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goldfades · 8 months ago

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WHO DID THIS TO YOU?──RAFE CAMERON

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for this request, for my lovely jo! @wanderlusturous

─ summary | you and rafe are consumed by an obsessive love, where their madness is fueled by each other. you find exhilaration in pushing boundaries, testing each other’s limits, and the deeper you fall into your shared insanity, the tighter your bond becomes. when rafe finds you crying in your bedroom one day, he loses his shit and is thrown into a silent rage, seeking revenge. and you don't mind, not one bit.

─ pairing | rafe cameron x fem!reader

─ warnings | oh my god, where do i even begin?? obsessive rafe, like insane but reader reciprocates it. a few kisses but mostly just insane stuff. mention of drugging (not to reader), hacking (?), idk what else but this is lowkey insane...

─ ev's notes | im gonna be honest, i don't know if i like this... but lmk if yall enjoyed it. it's a little too dark-themed for me and i got into it until i reread it and realized that it was lowkey insane but hey!!! whatever!!! anyway, pls lmk if this was too dark.. or if you enjoyed it. also, sorry to any becca's out there, it was just the first name that popped up. any feedback is always very appreciated!

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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The night is suffocating, thick with tension that mirrors the pulse racing in your veins. Every sound, every breath, seems amplified, as if the world knows what’s coming. You stand by the dock, your eyes on the dark water ahead, but your thoughts are elsewhere—on him.

Rafe.

You can already feel him, even when he’s not here. The way your skin hums when you think of him, the way your pulse skips in sync with his name. No one gets you like Rafe does. No one makes you feel like the world is spinning off its axis just by looking at you. He’s chaos, destruction wrapped in a pretty face, and you... you crave it.

The roar of an engine breaks through the night. You don’t turn, but a slow smile curls on your lips. You feel the heat of his presence before you even hear his footsteps.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Rafe’s voice is a low drawl, but there’s something manic beneath it, something that sparks against the madness in you.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. There’s that look again. That wild, possessive look that sets your blood on fire. He’s close now, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the tension in the air tighten like a noose around your neck.

“Neither could you,” you reply, your voice low, daring.

He grins, a sharp, dangerous thing. “You’re right. I can’t.”

His fingers brush your arm, just a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to ignite something violent between you. This—this is what you live for. The thrill. The madness. The way Rafe looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane, and maybe that’s what scares you the most.

Because you’re not sane.

Not anymore.

You can’t even remember why you broke up with him a few months ago, but all you know is that it got overwhelming. There was something suffocating about it—about him. The way he always knew where you were, who you were with, what you were thinking before you even said it. At first, it was intoxicating, the way he could read you like no one else ever could, like you were the only two people on earth and no one else mattered. But then… it was too much. His intensity felt like drowning in quicksand, slow but relentless. And for a moment, just a moment, you thought maybe you needed air.

But standing here now, with the salt stinging your nostrils and the wind howling like some kind of omen, you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave him.

Because there he is—Rafe Cameron, walking toward you like the world is his and you’re his prize, eyes locked on you in a way that makes your chest tighten, your stomach coil in knots. He’s dangerous in all the ways that matter. Not just because he’s reckless and violent (though God knows he is), but because of how he makes you feel. Alive, in a way that hurts. Like the rush you get standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing one wrong step and it’s all over, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward, just to feel the thrill of almost falling.

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s so close you can smell the gasoline and smoke on his clothes, the wild energy pouring off him in waves. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, like you’re the oxygen he’s been deprived of for too long, and suddenly it all makes sense again. The madness. The break-up. The inevitable pull back to him.

“Why’d you leave me?” His voice is low, rough like gravel. His eyes burn with something fierce, and you can feel it sinking into you, clawing its way under your skin. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know. He’s asking because he wants to hear you say it.

You stare at him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming in your ears like a warning. But instead of stepping back, you step forward, closing the small gap between you two. Your breath mingles with his, the night air thick with unsaid things, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something irreversible. Like if you take one more step, there’s no going back.

But isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? The danger. The thrill. The sick, twisted excitement of being so intertwined with him that you forget where he ends and you begin.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, even though that’s not the full truth. You do know. You left because you were scared. Scared of how much you wanted him, needed him, even when it hurt. Scared of the fact that the line between love and obsession blurred so fast with him that you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His jaw tightens, and his hands, those rough, calloused hands that have touched you in ways no one else ever has, reach out. He grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you swear you can see the wild, unhinged thing lurking just behind his eyes. It’s the same thing you see in yourself when you look in the mirror. The madness that ties you to him, binds you like a curse.

“You do know,” he says, voice dark and demanding. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow, like he’s testing how far he can push you before you break. “You just won’t say it.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but it’s not fear. It’s something else, something deeper. Something that feels like surrender and power all at once. You lean into his touch, letting his hand curl around the side of your face, the heat of him soaking into your skin like a drug.

“I couldn’t handle it,” you admit, the words thick and heavy in your throat. “You. Us. It was too much.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smirk, but it’s not a kind one. It’s dark, possessive. “Too much? You know you liked it. You loved it.” His hand tightens slightly on your jaw, just enough for you to feel the edge of his control, like he’s reminding you who he is. What he is. “You loved me because of how fucked up we are. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

You swallow hard, heart thundering in your chest, because deep down, you know he’s right. You’ve never felt more alive than when you were with him, caught up in the madness of it all. The fights, the passion, the way you both pushed each other to the edge and then pulled each other back, only to do it all over again. It was twisted, dangerous, and wrong in every way, but that’s what made it irresistible.

“I did,” you confess, and it’s like a weight lifts off your chest, even as you feel yourself falling back into him, back into the chaos. “I do.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of hesitation, any crack in your resolve. But there’s nothing. You’re not the same person who left him. Maybe you never really left at all.

Rafe’s hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his lips hover just inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his mouth crashes into yours, hard and demanding.

It’s not gentle. It’s never been gentle with Rafe. His kiss is all teeth and tongue, like he’s trying to devour you, claim you all over again. And you let him, because deep down, you crave it just as much as he does. The fire, the chaos, the way he makes you feel like you’re spinning out of control but somehow exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your pulse racing like you’ve just run a marathon. His hands grip your waist now, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the heat of his body searing into yours.

“Tell me,” he says, voice low and dangerous, his eyes boring into yours. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you don’t hesitate. “I’m yours.” And you are, completely, utterly, unashamedly his.

And just like that, you’re back where you started.

───MONTHS LATER . . .

“God fucking damn it, if you don't tell me right now, I'm gonna lose my shit!” Rafe shouts, his voice cracking like thunder in the small living room as he throws the beer bottle against the wall.

Glass shatters everywhere, scattering across the floor, but you don’t even flinch. You’ve seen this before. Hell, you’ve lived it. The rage, the temper, the chaos—it's like a script you’ve both memorized by heart.

You lean back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him like you would a caged animal—wild and unpredictable. He’s pacing now, his movements sharp and erratic, the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if they might snap. His eyes are wild, blue like ice but burning with something untamable, something dangerous. He’s teetering on the edge, that fine line between fury and desperation, and you know it won’t take much to push him over.

But you don’t care. Not right now.

“Rafe, calm the fuck down,” you say, your voice steady, almost bored. You know that’ll get to him. It always does. Nothing makes him crazier than when you don’t give him the reaction he’s fishing for.

His head snaps in your direction, eyes narrowing as he stalks toward you like a predator honing in on prey. He stops just inches away, towering over you, his chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He’s so close now that you can smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his skin. But you don’t move. You stand your ground, looking up at him with a calm that borders on defiance.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he spits, voice laced with venom. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. “I’m sick of your bullshit! You think you can just stand there like you’re better than me, like you’re not a part of this, but guess what, baby? You are. You always have been.”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing as a slow smile creeps across your lips. “You’re being dramatic, Rafe,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, you gonna break something else? Or are you actually gonna say what’s bothering you for once?”

That does it.

He slams his hands down on the counter behind you, trapping you between his arms, his face just inches from yours. His eyes blaze with fury, but beneath it, you see something else—something raw, something that makes your stomach twist in knots.

“Don’t play games with me,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “I know what you’re doing. You think you can just push me around, mess with my head, and I’ll keep coming back like a fucking dog, huh?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking, heart racing in your chest but refusing to show it. You can feel the tension crackling between you like electricity, the air thick with it, suffocating. This is what it always comes down to with Rafe—this toxic push and pull, this need to break each other just to see what’s left after the pieces fall apart.

“You think I’m the one messing with your head?” you say, your voice low, challenging. “Maybe you should take a look in the mirror, Rafe. You’re not exactly innocent in this, are you?”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he’s going to explode. But instead, he just stares at you, eyes flickering with something dark, something primal. Then, slowly, he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Innocent?” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Baby, I’ve never claimed to be innocent. You knew exactly who I was when you got into this.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your lips grazing the corner of his jaw as you whisper back, “Yeah, and that’s why I’m not scared of you.”

His breath hitches, just for a second, and you feel a surge of satisfaction. You’ve always known how to push his buttons, how to throw him off balance, even when he’s at his most dangerous. It’s a game you’ve played a thousand times before, and you both know how it ends—chaotic, messy, with both of you circling back to the same place.

