#but it's impossible to think from the other perspective

[silvermoon424]

First of all- seconding the recommendation to check out Alyssa Grenfell. Her videos about Mormonism and Mormon culture from an ex-Mormon perspective are so insightful, and she really dives deep on topics.

Anyway, I don't think people realize what a high-control religion Mormonism is. It isn't like a lot of sects of Christianity, where you can be really lax about following the religion and still be considered a part of it; for example, there are tons of cultural Catholics in the US who only attend Mass on Christmas and Easter (and maybe abstain from meat on Fridays during Lent) but are still considered part of the religious community. A priest is not going to turn away people who aren't coming in often enough.

On the other hand, Mormonism requires extreme dedication and upkeep. One thing I hear over and over from ex-Mormons is that it's impossible to be a "casual Mormon" like you can be a casual Jew or a casual Muslim or whatever. If you're not going to a Mormon temple weekly, tithing 10% of your income to the Mormon Church, wearing that weird underwear, adhering to Mormon diet/behavior/appearance standards, etc, your bishop can and will tell you to shape up or get out. Mormons can be barred from entering temples (and, by extension, their community) for very minor infractions.

While all religions are about control to some extent, the LDS makes no secret about how it rules over its adherents with a watchful eye and an iron fist.

mormons undoubtedly in the top 5 worst things the united states has ever invented which is really saying something

[skitskatdacat63]

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[lesbiangender]

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[sonknuxadow]

not believing the sonic generations remaster rumors unless it gets officially announced somewhere because people are going "bro.... this sonic game is totally gonna get a remaster soon..." literally all the time but if it is true . why sonic generations. it holds up fairly well i dont think it needs to be remastered what is the point. the only reason i can think of is making it more accessible to current gen consoles but even then. why cant they just port it without changing anything. why put the effort in for a full on remaster. also sonic generations is such a forgettable nothing game im sorry there are so many others that would have deserved this more

[roobylavender]

this is definitely one of my more controversial stances but while i believe oliver queen absolutely has to be played by a white man i don’t think bruce wayne necessarily has to be

[dexaroth]

licherally how it feels to read the deconstruction of a story and everyone speaking so eloquently about character motivations and the way they act and talk and the whys of that and the bunch of details that lead to those conclusions meanwhile i can barely scrape a personality for my ocs

[drdemonprince]

The conversations about accountability & apologies that we've been having in social justice circles these last few years have basically trained everybody to fawn.

We've been telling people that if they are accused of any wrongdoing or of hurting anybody's feelings, it is their obligation to apologize immediately, and never to hedge, disagree, or to explain their rationale what they've done.

In their apology, we expect them to articulate every single thing that they have done that was damaging in the strongest language possible and to declare outright that they have harmed someone, often multiple groups of people, even if they are not sure of the impact (or could not even possibly be sure).

If a person's apology is anything but immediate and entirely self-excoriating, we accuse the person of downplaying the damage they have done, failing to be accountable, and manipulating others.

In this way, we've made it impossible for a person to ever take their own side lest that be taken itself as a form of wrongdoing. We have trained our fellow social-justice-minded people to believe that if they do anything but worsen the case against themselves, they are being irresponsible.

I say we, in all of this, because I have partaken in all of this rhetoric, made these kinds of criticism, given accused people this type of advice.

And I have followed it myself, often to a damaging effect.

I have taken responsibility for problems in which I truly did not believe I played a part, I've overstated the damage that I've done so as not to risk understating it, I've ascribed malice to my intentions when I knew it wasn't there, I've agreed with people's most negative, bad-faith narratives about conflicts involving me that they were not even present for, offered up information about myself that was not a third party's business in the name of transparency, apologized for things I haven't done -- and in doing all of this, I have denied my loved ones the opportunity to really hear me about what I was going through and my motivations when I was in conflict with them, things that any true friend or close associate would obviously want to hear about if they cared about me.

This aim of giving the perfect apology and taking perfect accountability has been nothing but an isolating force in my life, because it has barred me from openly entering into necessary conflict with people when our needs were incompatible or they had hurt me just as much as I'd hurt them. The fear of being a manipulative, unaccountable DARVO-er has led me to roll onto my back and expose my belly, falling over myself with panicked apologies and the most unflattering information possible cast in the least explicable light, almost outright begging for others to become angrier at me and believing that it was only way I could ever possibly be accepted back.

We've drilled into people that the way to be good and responsible is to allow people to view us as negatively as possible, to even arm others with information that will confirm that point of view, and to never insert our own perspective or needs on the matter at all.

And yeah, there are a lot of shitty people out there who dodge accountability easily because their power ensconces them from any consequences. but the primary problem with that was never that they wrote a shitty notesapp apology that used the unforgivable phrase "I am sorry if you felt XYZ." The real problem was that there was no community that held enough influence to hold them to account, and for their victims there weren't ever adequate supports or protections.

instead of addressing any of that in a remotely systematic way, we have taken to picking apart every accused person's every word and deed for evidence of inner moral failure and created a culture in which we think we can determine a person's safety by how artfully they put words together when they are under threat. and what do you know, plenty of bad faith actors and conflict avoidant cowards and people who just dont understand what they are even being accused of can do that just fine.

[interestingturnofthetables]

I’m about to go off about this in the tags. I didn’t know there was a tag limit until it got out of hand. Very intriguing idea dude!

Stan Pines once fantasized about traveling the world on boat with his brother.

