the Nightmare is defined by the fear she brings, which she acknowledges and seems to relish in:

I think it's noteworthy that the Nightmare wants to inflict this fear onto the world as a whole, unlike many other Princesses who are mainly just focused on you and/or her own personal freedom.

This focus on the world specifically positions her ideology in direct opposition to the Narrator's. The Nightmare wants a world of terror, while the Narrator wants a world void of terror. The Nightmare believes that experiencing fear and suffering is necessary to make the good times meaningful, while the Narrator thinks goodness is self-evident, with forgetting it all being core to the structure of His ideal world.

To accept the Nightmare's vision for the world and leave with her is described as overcoming a fear of the unknown by Shifty:

…and this makes sense - what bigger unknown is there than death? But the Narrator wouldn't see this as something to be celebrated.

To the Narrator, the unknown is always worse than the known. To Him, death is unknowable, uncontrollable, chaotic, horrifying. The cowardly thing to do is accept the unknown, while the heroic thing to do is to fight for something better. This "something better", in His eyes, being the Known: defined by its deterministic, eternally repeating pattern.

Getting back to the Nightmare herself, I think it's telling how much the Narrator HATES her, even more intensely than the average vessel. A great example of this happens just before leaving the cabin with the blade:

Like, this is big for the Narrator! In most routes He goes out of His way to distinguish slaying from killing, but here, His desire to "do things right" is overtaken by the need to see her DEAD.

Also, if you waste the opportunity by not taking the blade with you in the first place, He gets a stiff drink for himself lol

(afaik this is one of only 3 times that he gets a drink… not a common occurrence)

He also briefly seems afraid of Nightmare in her first appearance:

Tbh the screenshot doesn’t do justice to the uncertainty and fear in Jonny's delivery. It's noteworthy to me because the Princess takes on plenty of scary and immediately life-threatening forms throughout the game, but the Narrator usually reacts to the sight of those horrors with indifference or mild indignation, not terror. The Nightmare specifically inspires fear in Him.

And this all comes to a head when she removes her mask, bearing the contents of her heart for you to witness… and he completely gives up.

The sequence leading to the Moment of Clarity is one of the most abstract in the game, and there are plenty of abstract sequences in this game lol. While there are multiple ways to interpret it (and my own interpretation of it has changed many times over time), I do still want to talk about it here because it's so significant to both Nightmare and Narrator's characters.

In my mind, the key to interpreting it is in the inverted linework, which implies that we're seeing things from the Princess' perspective, reflected in the Narrator describing the Princess' experience.

Then, "the complete reality of your existence" refers to the complete reality of the Princess' existence: the capacity to change. And the Nightmare, in all her self-loathing, reveals the darkest, most horrific possibilities of that change. Change as something that hurts everything it touches. As something agonizing to experience and traumatizing to witness. As something that can tear you from the ones you love at any moment, as something that leaves you worse than where you started, as something the world would be better off without.

It all sounds a lot like how the Narrator sees change, doesn't it? "Your existence hurts them" in particular stands out to me as something the Narrator, or the cabin, would say to her directly; the sort of thing she's likely had repeated to her over and over and over throughout her isolation, until deep in her heart she begins to believe it.

The tragic irony of it is that so much of the Princess' suffering is specifically at the hands of the Narrator's construct, and yet she comes to view it as inherent to her own existence. He has convinced her of her own irredeemability. The worms have found their orifices.

(Sidenote but it's neat how the Narrator is occasionally associated with worms. Tower calls Him a "shrivelling little worm stretched beyond its limits", and P&tD's End of Everything poem describes how "the worm in your heart came for us"… which makes this visualization hit that much harder as a representation of the Princess' experience.)

All of this raw emotional vulnerability from the Nightmare seems to stand in total contrast to the Narrator, who withholds himself from you emotionally throughout the game, preventing you from meaningfully connecting with him.

But there's also something about how Nightmare sharing her heart parallels Smitten sharing his heart in the lead-up to HEA. Because HEA Smitten and the Narrator have many parallels of their own, don't they?

All three make some kind of painful sacrifice, revealing a deep vulnerability, in order to force their perspective onto those who experience it. The original Creator goes through death itself - his greatest fear - and inflicts an eternal torment onto his Echoes in order to create His better world, regardless of whether the people of His world would actually want that. The Smitten rips out his heart and calls it a sacrifice in order to give the Princess everything she "doesn't know she wants". The Nightmare takes off her mask, revealing the full weight of her suffering, in order to be let out (not only from the cabin but from her abandonment, from being misunderstood), even if doing so crushes you.