But this time feels different.

There’s something darker in the way he’s looking at you, something that feels more like possession than anger. Like he’s not just mad because you’re fighting—he’s mad because he can’t stand the thought of you slipping away. Because he knows, deep down, that no matter how hard you push him, he’ll always want you. Need you.

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” Rafe says, his voice low, deadly. “Not this time.”

You feel his grip tighten on the counter behind you, his body pressing against yours as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together, like if he holds on tight enough, you won’t be able to escape. But he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that you’re already too far gone. That the very thing he’s holding on to is slipping through his fingers, and there’s nothing either of you can do about it.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you say softly, a cold smile on your lips. “I can walk away whenever I want. I just choose not to.”

And with that, you duck under his arm, slipping out from between him and the counter. His eyes follow you, wide with disbelief, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. You know he’s about to lose it, to completely unravel. But you don’t turn back. Not yet.

Because this time, you want him to come after you.

And he always does.

Rafe’s eyes darken as you slip past him, and for a moment, the room goes deadly silent. The tension is thick, heavy like a storm cloud waiting to burst. You know exactly what’s coming, and it sends a thrill down your spine. You can almost feel it—the moment he snaps, the second his control shatters. It’s a twisted game, one you’ve played too many times before, and every time, you push him a little harder, a little further, just to see how far he’ll go for you.

You take slow, deliberate steps toward the door, your back turned to him, feeling the heat of his gaze sear into you. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching, every muscle in his body tensed like a predator stalking its prey. The air feels electric, charged with a violence that’s always been just beneath the surface between you two.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and biting. You stop, but you don’t turn around. Not yet.

“Does it matter?” you ask, voice calm, almost teasing. “I thought I could walk away whenever I wanted, remember?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You know you’ve hit a nerve. He hates when you challenge him, hates when you act like you have the upper hand. But that’s what makes it so addictive—pushing him to his limit, watching him unravel in front of you, knowing that no matter how hard he fights it, he’ll always come back to you.

Because he can’t help it. Neither of you can.

Suddenly, you hear his footsteps behind you, fast and heavy, and before you can react, his hand grips your arm, yanking you back toward him with a force that nearly knocks the breath out of you. He spins you around, his face inches from yours, eyes blazing with fury.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. His grip tightens on your arm, fingers digging into your skin, but the pain only makes your pulse quicken, your breath hitch in your throat. There’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s on the verge of losing control, like he’s barely holding himself together—that sends a thrill through you.

“Let go of me, Rafe,” you say, your voice daring him, even though you know you don’t really want him to.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you closer, his other hand gripping the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at him. His chest is heaving, his eyes wild, but there’s something else there, too—something desperate, like he’s terrified of losing you, like he’s clinging to you with everything he has left.

“You think you can just walk away?” he snarls, his breath hot against your face. “After everything? After all the shit we’ve been through? You really think I’m just gonna let you go?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking, your heart racing, but there’s no fear. Not with him. There never is. Instead, you feel the pull again—the twisted, sick need to see how far you can push him, how deep his obsession goes.

“I think you don’t have a choice,” you say, your voice steady, even though your pulse is hammering in your ears.

His grip tightens, his jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscles twitching beneath his skin. For a second, you think he’s going to snap—really snap—but then, just as quickly, something shifts in his expression. The anger doesn’t fade, but it’s joined by something darker, something raw and consuming.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, his voice barely audible but laced with danger. “You don’t get to decide when this ends. I do.”

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours, rough and demanding, as if he’s trying to prove a point. It’s not a kiss; it’s a claim, a reminder that you belong to him, whether you want to admit it or not. His hands tighten on you, pulling you impossibly closer, and you can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained violence simmering just beneath the surface.

But instead of pulling away, you kiss him back with just as much fire, matching his intensity. It’s always been like this between you two—this chaotic, messy whirlwind of emotion that neither of you can control. You push, he pulls, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you find something that feels like love, even though you both know it’s something darker, something more dangerous.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, your lips swollen and bruised. His hand stays on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that’s both possessive and tender, like he’s reminding himself that you’re still here, still his.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough, eyes blazing as he stares down at you. “You’ve always been mine.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to push him away and run as far as you can. But there’s a bigger part of you, a darker part, that knows he’s right.

You’re his. You always have been.

“Yeah,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m yours.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick and heavy, and for a moment, everything else falls away. The anger, the tension, the broken glass on the floor—it’s all background noise now. All that matters is the two of you, standing here in this twisted, fucked-up mess of a relationship, knowing that no matter how many times you try to break free, you’ll always end up right back here.

With him.

Rafe’s grip on you softens, just slightly, and for the first time in what feels like hours, the intensity in his eyes eases. But it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next time one of you decides to test the limits again. Because there will be a next time. There always is.

“You’re not leaving me again,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less serious. “Not ever.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Because deep down, you know that no matter how much you might want to, no matter how many times you tell yourself you can walk away, you won’t.

You never could.

And Rafe knows it, too.

───

You don’t usually cry. Not ever. Tears are something you’ve learned to bury deep down, hidden under layers of indifference and biting sarcasm. But tonight, they come, hot and angry, streaming down your face as you sit curled up on the edge of the bed, hands trembling in your lap. The weight of the evening presses down on you, your mind reeling from everything that happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not tonight.

Your phone buzzes again on the nightstand, but you ignore it. You can’t deal with it right now. You don’t want to see the messages or hear the apologies. You don’t want to relive what just went down.

You wipe at your face roughly, trying to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. The shaky breath you let out only betrays you further, and you feel the tears well up again. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound, not wanting him to hear you.

But, of course, Rafe hears everything.

The door swings open, and Rafe steps inside, his broad frame filling the doorway. He looks at you, really looks at you, and in an instant, his expression darkens. His blue eyes narrow as they sweep over you, taking in the tear-streaked face, the hunched shoulders, the way your body is wound tight like a coiled spring, ready to snap. His jaw tightens, and you can practically feel the shift in the air around him.

“What happened?” His voice is low, dangerous, barely restrained. It’s not a question—it’s a demand.

You shake your head, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing, Rafe. Just forget it.”

But you know better than to think he’ll let it go. The second you met him, you realized Rafe Cameron isn’t the kind of guy who “forgets” anything.

He moves closer, the tension in his body palpable. He’s not pacing like he usually does when he’s angry. This is different. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s honing in on the source of your pain, ready to eliminate it. He crouches down in front of you, one hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch is firm, possessive, but not rough—not yet.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, his eyes boring into yours. “Who did this to you?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should even bring it up. You know how Rafe gets—how he reacts when someone hurts you. And this time, it wasn’t just anyone. It was someone close. Someone you thought was your friend.

“It’s—” You start, but your voice cracks, and you quickly bite down, trying to steady yourself. “It was…Becca.”

“Becca?” The name drops like a lead weight between you two, and you can see the recognition flare in his eyes. Becca, your friend for years, the one person outside of him you’ve always trusted. The one person he’s always been wary of.

Rafe’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing over your jaw in a way that makes your pulse race. His voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper. “What did she do?”

You hesitate, but the words spill out before you can stop them. “She—she said some things. At the party tonight. She called me out in front of everyone, said I was using you, that I only stuck around for the money, the attention. She tried to turn everyone against me, Rafe. She made me look… weak.”

His face hardens instantly, and for a split second, you see something flash in his eyes—something dark and lethal. The kind of rage that makes your breath catch in your throat, even though you know it’s not directed at you.

“She said what?” His voice is so low now, it’s almost a growl.

You nod, swallowing hard, feeling the burn of humiliation all over again. “I don’t know why she did it. I thought she was my friend.”

Rafe lets out a slow breath, and the air around him feels like it’s vibrating with the intensity of his anger. He stands up abruptly, pacing the room, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from completely losing it. But you know it’s too late for that.

“I’ll fucking kill her,” he mutters under his breath, but you hear every word. “I’ll ruin her life.”

“Rafe—” You start to protest, but he cuts you off with a sharp look.

“No. No one talks to you like that. Not her, not anyone.” His voice is clipped, sharp, like he’s barely holding back the full force of what he’s feeling. “You don’t deserve this shit. Not from her, not from anyone.”

His protectiveness borders on obsession, but you can’t help but feel a strange comfort in it. It’s twisted, but there’s something about the way Rafe reacts to these things—like the whole world can burn as long as you’re safe—that makes you feel… seen. Important.

“I’m going to fix this,” he says, more to himself than to you, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “She thinks she can talk shit about you? In front of everyone? Humiliate you? Nah. She’s going to regret it. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Rafe,” you say softly, trying to reach for him, but he’s too far gone. You can see it in the way his eyes have glazed over, already plotting, already deciding exactly how he’s going to destroy Becca.

And part of you wants to stop him. Part of you knows that this isn’t the answer, that maybe you should handle it differently, like a normal person would.

But you’re not normal. Not anymore.

“I’m serious,” he says, turning to face you again, his expression deadly serious. “No one fucks with you. Ever.”