But ever since that brother died to a rogue wave while the two were swimming at the beach, he's had a fear of the ocean and never intends to set foot on a boat.

Fiddleford McGucket is pursuing his hobby of making personal computers, after having a normal college life, getting married, and having a kid. He has it good.

The town of Gravity Falls lives cult-free, and get to keep their memories of all the mysterious happenings. Bill Cipher was never summoned.

Stan is on the run from the law and people he's crossed with his scams. One night, he hears a strange noise from his closet. He grabs a baseball bat and opens it, and it's almost like looking in a mirror. Almost, because the person staring back has glasses, a cleft chin, and looks like he's been through hell, among other universes.

The mysterious man says, "Stanley?"

"How the hell do you know my name?" Stan raises the bat, ready to beat up this uncanny stranger who magically appeared in his closet.

Then he spots his hands.

Six fingers.

"I must be high out of my mind..."

(Or: AU where Ford died as a kid and then at some point in the portal he encounters a universe where he doesn't have to worry about meeting his alternate self. As long as he can convince his brother he's real.)

[luna-azzurra]

Some Tips for writing internal conflict

Wanting Two Things at Once Imagine your character really wants to chase after something big, like a dream school, a major opportunity, or maybe even moving to a new city. But at the same time, they’re terrified of leaving behind everything they’ve ever known. Or maybe they’re in a relationship that’s holding them back, but they can’t bring themselves to let go. Show them getting pulled in two directions, torn between their ambition and their fear of losing the people or places that ground them.

Right vs. Wrong Sometimes, your character will know deep down what the right choice is, but it’s the most difficult one to make. Like, maybe they see someone getting bullied and know they should stand up, but doing so could make them a target. Or maybe they have to decide between helping a friend and doing something that could ruin their own future. These moral dilemmas create intense internal conflict because it forces them to question who they are and what they stand for.

Doubting Themselves We all have moments where we wonder if we’re enough, smart enough, strong enough, brave enough. Let your character wrestle with that same doubt. Maybe they’re the kid who has always been told they’re special, but now they’re in a place where everyone is just as good, and they start to wonder if they even belong. Or maybe they’ve been through something tough, and they’re not sure if they can bounce back. These moments of insecurity make your character feel human, like they’re trying to figure it all out, just like everyone else.

Dreams vs. Fears Show your character dreaming big but getting frozen by their own fears. It’s like wanting to ask someone out but being terrified of rejection, or wanting to move away for college but being scared to leave home. Let them imagine all the things that could go wrong , that moment when fear makes them doubt if they should even try. But also show their desire burning just as strong, making it impossible to ignore. That’s the heart of internal conflict: they’re stuck between wanting something so bad and being afraid of what it’ll cost to go after it.

Beliefs Being Challenged As your character grows, the world will start challenging their beliefs. Maybe they grew up in a family that drilled certain values into them, and now they’re meeting people who see things differently. Or maybe they’re experiencing something new, and it’s changing their perspective. It’s like when you think you have everything figured out, and then life throws something at you that makes you go, "Wait, maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time." This kind of internal conflict is powerful because it forces the character to question who they’ve always been.

Keeping Secrets If your character is hiding something, like a mistake they made, feelings they’re afraid to admit, or a truth they don’t want to face, that secret becomes a huge part of their internal conflict. The fear of being found out or of dealing with the consequences can create a constant pressure in their mind. Maybe they’re scared they’ll lose their friends if the truth comes out, or maybe they’re dealing with guilt they can’t shake. The tension comes from their battle to keep it hidden while knowing they can’t keep it locked away forever.

Pressure from Everyone Your character might feel like they’re trapped between what they want for themselves and what everyone else wants from them. It could be pressure from parents, who have their whole future planned out, or pressure from friends to fit in or follow the crowd. Maybe your character wants to be true to themselves, but they’re scared of disappointing people or standing out too much. This kind of internal conflict is super relatable because, at some point, everyone feels like they’re stuck between living for themselves and living for others.

Fear of Failing Sometimes the biggest obstacle isn’t the external challenge but the internal fear of failure. Your character might have big dreams, but they’re paralyzed by the thought of messing up. Whether it’s competing in a sport, performing on stage, or just trying something new, the fear of not being good enough can be overwhelming. Maybe they’re afraid that if they fail, everyone will see them differently, or worse, that they’ll see themselves differently. The internal conflict comes from their desire to succeed battling against their crippling fear of failure.

[snippit-crickit]

hmmmmm i had wondered recently how i would go about designing an anomaly which do not wants to be perceived

it is on a spectrum,,,,, Normally people cant see it but those who can see it as a sort of tiger but pinpointing exactly how it looks like is impossible because its appearance is different every panel/scene and shifts,,, what it does is that it eats memories of people and erases the people that they consumed from the memories of other people, so its like they never existed at all (and it ate Banksy) (wait who's Banksy??)

agentlady/corrine can see it because its her personal torment and felix/moustache guy can see it because he just sees things other people dont

i think she somehow got manipulated by it into helping it and is trying to fix her mistake and catch it before it hurts more people? Also a callback to the blackroom comic because why not

i think the perspective of being forgotten might be double scary for artists???its their gist afterall thankyou for coming to my tedtalk im just freestyling over here i love drawing concepts!!!