In describing the complete reality of her existence, The Narrator bears witness to everything He'd woven into her, and all the hatred He taught her to feel towards herself. He witnesses the darkest horrors of change, the agony He was so terrified of, and how she experiences all that same agony. And in His creation, the thing He hates and fears more than anything, He also sees a reflection of Himself.

Of course it breaks Him.

If the Nightmare embodies the fear of death, the Moment of Clarity embodies Death itself. If the Nightmare is possibility, MOC is inevitability. If the Nightmare is a dying star, MOC is a black hole.

Like how the Narrator and HEA Smitten become echoes of their original desire, MOC becomes an echo of Nightmare's desires. She is emaciated, her face an empty void. You can't speak to her anymore, can barely engage with her at all. She's more of a memory than a person, and so are you. She has molded you into the tool that she needs, like how the Echo molded TLQ & the Princess into their designated roles, how He also molded Himself into your guide. Time has eroded everything else, but still she remains, now singular in her purpose.

Where the Narrator and the people outside were once consumed by thoughts of oblivion, so too are the voices. They each attempt to grapple with the inevitable in their own ways. They challenge her, run from her, bargain with her, submit to her, romanticize her, philosophize over her, become numb to her.

But you cannot escape from death, from something that only gets closer, and closer, and closer, and closer.

There is no other ending here. There is nothing to do but accept her.

There's something about how TSM describes her as wise, in stark contrast to how she calls the Narrator deluded. I didn't really know what to make of that descriptor when it first got changed, but viewing MOC as death made it click for me, and now it's one of my favourite vessel descriptions.

Where the Narrator wants to change the inevitable, MOC accepts and embraces it. If all the vessels are a reflection of some aspect of the Shifting Mound, MOC reflects the divine wisdom Shifty holds towards death, as well as the inevitability of Shifty herself - the inevitable destination where every route ends, who gently takes the vessels as life leaves their eyes, who always asks for you not to mourn them. (She also reflects all the arms)

....So after all of this, what are we left with? What does all this say about the Narrator and Nightmare?

Well, they're both deeply tied to death and fear. They're diametrically opposed in their beliefs, yet in many ways, they're exactly the same. They're both victims of a cruel world, who then become cruel to others, while also becoming cruel to themselves. They bend you and the world to their will while turning themselves into echoes of what they were.

They're such incredible foils. They're everything to me

[ckret2]

I remember you saying a lot of the characters you'd written for had a common theme of loneliness, is there any common theme between the pairings you like or is it just purely "the chemistry is good" ?

there are sooo many pairings with "good chemistry" that totally bore me lmao. no, i've got specific preferences.

Here's one very very specific ship dynamic that I almost always gravitate toward:

Enter a fandom. Find the most powerful villain (or villain-acting character) in this fandom. They must be completely OP, absolutely self-assured in their power and supremacy, all but unbeatable (unless it's by like the plucky hero or whatever). They are smug. They are confident. Their tag is probably filled with reader insert fics with plots like "y/n is dommed by [character] and calls him daddy." This is the Badass.

Find another character. This character is comparatively pathetic. Oftentimes, the fandom joke is that they could never win a fight. If the fandom isn't loudly proclaiming that this second character would get their ass handed to them by, specifically, the Badass, then it's only because the two of them are on SUCH different power levels that the idea of a fight never enters fans' minds. They may or may not actually be a wimp, but what matters is the fandom (and often, the narrative) sees them that way—at least when compared to the Badass, if not universally. This is the Loser.

Then have the Badass get kneecapped with love for the Loser.

They've gotta fall in love in a way that completely destroys them. It makes them fall from grace. It strips away their godhood. It topples their empire. It steals their power, their prestige, their dignity, their confidence, their sanity. It ruins their life.

The Badass would give up everything for a chance to crawl like a worm at the feet of their beloved Loser. They submit themself entirely to the Loser's will. They are but a sword, a toy, a dog, a piece of trash—whatever they need to lower themself to to be allowed to bask in the Loser's light.

The Loser might not even reciprocate.

This is a difficult ship dynamic to be into because even when the fandom DOES ship Badass/Loser, every one of the fics is like "Loser is dommed by Badass and calls him daddy" and I recoil in disgust.

And here's some other ship dynamics I'm into—borrowed from a couple of prior asks I've gotten here and here so if you wanna see me ramble EVEN MORE, I go more in depth in those two links.

the biggest thing that gets me into a ship is unhealthy obsession. Love to the point of self-destruction. Love past the point of all reason. Love like an addiction, love like a poison.