His intensity washes over you, and for a second, you feel like you can’t breathe. But at the same time, it fills you with a sense of power, knowing that he’s willing to go to these lengths for you. That he’ll protect you at all costs, no matter how destructive it gets.

You stand up slowly, crossing the room until you’re in front of him, your hand resting on his chest. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Rafe’s eyes flicker down to you, and for a brief moment, you see a softness there, a flicker of the boy beneath all the rage and chaos. “I won’t. But I’m not letting this go.”

You nod, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him. This is who he is—who you both are. Twisted, obsessive, reckless. But it works. Somehow, it works. And deep down, you don’t really want him to let it go.

A few months later, and somehow everything goes to shit for Becca.

It starts small—things that could almost pass as bad luck. First, her new car gets keyed, deep scratches across the side that no amount of buffing can fix. Then her social media accounts get hacked, posts disappearing, weird comments being left on other people’s pages, like someone is deliberately screwing with her life piece by piece. She brushes it off at first, because Becca’s tough. She’s the type of girl who bounces back quickly, who doesn’t let things get under her skin.

But then things escalate. Quickly.

She gets benched during a big volleyball game when her coach suddenly pulls her aside and questions her attitude. The team captain claims Becca’s been talking shit about the coach behind her back, stirring up drama with teammates. The problem is, Becca never said any of it. But now, she’s got a reputation, and people are starting to look at her differently.

Still, she fights through it, determined not to let it get to her. Becca’s always had her eye on the prize: her full ride to UC Berkeley, where she’s set to play volleyball at the college level. That’s her future. Her escape. Nothing can touch that.

Until it does.

The call comes one morning, out of nowhere. Becca’s shaking as she listens to the voice on the other end of the line, her heart plummeting as her coach tells her the news.

“We’ve received the results of your recent drug test, Becca,” the coach says, his voice stern but somehow apologetic. “I’m sorry, but you’ve tested positive for a banned substance.”

Becca’s head spins, her mouth going dry. “That’s impossible,” she blurts out, panic rising in her chest. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t—”

“I know this is hard to hear,” the coach cuts her off, his voice firm. “But the results are what they are. This disqualifies you from the scholarship and the team. UC Berkeley has revoked your offer.”

The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She feels the ground tilt beneath her, everything she’s worked for slipping through her fingers in an instant. She argues, pleads, tries to explain, but the decision is final. There’s nothing she can do.

And that’s when she starts to see it, to feel the weight of something much bigger pressing down on her. This isn’t just bad luck. It’s not a coincidence that her life is unraveling at the seams. No, this feels orchestrated, like someone’s been pulling the strings behind the scenes, watching her fall apart.

That someone is Rafe Cameron.

Rafe can be physical—he wouldn’t hesitate to swing on anyone he deems a threat. But Rafe isn’t a dumbass. He knows that not everything should be dealt with by violence. Some things are better handled with precision, with patience, with slow, deliberate destruction. He knew that punching Becca in the face wouldn’t satisfy him, wouldn’t give him the kind of control he wanted over the situation.

So instead, he used his connections, his money, his influence, all of the tools at his disposal to dismantle her life bit by bit. A hacked account here, a few whispers to the right people there. He didn’t need to lay a finger on her to destroy her. He just needed to plant the seeds of doubt, to set off a chain reaction, and then watch it all come crumbling down.

The drug test? Easy. A little slip of something into her drink at a party when she wasn’t paying attention, followed by a tip-off to the testing agency. The rumors about her trash-talking her coach? Carefully spread by a few well-placed texts to her teammates, pretending to be her. Her social media? That was just for fun, a way to throw her off balance and make her feel like her world was spiraling.

And it worked.

You know all of this, of course. Rafe never bothers to hide things from you. In fact, he’s proud of it, proud of the way he’s dismantled Becca’s life without so much as breaking a sweat. He tells you about it one night while you’re lying together, his arm draped lazily over your waist as he whispers in your ear.

“She thought she could fuck with you,” he murmurs, his voice dark, satisfied. “But now she knows. No one touches what’s mine.”

You should feel guilty. You should feel something for Becca, after all those years of friendship, of thinking she had your back. But all you can feel is a sick sense of satisfaction, like the universe has finally corrected itself. Becca messed with the wrong person, and now she’s paying the price. And as twisted as it is, you can’t help but feel a little thrill at how far Rafe was willing to go for you, how meticulously he destroyed her without you even asking him to.

“You really did all that?” you ask, your voice low, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Rafe shifts beside you, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your neck. “I told you, baby. No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, and there’s something dangerous in the way he looks at you, something possessive and wild. It should scare you, but it doesn’t. Not anymore.

Because the truth is, you like it. You like how far he’s willing to go for you, how far he’s willing to take it. There’s something intoxicating about the way he loves you—twisted, obsessive, and all-consuming. It’s not healthy, not normal, but it’s yours. And that’s enough.

You press your lips to his, kissing him fiercely, feeling the heat between you two ignite once again. Rafe kisses you back just as hard, his hands gripping you tightly, like he’s reminding you that you’re his and no one else’s.

As you pull back, your breath ragged, you glance at him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“She won’t come near me again.”

“No,” Rafe says, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. “She won’t.”

And in that moment, you both know it’s true. Becca’s done.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron smut #obx smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x you #obx 4 #outer banks 4

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prokopetz · 1 year ago

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So, you've mentioned before that TTRPGs always have an expected "mode of play", that is, the basic concept from which the gameplay loop is derived. I admit I have little experience with this kind of thing, but I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the mode of play of Lasers and Feelings. Like, what's the unifying thread between Lasers and Feelings, Radical Catgirl Anarchy, and Lily is Girls With The Ability? Or between L&F and something like Speeding Bullets, for that matter? Is it just that they're all rules-light shitposts? Or is it based on, like, the tension between the two different ends of a dichotomy?

One-page games can be tricky in this respect because they just don't have the bandwidth to explicitly state many of their assumptions. They necessarily depend on the players (and the GM, if present) bringing the "correct" set of assumptions to the table regarding how the game ought to be played.

Still, there's enough there to draw certain conclusions. For example, in a typical Lasers & Feelings hack, rolling the dice gives a pass-or-fail outcome (with optional complication) for a discrete physical, mental, or social task. This frames a session of play as a sort of narrative obstacle course: the story consists of overcoming a series of well-defined obstacles in order to arrive at a particular goal. That might seem like a fairly banal observation, because that's how a lot of tabletop RPGs frame a session of play, but we need to make that explicit to contextualise the next step.

That next stop, of course, being the approaches.

One of the baseline assumptions of any tabletop RPG is that you're going to use it to tell the kinds of stories about which the rules have something to say – indeed, a tabletop RPG has to assume this, because if you're not telling the kind of story about which the rules have something to say, you're not playing the game!

To that end, a Lasers & Feelings hack is usually going to give you a pair of approaches to roll against, each consisting of a set of ways of conceptualising the obstacle in front of you. I'm not using the term "conceptualising" just to be fancy here; in Lasers & Feelings, the GM (if present) describes the obstacles, but it's on the player, not the GM, to decide "this is the kind of obstacle which can be overcome with [insert approach]", and nobody gets to tell them they're wrong.

Thus, a Lasers & Feelings hack assumes that the story of your game is going to consist of a series of obstacles (see above) which can usefully be conceptualised using at least one of the game's two approaches. A game where your approaches are "the power of friendship" and "the power of unimaginable violence", for example, probably isn't one that you'd want to use to play out a scenario inspired by Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, because those approaches aren't useful ways of conceptualising the kinds of obstacles such a story is likely to present – and if you used it anyway, the story would rapidly stop being a Pride and Prejudice pastiche.

All that in mind, it might be more accurate to state that Lasers & Feelings as a framework presents meta-expectations; the framework provides a set of mechanisms for a particular hack's chosen approaches to direct play, but you have to look at what that hack's chosen approaches actually are to pin down what that direction is.

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #game design #violence mention #swearing

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metamorphesque · 4 months ago

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On February 19, 2004, 26-year-old Armenian Army Lieutenant Gurgen Margaryan was asleep in his room in Budapest, where he had come to participate in a NATO-sponsored Partnership for Peace program — a mission meant to promote cooperation and understanding between nations. But instead of peace, he met unimaginable brutality.

In the dead of night, azeri officer ramil safarov crept into his room, armed with an axe. Without hesitation, he delivered 16 savage blows to Gurgen’s defenseless, sleeping body, brutally hacking him to death. Sixteen times. Sixteen blows to a young man who never even had a chance to defend himself. Sixteen blows of pure hatred by a cowardly bastard from a tribe bred to hate and ravage.

And what did safarov do after this unspeakable crime, you'd ask? He didn’t deny it. He didn’t hide. He proudly admitted to the murder, claiming he had done it simply because Gurgen was Armenian. He even declared that if given the chance, he would have killed another. No remorse. No regret. No shame.