[deposedefenddeny]

Clearly written by a mathematics prodigy. Reads like a series of lemmas on the question of 21st century quality of life. It's easy to quickly and thoughtless write this off as the manifesto of a lunatic, in order to avoid facing some of the uncomfortable problems it identifies. But it's simply impossible to ignore how prescient many of his predictions about modern society turned out. He was a violent individual - rightfully imprisoned - who maimed innocent people. While these actions tend to be characterized as those of a crazy luddite, however, they are more accurately seen as those of an extreme political revolutionary. A take I found online that I think is interesting: "Had the balls to recognize that peaceful protest has gotten us absolutely nowhere and at the end of the day, he's probably right. Oil barons haven't listened to any environmentalists, but they feared him. When all other forms of communication fail, violence is necessary to survive. You may not like his methods, but to see things from his perspective, it's not terrorism, it's war and revolution. Fossil fuel companies actively suppress anything that stands in their way and within a generation or two, it will begin costing human lives by greater and greater magnitudes until the earth is just a flaming ball orbiting third from the sun. Peaceful protest is outright ignored, economic protest isn't possible in the current system, so how long until we recognize that violence against those who lead us to such destruction is justified as self-defense. These companies don't care about you, or your kids, or your grandkids. They have zero qualms about burning down the planet for a buck, so why should we have any qualms about burning them down to survive? We're animals just like everything else on this planet, except we've forgotten the law of the jungle and bend over for our overlords when any other animal would recognize the threat and fight to the death for their survival. 'Violence never solved anything' is a statement uttered by cowards and predators."

A review from Luigi Mangione's Goodreads account, published Jan 31, 2024

[prokopetz]

One of the pieces of feedback I'd received on the previous revision of Eat God is that the introductory text didn't clearly communicate what the game's big-picture deal is. I'm hoping this rewrite makes it clear!

(Image transcript under the cut.)

Introduction

Eat God is a game about being on the outside. It revolves around the Folk, beings who stand for every small, funny-looking creature in every game that insists small, funny-looking creatures are morally okay to kill, every goblin and kobold and imp, all reimagined here as members of the same impossibly varied, self-created people. Each player will take on the role of one of the Folk, different from any other, and navigate the world from their knee-high perspective.

Of course, player characters in Eat God aren't just any small, goblin-like critters. They're also God-eaters, practitioners of an esoteric discipline – part existential philosophy, part martial art – that comes with both fantastical abilities and big questions: namely, what does it mean to eat God?

Is “God” the systems of oppression we build to keep others down, and eating God means throwing off those chains?

Is “God” the culmination of an error in our understanding of reality, and eating God means finding another way to be?

Or is “God” just a great big tyrant in the sky, and eating God means exactly what you think it means?

As a God-eater, your journey to find out will take you from place to place, with each destination presenting potential answers, usually in the form of someone being ground under someone else's boot. Owing to your limited outsider's perspective, your interventions may not always help, at least not in the ways you intend, but they'll definitely ensure that those who benefit from the status quo are having a bad time.

Or, in less elevated terms, Eat God is a game about a bunch of gender-ambiguous muppety things with bullshit super powers wandering around causing problems on purpose. If you cause enough, you might even accomplish something.

[wheelie-sick]

I think (well, I know) there's this big mix up in words within the disabled community where some people use "can't" to mean "it's hard" or "I shouldn't" while other people use "can't" to mean "can't"

and a lot of problems arise when the prior group doesn't understand what the latter means by "can't"

it's entirely okay to use the word "can't" to communicate to (particularly abled) people that this is something that you either really struggle with or shouldn't do. it's a boundary word. it's okay to draw that line in the sand and say you can't do something because your disability makes it hard or dangerous.

but you have to remember that some people in the community are using the word "can't" to mean "can't" and truly can't do the thing no matter how much they want to or how hard they try. when you see someone say they can't do something your assumption should be impossibility, especially if you're going to respond, and especially especially if you're going to offer advice (which you should only do with permission. unsolicited advice isn't acceptable)

statements from people who "can't" as in "it's difficult" saying things like "well I just do it anyways even though it's hard!" are a total slap in the face when you mean "can't" as in "can't." it makes you feel misunderstood and alone when no one relates to you and all people ever say is that they can do it! so why can't you?!

to put it into perspective for the people in the "can't" as in "difficult" group: how does it feel when you say you can't do something to an abled person and they say something along the lines of "well I do it just fine, why can't you?" because that is exactly what you are saying to other disabled people. just because you're disabled as well doesn't make it okay or less hurtful.

[vilonnie]

I think because ann is often brushed off as a token cheerful, airheaded girly character there's a tendency to limit her insight to the areas that are expected of her (i.e. relationships, fashion, pop culture, etc) which doesn't account for the way she is deliberately and consistently established as the most insightful character in the game time and again. on fashion – ann notes her appreciation of harujuku subcultures at one point because it is unconventional and earnest, and as someone who has always stood out she understands the value of expressing yourself proudly without being weighed down by others opinions. also, during yusukes social link, ann is ultimately the one whose thoughtful reading of the sayuri and the understanding she's able to glean from it allows yusuke to reorient his perspective + break out of his slump. she has an interest in art and her perceptiveness lets her identify yusukes internal conflict with unerring accuracy from an abstract painting with no explicit details. and with yusuke in general she is the most preoccupied with his feelings and his needs during that entire arc and even when he pushes back against them she is the one constantly extending her hand and checking in on how he's doing.