Forms this takes can include:

a worshiper toward their (personal) god. bonus points if the "god" isn't even that great, the divinity just exists in the worshiper's mind and the "god" kinda sucks (billford's a good example; I actually usually prefer the obsession going the other way around, but there's definitely still shades of this in how I write Ford's POV on Bill)

mutual rabidly codependent toxic obsession (example: comics Venom.)

"knight" obsessively in love with their liege. (canon example: Pearl toward Rose Quartz. headcanon example: Zim toward the Tallest. this is gonna be how i write Scaramouche toward Aku.) This can be extended to ships with similar power dynamics like henchman/villain.

your classic yandere. "I love you so much I had to kidnap you," "stay with me and I'll make you sososo happy, leave and I'll kill us both," "I will proactively murder anyone who likes you before you can like them back," "I will rewrite my entire identity to be perfect for you," "I'm so breathlessly euphoric with love for you that I kind of want to slit my own throat" yandere-yandere. (THE yandere: Yuno Gasai. a personal favorite: IDW Tarantulas toward Prowl.)

perpetually unrequited love. it MUST stay unrequited. if it becomes requited it stops being interesting. it must be quietly agonized over for an eternity. Bonus points if the couple once had a chance but the suffering lover sabotaged it. (I've done this with HashiMada, Starscream/Wheeljack, and radiosnake. you could easily do it with Gideon/Mabel or post-betrayal billford.)

"emotionless" characters (like in a "robot programmed without emotions" way, not a "mental illness" way) that somehow gain the capacity to feel love and it becomes their whole identity because they have nothing else. (i don't have an example lmao)

Various tropes I enjoy outside unhealthy obsession (although it can incorporate it):

Anything that lets me write a character romantically waxing poetic over the breathtaking beauty of something that normal people would never consider a potential object of attraction. Like a pteranodon, or a literal triangle with an eyeball, or a pile of black sludge.

The super genius who makes/does incredible things and their personal muse who inspires their work and is in awe of the brilliant things they do/make. they can both be geniuses but don't have to be. (Tarantulas & Prowl; Sir Pentious & Alastor; Ford & Bill)

Toxic exes who still know each other SO well that it's agony to be around each other because they can see everything they used to have.

Characters who make each other Worse. Like their relationship is good, but being together turns them both into terrible people. (Venom.)

[kannouo]

This Is Halloween!

fandom: obey me pairing: demon brothers x gn!reader. summary: how each of the demon brothers celebrate halloween. warnings: slightly suggestive on some parts, but not much. A/N: nobody asked for this i just really love halloween. had a lot of fun with writing these!

LUCIFER

• Predictably, Lucifer is very vocal with his complaints about this holiday. However, no matter how much he has to say about how pointless or childish these traditions are, you will always catch him going along with it anyway.

• "I don't see the appeal of these silly decorations," he says, and then spends the evening decorating the front lawn with elaborate props. "Why should we spend so much money on sweets if we're just going to give it all away?" He asks right before buying multiple bucket-fulls of candy because he wasn't sure how quickly they'd run out. "These costumes are ridiculous," he sighs, and later you find him trying on some newly-bought fake vampire fangs.

• He would only fully dress up if there was some kind of costume party orchestrated by Diavolo or the like. And when he does, he goes all out. Did you think the Avatar of Pride was going to settle for cheap, store-bought costumes? No — he's going to make sure his look is spectacular. You aren't sure how he's so good at special effects make-up.

• Dressing as a vampire is a pretty standard and basic choice, but Lucifer really brings it to life. To be honest, he already sort of dresses like a stereotypical vampire anyway, but he goes all-out this time. A long black cloak and formal outfit with red accents, some foundation for the illusion of paler skin, and some very well-done fake blood dripping from his lips. He probably carries around a goblet full of red wine just to really sell it.

• He doesn't need to do much else. He already has the good looks, black hair and red eyes. If you find him particularly attractive in this costume, you can expect him to teasingly indulge your fantasies throughout the evening and well into the night.

• If you let him buy garden props or decorations around the house, he will somehow find the most genuinely terrifying things out there. He very much enjoys the fear his very well-placed jumpscares and strangely realistic-looking skeletons spark in you and his brothers.

• A downside is his lawn decorations absolutely scare off a good amount of trick-or-treaters. Oh well. Beel will eat all the candy he bought instead, so at least it won't go to waste.