This is how Gurgen's Hungarian roommate, Kuti Balash, remembers the evening before the murder: “Gurgen and I were sharing a room at the dormitory. The evening before the murder I was watching a football match between Armenia and Hungary, while Gurgen was sitting at the desk preparing his homework. He just came back from the gym.” Staying with them on the same floor were participants of different nationalities, including ramil safarov and another azerbaijani officer. Balash mentions that there were no conflicts among any members of the group. The subject of international conflicts was discussed only once, during the first day of getting acquainted, but nobody spoke of it afterwards.

On the evening of February 18, Balash had tea and went to bed, as he had fever, while Gurgen Margaryan kept on studying. Around 9:30 p.m. Margaryan went to visit another program participant from Armenia, Hayk Makuchyan, who was staying in another room.

Balash does not remember when Gurgen came back, but early in the morning he felt that someone turned on the light. He thought it was Gurgen returning to the room, but after hearing some muffled sounds, he turned his head away from the wall and saw the azerbaijani officer standing by Gurgen’s bed, with a long axe in his hands.

“By that time I understood that something terrible had happened for there was blood all around. I started to shout at the azerbaijani urging him to stop it. He said that had no problems with me and would not touch me, stabbed Gurgen a couple of more times and left. The expression of his face was as if he was glad he had finished something important. Greatly shocked, I ran out of the room to find help, and ramil went in another direction.”

What happened next testifies that the murder had been planned in advance. It was not a crime of a personal motivations between Gurgen and ramil. Immediately after murdering Lieutenant Margaryan, ramil safarov went to the room of the second Armenian officer, to finish with him as well.

That morning, after committing his first murder, ramil went to Makuchyan's room with an intention to kill him. In the corridor, meeting a classmate from Uzbekistan who came out of the room after hearing suspicious noise, ramil offered him to come and assist him in killing the second Armenian. The Uzbek tried to calm the murderer down but did not manage to stop him.

Afterwards everyone confessed that they were frightened to approach ramil with a blood-stained axe closer than at three meters. Approaching Makuchyan’s room, ramil tried to open it by shaking its handle. As Makuchyan confessed, he usually had a habit of locking doors, unlike Gurgen, but that night he forgot to do it, and the door was locked by his Lithuanian roommate.

Being unable to open the door, ramil started to shout out Makuchyan's name in a threatening voice. Half asleep, Hayk went towards the door to open it, but his Lithuanian roommate managed to save him for the second time. He stopped Hayk from opening the door, as he thought that there was a real threat in safarov's voice and that he might be armed. To make sure, he phoned to another Lithuanian who lived at the same corridor asking him to check whether safarov was armed and what was going on at all. Meanwhile, safarov went to look for Hayk in the room of the Serbian and the Ukrainian roommates, showing them the blood-stained axe and stating that he thirsted for nobody's blood but Armenian. Hayk Makuchyan was told afterwards, that ramil ran to the room of another azerbaijani officer, told him something in azerbaijani, and then ran and stabbed the door of Makuchyan’s room three times with an axe. By that time the second Lithuanian and the police approached.

Justice? There was none. Though Hungary sentenced him to life in prison, in 2012, Hungary handed him over to azerbaijan, 'believing he would serve his sentence' (An investigation by a Hungarian news agency reveals that azerbaijan has used a $3 billion slush fund to facilitate safarov's release and extradition).

The moment he stepped onto azeri soil, safarov was greeted as a hero. A hero! Not only was he pardoned by azerbaijan’s president aliev, but he was promoted, given a home, back pay for his years in prison, and welcomed like a champion—for killing a SLEEPING Armenian.

So, if you ever find yourself sharing a space with an azeri, you'd better make sure the door is locked.

#break the chain of ignorance #my hands are shaking from anger typing this #Gurgen would have turned 47 this year #azeri crimes #hate crimes #armenia #armenophobia #world politics #azerbaijan #f1 gp baku #february

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halenhusky309 · 4 months ago

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Me whenever I see some basic bitch fan artists draw sexy female transformers in the most boring and laziest way as possible: slapping them some big watermelons and skinny slim waist "human" waifus... Please just stick to drawing human characters if that's all you get.

And somehow, those same sauceless sexualized female transformers still look way less sexy than the AOE Optimus Prime...

Drawing porn fanart of a character with small boobs and giving them big boobs feels cowardly to me. Like it's one thing if it's like a breast growth/inflation fetish but if you're just giving them giant honkers because that's how you make things sexy that comes across as lazy to me. Like what you can't figure out how to make a character sexy if she's below a DD? Skill issue.

#The “normal” sauceless TF dudebros and their boring ass tastes for sexy transformers #I would just call them talentless and unimaginative hacks #transformers #transformers fandom

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unicorn360draws · 13 days ago

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DP X MARVEL

Danny Phantom is the only reason Peter Parker still exists. Dr. Strange's spell went sour and the universe tried to Blip Peter again. At first he'd tried to hide it from his college roommate, on Daniel Fenton, but it gets difficult when your arm crumbles in front of the man during breakfast. After that, and a reveal or two of men who were teen heroes, Danny finds a way to stop the process by using his Kingly abilities. It causes him to look more eldricth than human at times, but that's okay if he can keep Peter together. Don't think about Peter wracked with guilt as his best friend is outcast at school because of his looks and unsettling nature.

It's an average Wednesday when Vlad attacks. He'd been ramping up the schemes still Danny left Amity Park (posing his family, Tucker, and Sam in the Nasty Burger explosion and refusing to be like Dan), desperation and Obsession forcing Vlad to unimaginable lengths. He attacks Danny in his room while Peter is at class. The first sign that something is wrong is that Peter's pinkie started to disintegrate mid lecture. It only happens when Danny loses focus and hasn't been a problem for a few months now. Peter excuses himself, clutching his hand and cheek (where more dust has started to crust) and rushes to the courtyard. He follows the sounds of fighting and destruction, alar,s blaring for a campus wide evacuation.

They're using the alien invasion alarms, guess,

"Ghost King fighting his ex-Godfather doesn't really have a tone to play yet.

Peter rushes to Danny's side and tries to assist, not just because he is relieved to see Danny's eyes find him and feel the pinkie finger come back, but because they're all either really has left now. They have been fighting crime for 6 months now, and they know how the other moves. Peter ducks when Danny dives. Danny clings to Peter when he webs them away from a hot pink ectoblast. The fight goes on for an hour, with Vlad getting more and more desperate for some kind of win. Then he pulls out the weapon. Danny doesn't recognize it, not at first anyway, only that it's being pointed at Peter and Peter is fighting one of the clones and Danny can't lose anyone else and Danny will heal but Peter might not and-

The blast hits Danny in the shoulder as he pushes Peter out of the way. He didn't recognize the gun. He should have recognized the gun but Vlad had updated the Plamius Maximus since they last fought. Danny shrugged off the lightning like tingling sensation but choked as his transformation failed to return. He pushes himself onto his elbows as he hears the coughing. Peter is on his knees, hacking painfully.

Danny pales. The Plasmius Maximus takes away Danny's ghost powers. The same powers that kept Peter alive. The green underlayer of Peter's skin peels away to ash and Danny can do nothing. He screams at Vlad to reverse it, but the man Danny once knew is gone, an Obsession driven ghost in his place. Danny struggles to push himself up and towards Peter, clawing at the ground as he reaches for his roommate. Peter turns to Danny, cheek flaking off to reveal the campus scenery behind him.

"It's okay Danny. It's okay. It's not your fault. Please don't blame yourself."

With one last push, Danny lunges for Peter as the man disappears in a cloud of dust, like the other victims of the Blip. Danny had seen his teachers and neighbors get Blipped, but he'd had his family and friends. He'd had the abilities to help Amity Park through the five tough years when 2/3 of the population was blipped. That had been hard, losing Peter? Losing Peter hurt like seeing Dan, like losing his family again, like saying goodbye to Dani, like being vivisected. Peter was Danny's heart, the only one left in the empty organ. The ash floats around Danny's empty arms as he closes them around the empty air, swirling the gray flecks into the air again.

Danny wails.

And the whole campus feels it. Vlad feels it tearing apart his core. Danny stands, still without his ghostly powers. Vlad looks up to the boy, the halfa, and sees the King. The Ghost King waves Vlad's existence away like a fly, and he's ended.

Danny is The Ghost King, the Ruler of the Infinite Realms. Death itself. He holds the strings of souls long gone. He knows by using this kind of power, he'll never have a normal life. He'll have to be active in the Infinite Realms. He'll be forced to take the Crown of Fire and the Ring of Rage, and then he'll slowly lose himself.

For Peter, he will do it. For Peter, he would take on the world. For Peter, Danny will use this power to bring him back.

#danny phantom #marvel #danny phantom and peter parker #peter parker #maybe some peter parker x danny phantom?#dp x marvel #i wrote this at 5am please do well #danny fenton #danny phantom is the ghost king #peter parker is spider-man #the hyphen is important #first genuine fandom post ever

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shushmal · 1 year ago

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Stranger to Myself (I think of Home)

For @steddie-week Day 5! Rated T — Check the tags and content warnings!

Eddie is a monster.