but really throughout the whole game she is always approaching other people with extremely careful consideration to the point where it's a defining trait. out of all the phantom thieves, it's her relationship with makoto that is arguably the most centered in makotos arc. and during the conflict between those two ann is nowhere near flatly positive – on the contrary, the part of her that is brimming with rage, melancholy, and compassion is fully in the spotlight. her criticism is only so cutting because of her ability to see straight to the heart of things. but the resolution demonstrates what ann is capable of more than the conflict itself, pairing her ferocity with the gentleness and kindness that permits makoto and her to relate to + support each other. later ann is able to compare futabas mental state with shihos and her conviction drives her to once again relate to futaba, approaching her where she is at. it's ann who hesitates to leave haru when the spaceport starts collapsing. it's ann who lashes out so furiously, and so pointedly, at shido primarily on akechis behalf.

and of course anns uniquely discerning eye comes from the same place as the rest of her strength – her integrity and honesty of character. in fact ann is a person who knows exactly what her values are and is so sincere and unwavering in them that it is naturally impossible to sway them. when ann is faced with cruelty and derision her immediate response is to reframe it as a challenge and use it to reaffirm her respect for both herself and her opponent, something that takes incredible emotional maturity. notions of who ann should be or what she should prioritize cannot touch her because she knows to live her life on her own terms – she acts on admiration for the women in her life and already understands strength and beauty as going beyond appearances without having to be taught. she is inspired by and inspires those who support her every day; when the phantom thieves are unsure, she is always, always, the one who is continuously driven to help those in need and stand up for the weak, and she will never forget that. I didn't even say anything about alice hiiragi.

ann is a character who has to contend in universe with incorrect perceptions of her as shallow and substanceless, but she is feminine and doesn't get good grades, and so fans still often fall into the trap of depicting her as lacking critical thinking and a complex interiority – which is a shame for a character who is never once treated that way in the original game itself (for all its other problems with her writing.) ann is frequently vital to problem solving and her choices are often directly responsible for driving the plot forward, filling a role that no other character could perform. idk just. hello have you thought about ann takamaki on this fine day

[moonlightseve]

The Stammi Vicino Duetto is actually so wild when you sit down and think about it from the perspective of a figure skating fan who lives in the YoI universe.

Viktor Nikiforov, who some may argue to be the greatest men’s singles skater ever, skates this melancholy routine that is chock-full of so much longing and heartache that it’s impossible to ignore. I cannot even imagine what the forums looked like and how much speculation there was over the inspiration behind Stammi Vicino.

And then he suddenly takes a break from skating. He’s getting older, so this probably isn’t an absolute surprise, but it’s still VERY unexpected. He just walks away with no warning at all.

What the REAL surprise is is that he randomly becomes a coach for this Japanese skater who has been tanking competitions left and right, running off to Japan with no warning.

(Just so we’re all following here: insanely emotionally charged free skate, sudden break from the sport he has dominated for years, impromptu career change that makes no sense)

Do you think the fans thought this was his mid-life crisis? Do you think they thought he had lost his mind?

And then, the very next time he’s back on the ice publicly, HE IS SKATING TO A REVISED VERSION OF THAT SAME MELANCHOLY ARIA THAT STARTED THIS WHOLE MESS.

He is skating to the Stammi Vicino Duetto at the GPF exhibition with his student who was floundering this same time last year and has now won silver. THEY ARE DOING A PAIR SKATE AND LOOKING AT EACH OTHER WITH HEART EYES.

They are doing a pair skate to the Stammi Vicino Duetto, looking at each other with heart eyes, and Viktor Nikiforov is coming back to the ice after seemingly finding the love of his life.

I guarantee this would have broken at least one social media platform.

[salem-s]

07 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, oral sex (male receiving), fingering. 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 4.6k. i think this is the shortest chapter yet????? ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. lowkey hella fluff? ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER best to you by blood orange

And you do. 

The dinner wages on, engaging in cordial small talk with your family to the best of your ability, but you can't deny how abhorrently boring and tedious the conversations are. The topics range from the economy, to what Pamela Torrin said to Aunt Nancy in Palm Springs back in June, to more careless whispers that, truly, go in one ear and out the other.

The questions that you perk up for are more so about your and Rafe’s relationship as well as about Rafe himself, to which he always finds a way to relate it back to you, or include you in the conversation, or provide a small tidbit that showcases you as a person rather than just a partner in a relationship. 

It throws your family — and you — for a loophole.

Rafe is undeniably charming and polite the entire night, a side to him that you get whiplash from, but you come to the conclusion that this is probably how he has to act around his extended family, too. It's almost comical seeing him flip a switch, putting on a persona to accommodate the environment he's in, to chameleon his vernacular to please the others.

When dinner’s over, you grip Rafe’s hand so bruisingly tight that it catches him off guard, lugging him away from your family — more so your mother, who undoubtedly was about to beeline towards you to interrogate you about your food portion — and towards the lobby.

Rafe laughs when you snipe two bottles of red wine from one of the carts by the bar, none of the workers catching your little act of thievery. 

“Baby, I think you are a klepto,” he jokes, leaning down so his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, trailing behind your urgent stride. 

Despite the shiver that runs down your spine, you simply hum teasingly and pull him into the elevator, biting your lip as a few other people hop in. You stand shoulder to shoulder, and you can’t help but slightly lean into his frame. He doesn’t nudge you off, and instead embraces it, his chest blooming with pride at the gesture. 

When you get to the room, the door isn’t even shut yet before you're pulling him down by the collar and kissing him.

Hard. 

Rafe mmrrphs into your mouth, no doubt surprised but leaning into the gesture nonetheless. His hands are all over you, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist, running along your rib cage to grope your breasts, splaying across your back to push your body impossibly taut to his. 