"Where did you get such good fake blood?" You question, wiping your thumb over Lucifer's bottom lip. He smirked, and you caught a glimpse of the fangs you'd helped him put in earlier. Trapped between him and the wall at your back, you allowed yourself to lean your head back as he kissed you. Only... His lips tasted... coppery? You pulled away for breath and stared at him. "It... it is fake, right?" "...Lucifer, please tell me that's fake blood."

MAMMON

• Hell yeah, Halloween! Sexy costumes, parties, sale opportunities! Mammon loves Halloween.

• Takes a bunch of Halloween-themed modelling gigs, since the season means anything related to it will sell way better. He can even make some extra money by making crappy T-shirts and charms and selling them to people who are crazy about this time of year.

• What Mammon doesn't love about Halloween, though, are two things. Horror and witches. Specifically witch costumes, because sometimes they look too realistic to a witch he's had "dealings" with in the past and trigger his fight or flight panic response. Maybe just choose something else to dress up as when you're with Mammon.

• As for horror, Mammon will deny to the grave that he's scared of horror movies, but he is, and he hates the uptick in scary films and horror attractions. He tries to avoid going near them or talking about them in general, because if you were to ask him to watch a horror movie or to come with you to a haunted house attraction, he has to say yes. He can't have his human thinking he's scared of something so silly! So for that reason, he tries to steer clear of the subject altogether.

• Mammon doesn't need a motive to dress up. It's Halloween, of course he's going to. The costume he chooses is likely to be something related to whatever is trending that year. If a new movie just came out that's all the rage online, he'll dress as a character from it. Aside from that, I can see him doing a werewolf look. He might even wear a collar if you ask.

• Will lose all ability to speak if you show up in a costume, too. It doesn't even matter if it's actually revealing at all, no matter what he will be absolutely floored. If it is something a little riskier though, expect him to get kind of possessive and very protective. Especially in public. His brothers think this behaviour is hilarious. "LOLOLOL, MC has a guard dog!" "Shaddup!"

• Super eager to answer the door to trick-or-treaters, but there has to be a rule set in place that he isn't allowed to go out there and demand money in exchange for candy from anyone who looks old enough, otherwise he will do just that.

• Takes all the candy from those "take one!" buckets left outside of people's houses and probably gets some kind of curse put on him because of it. Mammon becomes one of Lucifer's decorations that day.

You approached a smaller house with one hand intertwined with Mammon's, and a candy bag in the other. You were already a little sceptical as there weren't any lights on, but to your delight, there was a fake cauldron set up outside the door with a sign reading "please take one!" You picked out a candy bar of your choosing, only for Mammon to grab the bag from your hands. "Wha—" To your horror, he reached his arm in and scooped out all of the candy into the bag in chunks. "Mammon!" You scolded. "Shhh!" He shoved the — now full — bag back into your arms and grabbed you. "Just go!" ...You're pretty sure you saw the light of a doorbell camera as you both ran from the scene of the crime.

LEVIATHAN

• Levi does not like Halloween.

• I mean, any other time of the year normies make fun of cosplay and refuse to participate in it! But on Halloween night, it's suddenly okay?! And he's expected to greet all these snot-nosed little kids at the door and give them treats?! Absolutely not. He holes himself up in his room until Halloween night is over and done with, but honestly, it's not much of a difference to how he usually is.

• I can see him enjoying the decorations aspect of it, though. Even if he won't willingly participate in anything else, you can expect his room to be fully decked out in Halloween props and decor. He definitely buys stickers off of Akuzon to put on the windows.

• Another aspect he does actually like is the horror marketing, specifically if it's revolved around horror games. His idea of getting into the Halloween spirit is inviting you on a horror game binge in his room, but most of the games he chooses are very obscure and disturbing. If you like stuff like that, great! If you don't... ah... I'm sure he can find one that's a little less upsetting for you.

• He's too embarrassed to wear a costume in public, but if he were to dress-up at all, it'd be in cosplay. Maybe of Ruri-chan or one of his other beloved anime characters. It isn't horror-themed at all, but whatever, it's still a costume. He'll let you see him in it if you ask nicely, but he won't be going outside his room with it on. He also didn't need to order anything, he already had all of these cosplays hidden away in his closet for... personal reasons.

• Might actually get a kick out of one other thing — pumpkin carving! He'll carve a video game character into it instead of an actually frightening or classic Halloween design, but it turns out really good anyway.