Eddie started watching Steve because it didn’t hurt so bad. Didn’t hurt like it does with every glimpse he catches of Wayne, of Dustin. The people who had loved Eddie when he was Eddie. But Steve—Steve was safe. Steve was a boy Eddie knew in passing glances and high school gossip, a guy who was laughing with his friends in another room at every party, a man who planted his feet and fought monsters and helped save the world. Steve who told Eddie to be safe, because Steve was kind when he didn't have to be, when he wasn't expected to—so Eddie finds himself watching Steve instead.

Because Eddie is a monster, and Steve knows exactly what to do with monsters. Eddie knows this.

To Steve, it wouldn't matter that Eddie is the last little bit of the apocalypse still kicking around Hawkins. Eddie who had been chewed up and spat out of hell at the last second, just before the final dungeon slammed shut, sneaking through the shadows unseen, past the unsuspecting heroes wrapped up in their victory. Past his friends, the people who had tried to keep Eddie safe. Past Dustin, who’s face had already been changed by grief.

Past Steve, as well. Steve, who told Eddie to be safe, and Eddie hadn’t.

Eddie wonders sometimes, what Vecna really had in mind for him.

But Eddie is just an unfinished experiment, not quite who he used to be, but not yet the thing Vecna had been trying to twist him into, before the wrinkly ballsack bastard bit it and disintegrated into dust like some b-grade horror movie villain written by some unimaginative hack that shouldn’t have even been in the writer’s room.

He’s the last piece of the Upside Down, Vecna’s last monster, but Eddie’s worst crime post-resurrection is a bit of misdemeanor stalking, simple battery, and animal cruelty. A guy’s gotta eat, afterall. It had taken a while to figure out his own exact brand of vampirism, but Eddie’s gone a few years now without killing anything or anyone. He would be proud of it, but instead he watches Steve make dinner and feels sick on the aftertaste of iron and salt still coating his tongue.

Eddie had started watching Steve because it didn’t hurt, because Steve would take care of it, if Eddie ever needed to be put down. Eddie knows this.

So, it didn’t hurt so bad to watch Steve—until it did.

By then, Eddie was too far gone and couldn’t stop.

His Steve who came back to his lonely castle, days and days after that final battle, after the climax of the story, the end of a legend, still bloody and scorched, none the wiser to the monster peering through his windows, watching. And that was Eddie’s first clue, that was how Eddie first learned that he wasn’t really Eddie anymore—that nervous energy he used to have in life had died with him. Now he sits motionless in the tall pines behind Steve’s house for hours and days, unmoving, as he watches Steve live.

Sometimes, Steve looks out his window, eyes scanning the treetops like he knows Eddie’s there. Everytime, Eddie sits up a little straighter, like a dog eager for attention. But everytime, Steve’s eyes drift past him, unseeing, searching.

It leaves Eddie—already out of step with life, with humanity—a little unsettled, a little too hopeful. Eddie is a thing that shouldn’t be seen ever again, a dead man without a heartbeat, without breath in his lungs, without a reason to exist and yet still here. He wishes he were still dead. He wishes even more that Steve knew he was there, that Steve was looking for him. But Eddie knows better. Eddie can’t go to Steve, because Eddie is a monster and Steve has fought enough monsters. Eddie doesn’t want to get added to the list. He doesn’t want to do that to Steve.

Eddie sits in the trees instead, unmoving and watching for days and weeks. Sometimes he leaves, to feed. Sometimes he stands in the middle of Steve’s empty house when he’s gone, breathing in the lonely silence. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and dreams.

But they’re never his own dreams.

And he never, ever visits anyone else in their sleep, in their dreams and nightmares. No one, except for Steve. His Steve, who’s dreaming of a summer day, sun high in the sky, sitting on the top of skull rock with a six pack and a cigarette. It’s such a simple, beautiful dream. All of Steve’s dreams are like that. Eddie watches the line of Steve’s neck as he tilts his head back in the sunlight, face catching the July warmth.

Steve doesn’t startle when Eddie sits beside him. Just leans in until his head rests on Eddie’s shoulder. It’s beautiful, he’s so beautiful, Eddie wants to cry.

“I miss you,” Steve whispers, like it’s a secret. He presses a smile into Eddie’s jacket. “Isn’t that silly? I barely even knew you.”

Eddie has to swallow back the emotion filling his throat. “Yeah, that’s pretty silly,” he croaks.

“I wanted to though,” Steve sighs. He leans even closer, hands grasping at Eddie’s sleeve, the back of his shirt, and Eddie wishes they could melt into each other, become one thing, become Steve with just Eddie hiding between Steve’s ribs, in his blood, sitting in the center of his chest right next to his heart. “I wanted to know you. I wanted to kiss you so bad.”

If this were real, if they were really sitting on skull rock in the sunlight right now, if Eddie was human, he would be crying. But here, in Steve’s dream, he doesn’t, can’t. Maybe Steve doesn’t want him to be sad.

“Really?” he breathes instead. “Me?”

Steve hums, his hand sliding down into Eddie’s, fingers warm, soft. “Robin calls you my Great Bisexual Awakening.”

Eddie barks a laugh, throwing his head back. He wants to be sobbing, but he laughs instead and when he stops, Steve is looking up at him, painted dream soft and sweet. They watch each other, Eddie cataloging the specks of gold and green in Steve’s eyes. He’s beautiful.

But then Steve blinks, and the corner of his mouth turns down, smile falling away. Eddie feels his skin prickle. He feels watched.

“I miss you,” Steve says again, urgent. And then, just like that, he smiles again, and the feeling’s gone, and Steve presses his face once more into Eddie’s shoulder. “Tell me something.”

Eddie tries to shake off the feeling of disquiet, to relax back into the tenderness of Steve’s dream. “Like what?”’

“Something I don’t know.” He’s beautiful, so beautiful, and Eddie adores him, loves him so much.

“I wanted to kiss you, too.”

Eddie opens his eyes, his breath sharp in the silent forest, and watches as Steve sits up in his bed, gripping the blankets tight in his fists. Even from here, in his haven in the trees, he can see the tears on Steve’s face. He never wants Steve to cry.

When morning comes, he steals into Steve’s home, buries himself in the lingering warmth of his sheets after Steve leaves for work. The fading smell of him is intoxicating, even the salty sting of Steve’s tears, and Eddie wants so desperately. Wants him from the pain in his throat, the hitch in his breath, the way he’s been hollowed from the inside out. Everything has been taken out of Eddie, scooped from between his ribs and scraped smooth, an empty jack o’lantern waiting to rot on the front step.

The wanting is worse than the starving, the thirst. Eddie can’t cry anymore, he isn’t human enough to, but he wishes he could.

Instead, he lays in Steve’s bed, breathes him in, and disappears into the woods behind Steve’s home when he hears the rumble of Steve’s car turn onto the street. He watches as Steve falls into the bed, long gone cold since Eddie has soaked up all the warmth from the blankets in the long hours of Steve's absence. He watches, a monster, as Steve’s eyes glance through the window, eyes on the trees. Straightens up, hoping and wanting, and slumps as that gaze slides past him. He watches Steve’s evening with longing building in his chest, and when Steve slips beneath his covers, Eddie closes his eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks.

Steve is sitting on the edge of his roof in this dream, watching the forest intently. He doesn’t turn his head towards Eddie, caught on a particular spot in the woods.

“You, I think. At least, I think it’s you. I hope it’s you.”

Eddie leans in close, hoping that Steve will turn his eyes, to look at Eddie, to give him that sweet, dreamy smile. “You shouldn’t bother waiting for something like me,” he tells Steve, desperate for those pretty eyes to look at him. “You should be happy.”

“I am happy,” Steve murmurs. He doesn’t look happy. He doesn’t look at Eddie. He watches the distant trees, standing guard. “I’m happy waiting. I think I can wait forever.”

Eddie doesn’t dare touch him, doesn’t dare turn Steve’s head. Even though it hurts. It hurts so bad, so Eddie opens his eyes. In the distance, Steve turns in his bed, chest expanding with a sleepy sigh, and doesn’t leave his dreams.

Morning comes again, and the night falls again, morning and night and morning. Eddie rises from his perch, glides closer to the empty house to steal through the unlocked door. He lays in Steve’s bed, in the shadow of Steve’s warmth left on the sheets. Breathes him in, even though Eddie needs no air. He leaves when he hears the rumble of a familiar engine. Night falls. He closes his eyes.

Eddie watches the way Steve sits on the edge of his roof again, feet dangling, eyes scanning the treeline at the back of his house, quiet and sentry. Like he’s waiting for another monster to appear between the tree trunks. Eddie sits beside him, and doesn’t speak, not even when Steve whispers, only once.

“I miss you.”

Morning comes again, and then night. Sun and moon, wax and wane. The summer heat does not bother Eddie, nor does the winter snow. He imagines building a family of snowmen in Steve’s yard, company for a lonely house. No one visits Steve here. Like they’d forgotten Steve altogether, and Eddie’s the only one left to bear witness to Steve Harrington. Steve who is lonely, who sleeps and dreams and waits for the monster in the woods. Or maybe…

Maybe Steve told them not to come here. Because here is only for Steve, and only for Eddie.

Night falls, and then the morning breaks. Steve doesn’t rise from the bed.