You absentmindedly place the bottles on the desk with your lips still on his, splaying your hands on Rafe’s chest to walk him backwards until his knees are hitting the edge of the bed. 

He flops down against the mattress, a husky chuckle escaping his lips at your unusual dominance. You stand between his shamelessly manspreaded legs, your hands running along his shoulders and neck as his run up and down your thighs, long fingers disappearing under your dress as he peers up at you playfully. 

“What’re you–” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, suppressing a grin.

Rafe’s eyebrows raise in amusement, almost mocking. “Oh?”

You sink to your knees. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, his dick twitching uncomfortably in his pants as your nimble fingers ghost over his belt. 

You shake your head in disbelief, unbuckling his belt and going at taking his pants off like a bitch in heat. “You’re so annoying.”

“I am?”

You scoff at his teasing tone, utterly offended. “Yes. Saying all of that shit tonight. Smiling at all of them. All of it.”

Rafe cocks his head to the side, smirking at your irritation as you actively prepare to suck him off.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he purrs, completely unapologetic. 

But his teasing facade simmers as you grip his length over his boxers, causing his breath to hitch and his hand to immediately fist your hair. He hates how achingly hard he is already, especially since he’s been counting down the minutes to be alone with you again after getting him all worked up as soon as you stepped out of the elevator. 

Rafe’s been thinking of all the ways he wants to fuck you stupid, and by the looks of your determination, you've been thinking the same thing and he nearly laughs at the sight of it.

It’s cute, he wants to mock, how you want to take control right now, and he almost wants to see you try as you grab his aching cock out of his boxers, slowly jerking him off.

But, pathetically, if you keep this up, he’s going to be finishing embarrassingly early. Which is something as of late that's been happening (and no doubt bruising his ego at every chance).

Rafe grabs your chin just as you're about to wrap your lips around him, pulling you to meet his eye. “Get on the bed.”

You yank your chin out of his grip. “No.”

“No?”

You squeeze his cock for emphasis and his hips nearly jolt. “You don’t want me to suck you off?”

Rafe’s head spins when you gingerly lick the pre-cum off his tip. It’s taking everything in him not to throw you on the bed and make you swallow all these teasing words.

But it's proving very, very difficult when you're peering up at him like that, all doe eyed and pleading that has him a mess internally. He's sure if you asked him for something right now, he'd say yes without hesitation.

“You’re being a brat. Get on the bed,” he attempts to command, but his voice wavers. 

“Even if I ask really nicely?” you purr, jerking him off achingly slow and resting your head on his thigh, looking up at him with faux innocence that it nearly makes him scoff. You give him another squeeze that makes him bite his lip. “I’ve been thinking about your cock all night.”

He waves the white flag.

“Yeah?”

You nod against his thigh, not breaking eye contact as you swipe a thumb over his tip. “Wanted it in my mouth.” You lean up to kiss his dick. “Wanted to say thank you for being so good tonight.” 

His hand grips your hair tighter. Rafe says your name low, half in warning half in plea. 

“Will you let me?” You ask softly, and you don't wait for a response before you're taking his cock in your mouth, lapping and sucking like a bitch in heat. 

Rafe can’t look away, breathily moaning as he watches you bob your head up and down, each time getting closer and closer to taking all of it in your mouth. One of your dainty hands comes up to cup one of his balls, gently massaging and he curses at the sensation. His hips stutter as his hand guides your head up and down, up and down, up and down to work your way to take all of him. 

When your nose brushes his pelvic bone, he shakily exhales, “Good job, baby. Taking me so fucking well.”

You moan at the praise, the vibration making him groan. 

God, he doesn’t want to come right now, as he’d much rather take you on the bed and fuck you every which way until you're a writhing mess, but you're sucking the goddamn soul out of him so damn good that he doesn’t think he could get up if he tried.

The combination of your gags, the spit dribbling down your chin, your hand massaging him, it’s all too much.

"Look at you," he sighs breathily, mainly to himself. "Like a damn dream."

All you do is moan around his cock.

Rafe curses and throws his head back, looking up to the ceiling and willing whatever being to give him the strength not to finish right now.

He thinks of obscure things to delay the inevitable, but no matter how hard he tries, his thoughts come back to you, you, you, the way you're moaning against his cock and how it reverberates the coil in his belly, the way you aren't complaining when he will occasionally push your head down to take him further, the way you were so eager to take care of him, calling him good. 

Fuck. There's something he didn't realize he was into until now.

He has half a mind to tell you to stop before he’s spent, cursing again as he opens his eyes and finds the courage to stare back down at you.

But the words die in Rafe’s throat as he watches you, taking him so well, and he nearly laughs when he swears he can see a fucking smile on your face.

“Pretty fucking mouth,” Rafe groans. “So damn pretty on your knees.”

You impossibly take him further, his dick hitting the back of your throat and he nearly jolts his hips forward at the sensation. And now, in this moment, he feels his orgasm coming. Fast.

He almost pulls you off of him. Almost.

But he just has to lull his head to the side, catching a glimpse of what your other hand is doing, which is in between your thighs plunging in and out of your cunt in pace of your bobbing. 

“Shit–”

The sight has his hips stuttering forward, moaning your name embarrassingly loud as he comes down your throat devastatingly early.

Rafe’s hand pushes your head up and down to ride out his high, and you don't even flinch as you reciprocate his moan, whining as you swallow his load and squirming against your hand as you get closer and closer to your high. When you do come seconds after, your body jolts forwards as you take him further, making you both moan pornographically loud. 