• If anyone organises an apple-bobbing contest, he absolutely dominates. You're pretty sure being able to breathe underwater is against some kind of rule because he just doesn't need to come up at all, he'll dunk his head in and not come out until he gets an apple.

• Levi is the house leaving out "take one!" buckets.

After the umpteenth time of Levi insisting that this next game will be "more up your alley," you started to lose faith. All of these Devildom horror games seemed especially gore-y and cruel in a way that would not fly if they were released in the human realm. "Maybe... this one?" Levi hovered over another horror game he already downloaded and selected it. As soon as it booted up, the background 'music' on the title screen had the most horrific and genuine terror-filled screams you'd ever heard in your life. You winced and he immediately went back to the homescreen. "...Let's just play Devilkart," he conceded. "Yeah. Let's."

SATAN

• Doesn't mind Halloween as a whole, but gets really into certain aspects of it.

• Satan is another one likely to get in the "Halloween spirit" by binging horror media for the whole month, in his case, books. Most conversations with him in the month of October will lead back to the latest horror novel he's reading and his thoughts on it. He might recommend it to you if he knows you like horror, but if you don't, he'll also go in-depth about the plot.

• He really enjoys elaborate Halloween props, but if you set up one of those jumpscare machines to pop out at him, he will destroy it on instinct. Will later deny that it scared him at all, though.

• He likes all of the human-world Halloween traditions and tries to organise them for him and his brothers to participate. Apple-bobbing, pumpkin carving, ghost stories, you name it; he'll push for everyone to take part.

• Satan would only dress up if you managed to convince him to do so or if, like Lucifer, there was some kind of event that required all attendees to be in costume. Either way, he figures out he actually enjoys it way more than he thought he would. He dresses in a stereotypical 'detective' outfit and gets really into character. He even carries around a fake pipe.

• ...Might dress up as a cat. It depends on his mood. He would much prefer to see you dressed as one, though. If you do show up dressed in some kind of 'sexy cat' costume, he will drag you away with him at the earliest convenience.

• He and Belphie put a smoke machine in Lucifer's room while he was busy decorating the lawn.

• Doesn't like handing out sweets. If he's the one answering the door, you'll have to stop him from trying to give the kids fruit instead of the candy you already bought. "These are unhealthy. We shouldn't be encouraging such young children to have bad eating habits—" "Satan, just give the kid a snickers."

"Just put them on? Please?" You pouted, holding a black cat headband in front of his face. He glanced between you and the cheap cat ears for a moment, before sighing and grabbing them off of you. You grinned as he put the headband on his head, then stared at you with raised eyebrows and an unimpressed glare. "Happy?" "Very," you nodded. Then you reached to pull out your D.D.D. "Now meow for the camera." "Don't push your luck."

ASMODEUS

• "In girl world, Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it." — Mean Girls, 2004.

• Granted, he's not a girl, and he'll dress exactly how he wants any other day of the year too. But still, Halloween is special! He has so many things to choose from. Sexy cat? Sexy nurse? Sexy cop? Sexy—

• Like Mammon, he might choose a costume based on a popular or trending movie, just with his own special Asmo-touch. He won't settle for cheap, store-bought costumes — even if he'd still look damn good in them — and probably makes his outfit himself. Try and tell me you can't see him dressing as Barbie. You can't, because he would.

• He does Halloween-themed makeup looks throughout the whole month of October. You can expect his Devilgram to be filled with pictures of cute Halloween nail designs he did, and a matching makeup look. If any sort of event happens and you're going — he'll insist on dolling you up for it himself! He's your personal makeup artist.

• Isn't a fan of horror movies, horror attraction or those creepy decorations Satan and Lucifer keep buying. He might accompany you to a haunted house though, so he can dramatically throw himself at you whenever he encounters something even mildly frightening.

• If you convince him to do pumpkin-carving (despite his insistence that it would ruin his perfectly manicured nails), he carves a some kind of cute design, like a pretty flower. He would carve his beautiful face into it, but... he isn't quite at that level of expertise.

• Asmo is very excited to hand out all the candy! All the kids that come to the door look so adorable in their little costumes! And if you think you saw him sneak a few sweets for himself when he's supposedly on a diet, no you didn't.

"Aaaah! MC, save meee!~" Asmo came running down the hall of the haunted house attraction, jumping into your arms and clinging to you for dear life. As you looked in the direction he came from to see what could have possibly startled him so badly, you saw nothing but a tiny, fake spider prop. "...Asmo, it's a plastic spider." "But it looks ickyyy!" He whined. "Can I hold onto you until we get through this hall? So you can protect me!~" "...Fine." "Oh, MC, my hero!~" He began to pepper kisses all over your face. "A—Asmo! Where do you think you're touching?!"