Uneasily, Eddie shifts. Snow slides from his shoulders, landing in heavy thumps on the forest floor below him. He watches as Steve rolls onto his back, arm over his eyes, mouth twisted in pain. Even from here, he can see the tears on Steve’s face. He watches Steve lay in bed the entire day, until night falls. Eddie closes his eyes.

Steve’s dream isn’t a dream this time—a vast darkness instead, stretching long and far. Eddie takes a hesitant step. Water splashes beneath his bare foot. He turns.

And suddenly, it’s like he can hear Steve in his ear, whispering, “I’m happy waiting. I think I can wait forever.”

Eddie turns again, and Steve is there, watching, waiting. Eddie feels the instinct of it, the prickling awareness of being seen. It settles over his skin, sharp and biting like ants. Eddie is the monster, and Steve has found him. His gaze roots Eddie where he stands, water lapping against his toes. The ripples roll away from him, stretching the unreachable distance between Eddie and Steve, distant stars, until they crash against Steve’s feet, and the water settles again, falls calm.

“I miss you though,” Steve whispers, right into Eddie’s ear. “I can wait forever, but I miss you.”

“Really?” Eddie asks. It echoes through the dark. He can see the way Steve smiles, even from so far away.

“Of course,” Steve whispers. “I’m waiting for—”

Dawn breaks through the trees, and Eddie opens his eyes with a gasp. The sound is sharp through the silent forest. Morning mist rises from the pine strewn ground. Steve isn’t in his bed anymore, and Eddie feels himself almost panic, gaze searching.

Searching, until he finds Steve, not even three feet up, sitting above his window on the roof. He stares out into the trees, stares right at Eddie, finally sees the monster in the woods. That gaze raises the hair on Eddie’s arm, animal instinct tightening his muscles, his bones. Steve watches him from his perch on the roof, watches Eddie watch him back.

He’s the most beautiful thing Eddie’s ever seen.

Because Steve’s not standing guard. He’s waiting. Waiting for the thing in the woods, for Eddie to finally come home.

Eddie shouldn’t, shouldn’t go to him, but now that he knows, how can he make Steve wait a moment longer?

Steve gasps when he appears, but it’s not fear in his eyes when he looks at Eddie. Eddie feels it again, feels watched, feels seen. Steve looks up at him and his smile is the most beautiful thing Eddie’s ever seen.

“There you are,” he whispers. “I missed you."

#steddie #steddie week 2024 #my fic #this is genuinely one of my favorite things i've written in a long time #so im posting the whole thing on tumblr too in case you don't wanna go to ao3 ahaha #this is super soft dw

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janeyshivers · 5 months ago

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i think a big part of the reason why, even when Pratchett was alive, it was always Rowling who was held up as the gold standard of a modern British fantasy author, is that Pratchett was above all else just far more honest about like, The English writ large.

a lot of ink has been spilled on the saccharine nostalgia of Harry Potter books, particularly as they went on, that longing for the WW2 Blitz spirit that Rowling herself didn't actually live through, but is lionised in our culture and was subsequently regurgitated uncritically by her, on account of her being an unimaginative hack. "keep calm and carry on" is the core aesthetic of the later books, while the earlier ones are far more of the sort of irritating, faux-charming, brilliant baffling bouncing Britishness that captured the hearts of teaboos who knew no better around the world, and also presented a highly self-flattering image to the people who have to actually live on this shithole island. this was especially true of cultural institutions such as schools, libararies, etc, who found it germaine to push these middling children's books relentlessly on kids, while massive multimillion dollar movie projects were cranked out, because they were deeply, painfully in love with a cutesy mirage of England that we like to project to the world to cover for the fact that this place is the husk of a dead empire, inhabited by tiny islands of obscene hoarded wealth in an increasingly desperate sea of insane deprivation and poverty.

and on a certain surface-level reading, you could almost accuse Pratchett of doing the same thing. after all, he also wrote whimsical fantasy tales largely set in a transparently England-ish setting (that is, Ankh-Morpork and the surrounding countryside areas on the Discworld). they even feature lots of witches and wizards! his books are full of bumbling, good-natured Englishmen doffing their caps to the lord, scenic countryside vistas, dirty and yet charming city streets, bustling fairs, rascally pickpockets, and generally a lot of the same aesthetic signifiers of Rowling's earlier work especially.

but.

read any amount of Pratchett's stuff and you realise very quickly that he understands that there is a persistent, genuinely violent nastiness underpinning a lot of this stuff. I Shall Wear Midnight is a good example, as the honest, hard-working country folk of the Chalk never even acknowledge the shameful mob killing of the old toothless woman who Tiffany has had to bury. these charming communities are places where well-known cases of domestic violence go unaddressed until a pregnant girl is beaten so badly she has a miscarriage, and they are places where miserable, curtain-twitching sneaks spread lies and rumours with impunity. Guards, Guards! fits here as well, a book about how the not-insincere love of the people of Ankh Morpork for their new king is insane and destructive and ends up getting quite a lot of innocent people killed.

what i appreciate most about how Pratchett talks about this stuff is that neither the nastiness nor the more charming elements are artifice. while they seem to exist as a contradiction at first glance, a core feature of English culture from Pratchett's perspective is that these impulses exist in a tense balance at all times. Mr Petty hits his daughter until she miscarries, and also stings his hands gathering nettles to make a little grave for the poor kid before trying to hang himself. that doesn't make what he did ok, but it does mean grappling with the fact that people are complicated and don't make sense, culture doesn't entirely cohere, and that the things you might like about "Englishness" are part and parcel of some genuinely horrifying shit.

obviously i'm not going to sit here and pretend that Pratchett was some plucky underdog compared to Rowling, the dude had a knighthood, and there are even a few movies based on his stuff (I'm rather partial to the 2008 The Colour of Magic adaptation myself), although nothing on the scale of the Potter movies. but at a glance, it does seem strange that Rowling was our nation's marquis literary export in the 2000s, considering that Pratchett was more established, working in the same genre, and also a significantly more technically skilled and insightful writer than her. but, that's the thing, he was insightful enough that his writing didn't make for decent cultural slop like Rowling's did. Harry Potter is vapid enough for corporate interests and cultural institutions to build a multinational media empire on, not through some insidious conspiracy to poison the minds of a generation of irritating millenials, but because it was there and it was popular enough and it was easy to use, because it's not very complicated or challenging. Discworld is not perfect by any means, and i have my personal disagreements with Pratchett's (relatively) rosy perspective on humans as being fundamentally very decent. but the stories make you think, they encourage you to engage with the world critically, and they are written with a degree of empathy and kindness that clash with any earnest attempt to shore up "English values".

#“english” chosen quite deliberately here btw #not using it interchangably w british #discworld #i shall wear midnight #guards! guards!#terry pratchett #fuck harry potter #fuck jkr #long shiverposting

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reveryfics · 3 months ago

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Slaughterhouse

Rick Grimes x Male Reader

Summary: An unfortunate run in with a group of cannibals leaves you mutilated.

A/N: Please forgive me @the-ultimate-librarian

TW: Violence - Blood - Cannibalism - Mutilation - Gore

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Memories of your greatest moments playing in your mind, a final, desperate reel of joy. But you? You saw only the encroaching darkness, a suffocating void that mirrored the pain searing through your every nerve. It wasn't the sweet release of memory; it was the brutal, unyielding present, a nightmare you couldn't wake from.

The stench. It clung to you, a suffocating miasma of rotting flesh and the coppery tang of old blood. It was a visceral assault, a reminder of the horrors you'd endured. Your shirt, once a familiar comfort, was now a grotesque canvas of crimson, soaked and stiff. The bandages wrapped around your mangled hand offered no solace, barely concealing the bone that protruded, a macabre testament to their brutality.

A shock of icy water jolted you awake, snapping you back into the nightmare. Your eyes, heavy and disoriented, struggled to focus in the dim, oppressive light. The room was a charnel house, the floor slick with a horrifying mixture of fresh and congealed blood. Bodies hung from meat hooks, grotesque puppets suspended in the shadows. One, naked and pale, dangled above a rusted tub, its life draining away. Around you, figures moved, their faces obscured in the gloom. They ate. Not food, but chunks of human flesh, their jaws working with a sickening rhythm.

A wave of bile surged up your throat, burning as it forced its way past the gag binding your mouth. You choked, the acidic liquid spilling from the corners of your mouth, staining the fabric.

"Damnit, ungag the bastard before he drowns in his own filth," a voice rasped, rough as gravel.

The gag was ripped away, the sudden freedom a cruel mockery. You retched, blood and the remnants of your stomach’s contents spilling onto the floor. Tears streamed down your face, leaving trails through the grime and dried blood, each drop a tiny, burning reminder of your torment.

"Pretty boy's awake," a voice cackled, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. "Your boy toy's been asking about ya."

Rick. The name echoed in the fractured landscape of your mind, a beacon in the encroaching darkness. Fragments of memory surfaced, sharp and painful: the walk along the tracks, the ambush, the brutal darkness that had swallowed you whole. You remembered Rick’s desperate pleas, his voice choked with terror as they threatened Carl. You remembered offering yourself, a desperate sacrifice in the face of unimaginable horror.