The sound nearly makes his eyes roll back.

Rafe’s come dribbles down your chin when he guides your mouth off of him, stumbling from the haze of your orgasm when he pulls you up by the elbow to stand in between his legs.

With a lazy smile and cutting off whatever obscene remark he's about to say, you bring your slick covered fingers to his mouth and he doesn’t hesitate to taste you, groaning low as his hands shamelessly grope your ass, gently shaking from the ferocity of his unpredicted finish.

God, you taste so fucking sweet. His favorite meal.

Your eyes meet, and he nearly shakes his head in disbelief at the stupid grin on your face. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he spats, chest heaving. “Dirty fucking girl.”

You only beam wider, your hands meeting his shoulders. “That’s one way to say thank you.”

Rafe scoffs, trying his best to keep up the facade and not to grin at you. “You’ve been thinking about that all night?”

He nearly swoons when you slowly nod.

“Absolutely unbelievable.”

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to do it under the dinner table?”

Rafe grabs your hips impossibly tight, shutting his eyes. “Stop.”

He can just imagine the stupid smile on your face, taking in the sight of him completely at your mercy.

“What? Did I get the big, bad Rafe Cameron all flustered?”

He can feel your hands trailing on his shoulders, moving up the nape of his neck to lightly tug at the ends of his overgrown hair, making him bite his lip to refrain from letting out any more embarrassing noises.

He doesn't respond. He can't. All he can do is shake his head and fight the urge to bury his face on your chest, which is eye-level to him, to avoid further torment. For once, he has no words, no teasing remarks. His mind is a puddle of putty, completely your doing, as his chest still recovers from minutes prior.

“Who knew all I had to do was ask nicely, right?”

Rafe exhales a chuckle, opening his eyes to meet yours, which sparkle down at him with a knowing look.

He hates how it makes his heart skip a beat.

“Tease,” he mutters with an attitude, the small smile on his face giving away the pretend act. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Yeah,” you purr, “you love it though.”

I do, he thinks immediately. More than you think.

But he pushes away the thought, rolling his eyes instead and shaking his head. “Shut up,” he grumbles, but there’s no backbone to it. 

Rafe’s breathing eventually returns to normal as his fingers ghost over the zipper of your dress, letting it fall down your body delicately as you unbutton his dress shirt. 

The whole thing is weirdly intimate, both spent from your simultaneous orgasms that you don’t need to escalate – at least right now, you don’t.

Rafe stands, and you half expect him to initiate more, but to your surprise, he moves past you and hands you a t-shirt from his luggage as he slips his boxers back on. The insinuation makes your chest feel funny, because your bag is closer to him, one of your t-shirts literally an arms length away, but he decides to give you one of his instead.

You sit on the edge of the bed after pulling it over your head, the clothing nearly swallowing you whole since he’s basically the height of a tree, as you watch him walk over and grab one of the bottles of wine you snagged earlier as a joke.

The act pulls you from the intoxicating scent that engulfs you, finding the voice to laugh lightly as he walks over to the mini-bar that’s conveniently in your room, using the bottle opener to twist open the cork.

“See? Aren’t you grateful for my klepomania now?” You tease as he pops the cork out of the bottle.

Rafe saunters over, handing it to you for the first sip. “Yeah, because that was the biggest heist of your career yet. First a lipgloss from CVS, second a bottle from a rack. Daunting stuff.”

“First of all,” you point out, handing the bottle to him after you taste it, “it was mascara, so if you’re going to be all condescending at least get your facts right.” He laughs. “And second of all, I would argue this is a pretty expensive bottle. The face value is way higher than all of the other bottles, for sure.”

“For sure?”

“Yes,” you confidently say, taking the bottle back from him and sipping it generously. 

Rafe cocks his head to the side. “And you know this…for sure?”

“For sure.”

He looks at you for a moment, shamelessly staring at how the shirt covers your body, before bringing his eyes back up to meet yours. "Okay, sweet girl. Whatever you say."

After fruitful teasing and meaningless conversation, you're already halfway through the second bottle.

You both lounge lazily on the bed, you on your stomach as Rafe slumps against the headboard, passing the bottle back and forth over and over until a few drips get on the expensive white duvet. But neither of you care, too engrossed in your conversation, in the little game you've been playing for the better part of an hour.

“Okay,” you drawl out, studying Rafe’s face intensely as you come up with your next question. “Your favorite show is either Breaking Bad or Dexter.”

“Wrong. Drink.”

You groan and takes a sip from the bottle. “Those are, like, the two standard shows that all white boys are obsessed with.” You wince at the taste, drunk. 

Rafe covers his heart with faux offense. “And you think I fall into that category?” He tries not to laugh, especially when you shoot him a knowing glare. “Alright, whatever. But you’re still wrong.”

“So? What is it?”

“I think you should try to guess again,” he teases.

You point a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. This is a trap, I’m not stupid. Tell me.”

“That’s not how the game works, sweet girl.”

“Cameron.”

Rafe rolls his eyes when you match his tone, nonetheless seceding with a softer voice. “It’s Derry Girls.”

The confusion is evident on your face as you sit up from your lounging position to get a better look at him, trying to gauge his features to see if he’s kidding. But he’s not, because he’s avoiding your eyes and twiddling his fingers that rest on his bare stomach. 

“You’re kidding.”

Rafe simply shrugs. “It’s funny.”