BEELZEBUB

• You can probably see where this is going, but yes, he will eat all of the candy you buy.

• He doesn't mean it, honestly. But it just smells so good and it's right in front of him. Pumpkin carving is also impossible with Beel for this reason. He will just eat the whole pumpkin. It's best to hide all of the sweets from him until Halloween night, but considering his excellent sense of smell, even that won't work for long if he wakes up in the middle of the night with a craving.

• He does his best to be helpful where he can, however. He's very tall, so he'll help with putting up decorations in high places. He's also capable of carrying large props to and fro with minimal effort, so Lucifer found him very useful for setting up the lawn decor.

• Beel doesn't mind dressing up if it'll make you happy. He also doesn't really care what his costume is. If you take him out to choose, he'll constantly turn the question of what he should wear back on you, because he really can't decide and honestly doesn't care that much. You could point to the most ridiculous-looking Winnie the Pooh costume and he'd shrug and say "okay."

• That being said... a bear costume would suit him pretty well. Imagine seeing an absolute beast of a man dressed as Winnie the Pooh and absolutely downing pots of honey. People are just kind of like huh... that's a really dedicated Winnie the Pooh cosplayer, I guess. Another costume I can see for him is a zombie because... "eating brains"? Idk.

• He also isn't a good choice to compete in apple-bobbing competitions for obvious reasons. If you thought Levi would dominate, wait until Beel starts consuming the entire container of water and apples. The apple-bobbing event had to be cut short.

• He doesn't mind horror movies and attractions. He won't go to them of his own accord, but if you take him along, he'll hold your hand the whole time so you don't get too scared. The only downside is that the scare actors will probably be too terrified of him and his RBF to actually jump out and scare either of you, so... it kind of just feels like a tour of some weird abandoned house.

You flinched and covered your eyes as the screen before you displayed yet another jumpscare. You couldn't help but curse Levi for recommending this movie... what is wrong with the Devildom film industry?! You heard Beel's crunching on chips cease next to you for a moment before he shuffled closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to rest against his side. "Beel?" "Shh," he lifted a few more of the chips from the bag to his mouth. "You're okay." Usually, him talking with his mouth full would diminish how he was trying to comfort you, but... you had to admit, you felt much safer snuggled against him like this. "...Thanks." You try to ignore the crumbs he's getting on you.

BELPHEGOR

• It's Halloween?... Okay? Snooore.

• He's about as apathetic as you would expect. He doesn't care what day it is, he's going back to bed. Will not assist any of his brothers in decoration, except for maybe Beel if he's feeling awake enough. But Beel doesn't usually require that much help anyway.

• Belphie isn't going to buy himself a costume. You'll have to get him one. "Belphie! I got something for you to wear!" "Yeah? What?" The look he gave you when you held up the disney princess gown suggested he didn't quite think it was as amusing as you did. Still, if it's all you got him, he probably would wear it.

• Obviously, the most fitting costume you can buy him is one of an actual sloth. Just make sure it's comfortable enough, and he'll be wearing it long after Halloween is over. Another costume he'd appreciate is a zombie similar to Beel's or a mummy, because then he can just lay down, sleep, and excuse it as the fact the thing he's dressed as is literally dead.

• Is not affected by jumpscares in the slightest. He might watch a horror movie with you, but he probably won't accompany you to any attractions unless you carry him. If you do get him there, though, he'll make fun of you for being scared and keep hiding behind corners to make you think he disappeared or went ahead without you.

• Apple-bobbing? Pumpkin carving? Costume parties? Eh... Beel, MC, can you guys handle this for him? Pretty please?

• Isn't too thrilled about answering the door, but he will do it if you pester him. He kind of just chucks a bunch of random candy into all the kids' bags and probably scares one or two of them off by making a poorly timed, slightly threatening joke. You have to remind him they're children and don't understand he's kidding.

• That doesn't mean he'll stop. He's now just scaring them on purpose because it's funny.

"Belphie, wake up!" You lightly slap the back of his head and he jolts awake, shooting you a glare. You frown right back at him. "We're going to be late to the party." "Why are we even going?" He whined, rubbing his eyes. "Because we were invited? And it'd be rude to not at least try and show up?'' "Whatever..." You hit him again as he went limp. "Stop doing that. I'm a sloth. Sloths sleep." "Get up, Belphegor! I am not carrying you all the way there!"