The memory of the table, the cold metal against your skin, returned with sickening clarity. The dull blade, the agonizing pressure, the sickening crunch as they hacked away at your hand. Your screams, raw and primal, echoed in the depths of your mind, a haunting symphony of pain.

They dragged you, your feet scraping against the blood-soaked floor, into another room. Rick and Carl were there, bound to a pole, their faces contorted in terror. Rick’s muffled cries echoed through the room, a desperate plea lost in the suffocating silence.

They forced you to the ground, pinning you face down. One of them straddled your back, his weight pressing down on your mutilated arm. You knew what they intended, their cruelty a twisted performance for their own amusement. They wanted to break you, to shatter your spirit in front of those you loved.

The man’s hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at Rick and Carl. Their eyes, wide with terror, met yours. "Don't lo—" you began, but the word was cut short by a raw, guttural scream. The blade, dull and unforgiving, bit into your flesh, just below your elbow. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, and your body convulsed beneath the man’s weight. The world dissolved into a blur of pain, the voices around you distant and distorted.

They kicked your severed forearm towards Rick and Carl, a grotesque offering. Your vision swam, the edges of your consciousness fading. Rick strained against his bonds, his eyes filled with a desperate, helpless rage.

The men turned to Rick, their eyes glinting with cruel anticipation. One of them grabbed his hair, forcing his head back. The other ran the blade along his neck, smearing your blood across his skin. "As tasty as you look," he hissed, his eyes drifting towards Carl, "boys better."

Something inside you snapped, a primal rage erupting from the depths of your despair. You surged to your feet, adrenaline coursing through your veins, a desperate surge against the encroaching darkness. You charged, a wounded animal unleashed, slamming into the man with the butcher knife, sending them both crashing into the concrete wall. The knife clattered to the floor.

You stumbled back, blood dripping from your mouth, your breath ragged. You screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, and lunged again, driving the man into the metal bar with brutal force, the impact shattering the rusted metal.

The world was a chaotic blur of violence. He tossed you around, a rag doll in his hands, but you fought back, driven by a desperate, animalistic fury. Rick, freed by Carl, was choking out the other man, his face a mask of grim determination.

Your fingers scraped against the concrete, desperate to reach the fallen knife. "Fuck you, bastard!" you screamed, grabbing the blade and cleaving into the man’s face. He fell, but you didn't stop. You straddled his hips, the knife rising and falling, a brutal rhythm of vengeance. Blood splattered across your face, your clothes, the floor, a grotesque baptism.

Rick pulled you away, his arms wrapping around you, his voice hoarse. "It's over! It's over," he gasped. His hand cupped your face, his eyes searching yours. Carl, his face pale and drawn, clung to Rick’s side.

"Dad," Carl whispered, his voice trembling, "his arm, we have to do something."

Your body went limp, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a chilling void. The weight of your injuries, the horror of what you’d endured, crashed down on you, a crushing wave of despair. Rick, realizing the urgency, grabbed you, carrying you out of the slaughterhouse, Carl trailing behind. They bound your arm with torn cloth, a desperate attempt to stem the bleeding.

They retraced their steps, the familiar path now a terrifying gauntlet. Your whispers, incoherent and laced with madness, echoed in the silence, a chilling testament to your broken mind.

As Glenn and Daryl spotted Rick carrying you, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and horror, their calls were urgent, strained. "Rick! Over here!" Glenn's voice cracked, and Daryl's gruff shout echoed through the trees.

They rushed to meet them, their eyes widening at the sight of your mangled arm and the blood that stained your clothes. Carl, his face pale and set, followed close behind Rick, a silent testament to the horrors they had witnessed.

"Jesus," Daryl muttered, his eyes fixed on your wound. He and Glenn helped Rick guide you back to the makeshift camp where the others waited.

Maggie and Carol, their faces grim, immediately took charge. They laid you gently on the backseat of a battered sedan, the closest thing to a medical bay they had. Carol, her hands steady despite the tremor in her voice, began to clean the wound, her brow furrowed in concentration. Maggie, her face pale but determined, worked to stem the bleeding, her movements precise and efficient.

"We need to cauterize it," Maggie said, her voice tight. "We can't stop the bleeding like this."

Carol nodded, her eyes flicking to Rick, who stood nearby, his face a mask of worry. "We'll have to use the fire."

The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the crackling of the nearby fire and the soft sounds of their ministrations. Your ragged breaths filled the space, a fragile rhythm against the backdrop of their desperate efforts.

When you finally stirred, the world came into focus slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom. The car's interior was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of the dashboard. Rick's eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, and a silent understanding passed between you. There was no need for words. The shared trauma, the raw, visceral knowledge of what you had endured, hung heavy in the air.

As you drifted in and out of consciousness, the memories of the charnel house, the blood, the screams, swirled around you, a relentless tide. The faces of your tormentors, their eyes glinting with cruel amusement, haunted your waking moments. The feel of the cold metal against your skin, the agonizing crunch of bone, the raw, animalistic fear that had gripped you – it was all there, etched into your mind with brutal clarity.

The world outside the car was a blur, the familiar landscape distorted by the lingering effects of your ordeal. The trees, once a source of comfort, now seemed to loom menacingly, their shadows stretching like grasping claws. The sounds of the forest, the rustling leaves, the chirping insects, were amplified, each sound a potential threat.

You closed your eyes, seeking a moment of respite, but the darkness offered no escape. The images of the slaughterhouse, the face of Rick and Carl contorted in terror, the feel of the knife slicing through your flesh, played on an endless loop in your mind.

The pain in your arm was a constant, throbbing reminder of your vulnerability. But it was the pain in your soul, the deep, gnawing ache of trauma, that truly threatened to consume you. In this world, survival was a brutal, relentless struggle, and the price of survival was often paid in blood and broken spirits.

#rick grimes #rick grimes x male reader #twd rick #twd x male reader #fanfic #fanfiction #mlm #x male reader #xmalereader #twd fanfiction

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dark-and-kawaii · 1 year ago

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୨♡୧ Betrayal ୨♡୧

Zevlor x F!Tav/Reader

₊˚⊹♡ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛɪᴇꜰʟɪɴɢꜱ, ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴢᴇᴠʟᴏʀ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ… ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ?

₊˚⊹♡ Notes: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ!! ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴢᴇᴠʟᴏʀ ꜱᴏ ꜰᴀʀ!!! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ. ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ @eurydia ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ <3

Prt 2.

His grasp around your throat was tight and unforgiving, your body held aloft like a ragdoll, and you could feel his nails digging into your skin, his claws drawing pinpricks of blood. You always knew Zevlor was strong, but this strength was...unimaginable.

He wasn't letting up on the pressure at all.

"Z-Zev-lor... pl-please..." You choked out, “Y-ou… You kn-know m-me- Ah!”

His nails sunk further into your flesh, his eyes glaring, and for a split second, you feared that he might snap your neck right there and then… You didn’t want to believe the other tieflings, didn’t want to believe that Zevlor turned his back on his people let alone you… He’d never do such a thing.

Would he?

Your hands grasped his forearm and you could feel your strength dwindling, your eyes closing, your body growing weak, your heart beating a million miles a minute…

“Y-you- you don’t-“ you gasped, struggling for air, “you don’t wan-t t’do- th-this…!”

The tiefling paladin growled at you, the sound guttural and low, eyes narrowing with anger and hate. His tail flicked out from behind him, the pointed end lashing against the air… None of this felt real… Did the absolute truly have such a hold on him? Your precious Zevy?

Suddenly, a loud cry filled the air, followed by the sound of your back hitting the ground… hard. The wind was knocked right out of you, your hands still grasping his arms… You coughed, hacking up a bit of blood, the taste bitter on your tongue, your lungs burning. You were so delirious that you hadn’t notice how Zevlor reached for his blade until it was already too late.

With a single fluid motion, the tiefling paladin drove his sword into your shoulder, pinning you down to the ground like a bug in a glass case. Your pained screams echoed throughout the chamber, his sword sinking deep into the earth beneath you, and tears sprang from your eyes, blurring your vision.

“Zevlor!!” You cried, your hand grasping his.

You looked up at him with tears in your eyes and begged him to stop, pleaded for him to see reason. You didn't want to hurt him, and you knew deep down he didn’t want this either. That the absolute was poisoning his mind, corrupting his soul. You knew him… And this wasn’t him… He loved you, dammit!

“I know- I know you’re st-still in there, Zev-vlor, I kn-now it-. I know it’s been hard… -! But, Zevy, ple- please-!! I lov-ove y-you! I-I won’t ever lea-leave you be-hind- I won’t-,” tears spilled freely from your eyes, the pain you felt didn’t come from your wounds but rather the heartache of knowing why he fell victim to the absolute… With little strength you had left, your shaky arm reached up to caress his cheek, “my- my swe-sweet handsome… Z-Zevlor…”

Tears welled up in his very own eyes and his brows furrowed as if confused, like he was coming to, as though the absolute lost its grip on him...

His gaze met yours, and he whispered your name, “T-Tav?”

Your face softened, the corners of your lips tugging up into a small weak smile, “Th-there he is…..”