You cock your head to the side. “Huh. Who would’ve thought?” Then you sit back on the heels of your feet. “I would’ve at least expected something gritty. Or film-bro esque. It’s kind of endearing,” you poke his stomach teasingly. 

With an eye roll, he waves you off with a scoff and tries not to give into your small smirk at his confession.

“Alright, shut up. It’s my turn.” Then he leans forward to study your with furrowed brows. “You…are secretly a really bad driver.”

You laugh in his face. “Wrong, never got a ticket. Drink up, pretty boy.”

Rafe takes the bottle with a snort, hating the way the tips of his ears feel hot at the name. 

“Okay, I know my next one,” you immediately say, waving a finger in his face as he barely takes the first sip. “You’re a bad cook.”

You nearly cheer gleefully when he reluctantly takes another sip, shaking his head in annoyance.

“That’s not fair. You already knew that.”

“No, I didn’t!”

Rafe shoots you a glare, attempting to be threatening but there’s not an ounce of malice behind it. 

You simply shrug. “I had a hunch. It’s not the same thing.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns.

You wave him off. “Whatever. Your turn.”

Rafe stares at you for a second, his expression indifferent.

You're almost about to ask him what he’s looking at, but he seems to pull himself out of the moment as if he’s caught in a trance, shaking his head lightly as he grips the bottle loosely. Then, he seems to come back to earth, humming low and studying your face, eyes wandering down to your body that’s clad in his t-shirt for a quick moment before coming up back to your face. 

“You love the princess treatment.”

The prompt makes your jaw go slack.

Fuuuuuck, you feel your cheeks flush immediately as the memories of your birthday flash across your mind. 

You remember how he treated you, like you were made of the finest silk. You remember how he looked at you, like you hung the stars yourself. You remember how he fucked you, like he loved you.

You remember cherishing it, feeling important, cared for, like you were all he ever thought about. It was the only time you've ever been treated like that during sex, and it's been something that's been on your mind ever since it happened.

Was it that obvious at the moment? To love having someone take care of you so delicately, intimately, after being used as a mere means to an end for so long? 

You instantly blame the wine, suddenly feeling your transition from tipsy to drunk in an instant. 

Wordlessly, you take the bottle from him and take a sip.

That makes him grin boyishly, not sensing your inner turmoil. “You totally do. Why don’t you ask for it?”

You narrow your gaze at him, hating how you're still writhing under his intense stare. “It’s not your turn.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately. “Answer.”

The game doesn’t feel fun anymore, suddenly feeling stupid as you drunkenly waver and look away from him, settling your gaze to the dimly lit lamp on the bedside table instead. Your mouth opens and closes to try and attempt to respond, but nothing comes out. 

How are you supposed to respond without opening up in a way that makes you feel sick even just thinking about it?

Rafe notices the shift in demeanor and wipes the smile off of his face.

He raises an arm towards you, sitting up a little straighter. “C’mere.”

You hate how your body gravitates towards him in an instant, wordlessly crawling over to sit on his lap as he places his hands modestly on your bare thighs.

Cradling the bottle with your hands, you look down and pick at the label absentmindedly, trying to ignore how right it feels to be sitting here. It’s as if you're both puzzle pieces, constantly leaving yet coming back together again to fit in the same space. It's as if you've never left this spot.

“It was…nice,” you admit quietly. “Getting treated like that.”

The shyness of your voice alarms him, darting his gaze between your dismissive eyes and the bottle. He eventually takes the bottle from you gently, so you're forced to turn your focus on him. 

“Why don’t you ask for it?” Rafe asks again, his tone soft yet persistent.

Because I don’t know how, you think.

But you only shrug, really trying to brush it off. “It’s not how you treat a fuck buddy.”

His heart clenches for a moment as he zooms out, remembering the whole reason for his being here. As a ploy. A fake boyfriend. Simply him doing you a favor. Though heart aches that this is what you've wanted the whole time, and never voiced it. 

Of course you wouldn’t ask for it from him, why would you? You're only fucking. Nothing more.

Plus Rafe doesn’t do the princess treatment. Not for anyone. He doesn’t go the extra mile for girls he’ll never see again, he doesn’t make them feel special outside of sex. He’s not supposed to, because then that leads to attachment, and that leads to chaos. 

Yet he finds himself wanting to do it for you. Only you. And he hates himself for it. 

The both of you know that the sex was different on your birthday, it doesn't take an idiot to put that together. It was devastatingly more intimate and personal. Rafe remembers holding your hand for part of it, whispering never-ending praises versus the vulgarities that usually spill from his lips. He remembers how you thanked him so quietly he almost missed it, feeling confused on why you felt the need to be grateful for treatment you deserve. 

And yet, he remembers acting like nothing happened the next day, going about the day as normal as he could because he knows if he lingered on it, it would drive him crazy. But the flashbacks haunted him, confused on his liking towards treating someone like that, confused on how it felt so easy with you.

“But you like it,” Rafe drawls out slowly.

“Who wouldn’t?”

He blinks. 

Is this what you've wanted the whole time? He reels, because how could he not have noticed it before? How many times has he fucked you in the opposite way, in ways he was sure you liked? He knows you're hard of asking for things, the difficulty you have with it.

But this is sex. Not a dress or a computer or something material. Wouldn't you have told him what you liked?

Before Rafe can interrogate further, almost scold you for not asking him sooner, you straighten your posture and take a long breath. “Now I get two questions.”

That makes him nervous. Instantly.