He quickly released your neck from his grasp and let go of his sword…

Gasping and sputtering, you tried to regain the oxygen in your lungs. Your fingers grazing over your bloody neck… The tips of your fingers tracing over the marks his nails had left behind…

Stumbling back, Zevlor fell to his knees, his hand covering his mouth. He stared at you in horror, his eyes wide as his shoulders trembled, “By the gods what have I done..?” He saw how his blade was sheathed within your shoulder, how it pinned you to the ground, and the way your blood trickled down the edge of the blade… The tiefling’s eyes trailed to your neck… Your lovely beautiful neck now covered in smeared blood and puncture wounds… He did that…

The tiefling had been a fool. Blinded by the absolute, the power it promised, the protection it offered, and the hatred it gave…

Zevlor quickly reached for his blade and yanked it from your shoulder, causing you to cry out once more.

“Hsss!!” You grit your teeth, hissing in pain.

Zevlor cast the blade aside, the sword landing with a clank. He then was immediately on his knees beside you, his hand resting atop of yours as you pressed into your wound.

He whispered apologies, each word tinged with despair, "I'm so sorry, I... I didn't know. I couldn't see. Forgive me, please."

Your breaths were shallow, each inhale a struggle against the pain, but you managed a nod. "Zevlor, it's... it's not your fault. The Absolute... it- it twisted your mind."

He shook his head, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the dirt and blood that stained his skin. "I was weak," he choked out. "I allowed it to take hold, to use me against those I care most about. Against you."

You reached out, your hand trembling as it brushed away his tears. "No, Zevy. You are still so strong.” The pain in his eyes were so evident, you wish you could take it away, “Everyone has moments of weakness, especially when faced with powers that promise us something good.”

Zevlor's gaze lingered on your face, his eyes searching for forgiveness and strength. He helped you sit up, carefully avoiding your injured shoulder. "We need to get you to a healer. There isn’t much I can do..."

“Zevlor, please don’t fret-“ you could feel yourself start to fade in and out of consciousness… “I-we’ll be… o-ok-“

Everything felt heavy, and it became increasingly hard to keep your eyes open. You tried, you tried so damn hard to fight it, but the pain and loss of blood had gotten to you… Fuck, you didn’t want to leave him on his own with his thoughts… But- but… Your eyes finally shut and everything went dark… You could faintly hear Zevlor call out your name, begging you to stay awake.

He carefully lifted you into his arms, his movements gentle, as if you were made of the most fragile glass. Every step he took was cautious, ensuring not to jar your wound further. The Last Light Inn was not far, but with every step, the urgency of your situation weighed heavily on him.

As he approached the inn, he could see the faces of the other tieflings who had once trusted him. Their expressions turned from surprise to shock, and then to anger as they saw the state you were in and the remorse etched deeply onto his features.

“Zevlor! What have you done!?" Lakrissa cried out, stepping forward with pure fury in her eyes.

He shook his head, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. His voice broke, his gaze dropping to your limp form, “I- i was misled, corrupted by the Absolute. But no more. Please, she needs a healer. There's no time-“

“You are the reason some of us are dead and now you’re almost the reason for her-“ she points at you, “the one person who had faith that you didn’t turn your backs on us! The girl who saved us from those Druids and goblins!!”

Zevlor's face crumpled under the weight of Lakrissa's fury, his guilt and regret manifesting as a visible shudder that ran through his body. He knew she was right; his actions, influenced by the Absolute, had nearly cost the life of the one person who always believed in him. He dared not look at the other tieflings, their eyes burning with a mixture of disappointment, anger, and betrayal.

Lakrissa's expression faltered, her eyes drifting between the two of you, her anger turning to sorrow, but not for herself, for you.

She gestured towards the door of the inn, leading him inside, “Place her on the bed, Halsin is here I just need to fetch him…” Lakrissa stopped just before the doorway, glancing back at the paladin, "This will not undo the wrongs you've committed, and I’m only doing this for her sake."

Zevlor's expression was solemn, "I am aware, Lakrissa…”

Without another word, the tiefling slipped through the doorway and vanished, leaving Zevlor alone with you.

He carefully laid you down on the bed, taking a moment to gently push the hair from your face, his hand finding yours. Gripping it tightly as if holding onto it was his only anchor left in the world.

It didn’t take long for Halsin to arrive. The Druid an old acquaintance, a fine healer…

The large elf took one look at you and got to work immediately, his hands hovering over your wound. A soft light emanated from his palms, “How did such a fate come to pass?”

Zevlor bowed his head in shame, his words caught in his throat. He swallowed thickly, trying to find his voice, "I... I was corrupted by the Absolute and she, she paid the price for it."

“I see.”

You remained unconscious, your breathing shallow but steady, a testament to the healer's skill and the resilience that had always defined you.

Halsin was quiet for a few moments, the druid focused on his task, until his hands fell back to his side, the light fading, his healing almost complete.

“I cannot apologize enough. For everything. I have failed her, my people, and myself- and I will never forgive myself- nor do I expect it from anyone else.”

Zevlor’s hand tightened around yours, his gaze lingering on you for a few moments longer. He had been so close to losing the only person he ever cared for. The thought alone was enough to break him, his thoughts running wild about how he could possibly do it again and find his blade in your back…

He didn’t want to release your hand, but it was inevitable, and with a final squeeze, he stood up and turned heading towards the exit, "I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome. She’ll be better off without me, nor do I deserve a place among my people. Thank you Halsin, truly, for all you have done.”

Your weak call, "please..." had halted him, a simple plea laden with so much need. When he turned, expecting perhaps to see you awake, he saw how you were still unconscious- your arm hanging off the bed as if reaching out for him…

“They’ll both recover, old friend. She just needs time to rest.”

The elf's eyes landed on the paladin, a simple warm smile gracing his face, "Go to her, they need you."

“They?” Zevlor whispered, his brows furrowing.

"Yes, her… and the child she carries?"

Zevlor was stunned, his mind processing the information. The druid's words replayed in his head, “A child... She is with child?” The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, “Oh gods...” the shadows lengthened as the burden of his knowledge grew. He nearly killed you and his unborn child. The realization was a cruel knife twisting within him.

The room spun around him, each turn a montage of his failures, his betrayals, the lives lost, the lives almost lost because of his decisions. How could he consider himself worthy of being a father, of standing by you, when his hands were so stained?

“I- I didn’t know. I wasn't aware. If I had known- if I had been stronger... This would not have happened... I would have- I should have protected her. Gods above, what have I done?”

He wanted to run. To escape the truth of his actions and the reality of his newfound parenthood-

A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts, the druid's kind eyes meeting his, "You are not the man you were yesterday, nor the one from a week ago. We change each day, this is just as life is. You can become the person they both need, the one I know you can be. Do not let the past define your future, do not allow it to define their future. The absolute may have swayed your mind, but not your soul.”

The tieflings eyes flickered towards you, his gaze lingering on you, watching every subtle rise and fall of your chest as you lay there, the steady rhythm of your breathing a quiet symphony in the otherwise silent room. Zevlor felt the weight of his past actions, but also the potential for rebirth, for growth. He realized that while he could not change the past, the future was still his to shape, that’s only if you allow it so.

He approached your bedside, his movements hesitant, as if afraid to shatter the moment, afraid to find this all an illusion, a cruel dream his subconscious would torment him with and that you’d be lying in a casket instead of a bed…

He reached out and took your hand in his, the warmth of your skin against his was an assurance that you were real, that he was here, that you would both be okay.

Taking a seat beside you, he watched over you with a mix of awe and fear. Fear of the unknown, of the new life he would now be responsible for, and awe of the strength and resilience you embodied, even in unconsciousness. He always found himself unromancable, yet you loved him. Despite the many faults he possessed, you loved him.

His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, a silent prayer of forgiveness, a plea for second chances, a promise to never be blinded by the absolute again.

Hours passed before your finally stirred, the world around you a haze of confusion and pain. Your shoulder felt like it was on fire, and your neck throbbed, every small movement an exercise in pain management.

The sight of you waking was like the dawn after the darkest night, and Zevlor held his breath, waiting, hoping.

When your eyes finally opened, they met his inferno one. A faint smile curved your lips. "Zevlor." your voice was weak, but to him, it was the most beautiful sound.

"I'm here," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm so sorry. For everything."

You reached out, your hand finding his cheek. "No more apologies," you whispered, stroking his skin. "No more blame.You are so kind, my Zevlor. A shield for those that are in need of protection. Please, none of this was your fault, my love.”

He pressed his hand over yours, leaning into your touch, he could see there was not arguing with you, your stubborn nature, and strongheaded ways were something he loved.

His gaze then shifted, resting on your still flat stomach, "I was told that you were with child, and that I would have the privilege of being their father."

He looked back up at you, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

With a simple nod, you confirmed it.

“Truly?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Truly," you replied.

In a split second, the paladin wrapped his arms around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

And in that moment, the world fell away. There was no absolute, no judgement, only the two of you and the promise of a brighter future.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #zevlor #zevlor bg3 #bg3 Zevlor #zevlor x tav #zevlor x reader #bg3 angst #halsin

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