Your stare only augments that feeling, knowing he’s the one who dipped into serious territory from the lighthearted tone earlier.

“You like pretending to be my boyfriend.”

Rafe loses his breath momentarily. 

There’s a few seconds of silence between you, his stillness making you feel stupid because, shit, maybe he doesn’t, and you just made a fool of yourself for insinuating that he does. All those lingering touches, those thoughtful words, those made up stories he seemed to have curated made you think otherwise, that he relished in having something to show off, to parade around as his own.

But you have to blink back to reality when you notice Rafe shyly looking away before he takes the bottle and brings it to his lips, taking a slow sip that has you quietly sighing in relief.

You nearly channel your inner Lorenza because you have the strongest urge to pinch his flushed cheeks, and maybe you think the wine is getting to his inhibitions too. 

“Why?”

Rafe raises a brow. “Is that your second question?”

You nod sheepishly, your hands trailing over the ridges of his biceps, shoulders, neck. It distracts him for a moment, wanting nothing more than to ignore the question and lean into your touch, to roll you over and make you forget about asking that in the first place.

But you don't deserve that, especially since he just hounded you for answers of your own. So he puts aside his pride and takes a deep breath.

“Because it makes me feel like I can be one,” he says slowly. “A boyfriend, I mean. I don’t really do the whole…dating thing because I never thought I’d be good at it.”

“And now?” You daringly ask, voice impossibly quiet. 

Rafe calculates his next words. “I think I could be…good.”

You nod at his response, meeting his piercing blue eyes that bore into yours. Frankly, you don't trust your words, instead voting to be silent as you simply stare at him. Your heart erratically beats at the eye contact, suddenly feeling something strange bubbling in your chest.

Here you are, sitting on his lap, in his t-shirt, looking deeply into his eyes with enough of a drunken buzz to say something you know you'll regret. 

Nothing about it feels sexual, which is what makes you incredibly weary. You don't like it, because right now it feels like something more than friends, more than what you agreed to.

You can sense that Rafe feels it, too, because he takes a long, deep breath.

“My turn,” he whispers. “You want to kiss me.”

You can’t help but laugh, but end up taking the bottle anyway and sipping from it. He watches you intently, chest blooming with pride at your answer. 

Rafe barely lets you swallow before he’s leaning in, capturing your lips in a kiss. 

It’s different from the others. It’s slow, melodic, even, as if you both have all the time in the world to do so. It contrasts from your normal dance that’s fast, passionate, hurried because you know that’s how to kickstart having everything else.

But right now, there’s no implication to initiate anything further. 

His hands stand modestly perched on your thighs, eventually trailing under your – his – shirt to settle on your hips. But he doesn’t use them to move your body over his clothed dick, nor does he let them travel down to your ass or up to your breasts, instead just keeping them there to touch you, to feel you, to ground himself to the moment. 

And you gingerly caress his face, lazily making out with him for what feels like eons yet neither of you feel the inclination to pull back. 

Eventually, you do first, Rafe instinctively leaning up to chase your lips and basically pouting when you don't let him. 

“My turn,” you say quietly, faces inches apart. “You love to cuddle.”

The eye roll that he gives makes your laugh, and he tries to ignore how much he loves the sound of it. Tearing his gaze away from yours, he shakes his head with his lips in a thin line.

You don't buy it for one second, using one hand to lightly trace his jaw and the other to shove the bottle against his chest. “Don’t deny it, baby. Drink up.”

Rafe takes the bottle begrudgingly, grumbling something incoherent under his breath as he takes a sip. His cheeks flush, and you can’t deny how endearing it is to see him like this: completely unguarded, movements lazy and unhurried, wearing a smile that feels as if it's only reserved for you.

It’s a stark contrast from how the world knows him, how all of your friends know him, how he presents himself. There’s a small blossom of pride in your chest that you get to see him like this, and no one else. At least, that's what you assume. You don't want to think about if he’s like this with anyone else. 

“That felt targeted.”

“I’m drunker than you,” you say. “You need to catch up.”

And he does. 

Eventually, the bottle is finished and discarded on the bedside table, but you both stay awake in your drunken splendor. You sit perched in his lap for a little while longer, talking his ear off about something with slurred words and a stupid grin. He listens, asks the occasional question, and adds his two cents with an even bigger smile. 

Rafe hates the way he loves how you look in his shirt, thinking you look prettier than ever with your messed up makeup and slightly tousled hair. He’s nearly offended at the audacity, for you to be taking his breath away with little to no effort. The more you talk, the longer you sit on his lap looking all pretty, the more the realization settles in his stomach like a pile of bricks: this little crush isn’t so little.

It’s actually going to be the death of him. 

There’s no doubt about it. He’s never felt this way about anyone, not even realizing he’s capable of such emotion, unsure of how to navigate the foreign feeling.

But for starters, he knows he can’t go back to the way things were.

The thought of not spending every waking moment with you makes his chest pull, not understanding how he can’t just hold your hand at any point in time or hug you just because. 

Maybe it’s the wine that’s making him delusional.

His head does indeed spin when you lay down for the night, with you curled up against his side and sleeping soundly while he lies awake, absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair as he stares at the bland ceiling, reeling over his aching revelation.

All of his thoughts shout loudly at once, but the only one that keeps repeating in his head is the one that keeps him awake: how the fuck is he going to tell you?

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes had to split this from last chapter because it was getting godforsakenly long, so that's why this one is shorter than the rest. hope you enjoyed!