𖹭 hai hai! name's orion / muse, wherever, i use he/him pronouns only. i've made this blog mainly just to write my random delulu stuff. i'm not new to tumblr or anything—this is my third blog—i kinda wanted to make a main blog where i can throw my delulu ass writings.
𖹭 in case u ask, no, i am not a minor, idk why i didn't put it before, but i have twenty y.o., im of the '06 if u are wondering !
𖹭 i speak spanish and english, i also understand portuguese, french (to some degree), and italian. my ass it's just comfy writing shit in english cuz it's my comfort language, tho my mother tongue is spanish. so if you see some words misspelled, you already know why: i'm dyslexic.
𖹭 here, i would be less serious about my shit, but it would remain the touches of a person who tries too much to decorate everything everywhere, so don't expect less.
𖹭 and before u keep going, i only write transmale/ftm perspectives, i do not bring to the table fempovs or fem presenting mc/user/yn's
𖹭 DNI ; bigots/racists, zionists, porn blogs, pro-ship, problematic, trump/maga, transphobic, homophobic, etc. Please use basic etiquette when interacting !
𖹭 Tone tags, likes, and reblogs are appreciated !
𖹭 if u wish, u can use my banners and dividers, i just ask for a little credit on 'em!
𖹭 my bots account, here's my fandom list
The Red List :
in any case that you want to make a suggestion or commission, or you just wanna know what shit and whatnot.
𖹭 Bestiality / Zoophilia → sexual content with animals? absolutely not.
𖹭 Child-coded characters → like “but they’re 500 years old in a 12yo’s body” loopholes. stfu, and leave.
𖹭 Extreme age gaps / power imbalance → even if “legal,” not comfy.
𖹭 FemPOV → not completely comfortable with it. this is more of a safe space for male presenting people, like myself.
𖹭 Gore / Torture porn → extreme graphic stuff for shock only, no thanks.
𖹭 Incest → feels weird/uncomfortable to write. do not ask.
𖹭 Necrophilia → sexual content with corpses? let the dead rest.
𖹭 Non-consensual → not appealing at all.
𖹭 Pedophilia → anything over 18 × under 18, absolutely not.
𖹭 Self-harm / Suicide fetishization → not writing it in a romanticized/fetish way.
The Silver List :
things i can write, but are not my strong suit.
𖹭 Action / Adventure → fights, battles, missions… I’ll try, but it might come out clunky.
𖹭 Crossovers / Fandom Mixes → i can attempt them, but keeping characters consistent across universes is tricky for me.
𖹭 Comedy / Crack → i can try, but my humor might not always land.
𖹭 Detailed worldbuilding / Lore-heavy plots → don't get me wrong, i love putting details on everything, but i can't organize myself really well, and everything is kind of hard to understand.
𖹭 Highly niche kinks / requests → depends on what, but might not come out how you imagine.
𖹭 Mystery / Detective-style plots → not my best, but i can write a light version.
𖹭 Watersports → maybe... that's all im going to say, ok..?
The Pink List :
shit i would most definitely write.
𖹭 Almost any genre → sci-fi, horror, romance, mystery; just keep in mind i may not know some genre's.
𖹭 Angst → cheating, death, suicide, manipulation, etc.
𖹭 Agere → SFW regression stuff.
𖹭 AU → royal, high school, vampire, demi-humans, etc.
𖹭 Comfort → any kind of comfort (depression, anxiety, panic, etc.) i love to write the comfort i've never had.
𖹭 Child!user / Child!char → strictly SFW, just cute content.
𖹭 Domestic / Fluff → soft slice-of-life, relationships, found family vibes.
𖹭 Hurt / Comfort → angst followed by healing/comfort.
𖹭 Kinks / Turn-ons → breeding, spanking, choking, etc.
Summary: Rain blurs the edges of a quiet kitchen in Forks as an unspoken dynamic unfolds. Between a tired Chief of police, kind of dissociating over a cigarette, and an ancient doctor letting his mask slip, you find a perfect, grounding comfort. The ritual of scenting becomes a silent promise of safety, anchoring three lives in a shared, quiet understanding. Sometimes, home is just the smell of rain, smoke, and cinnamon.
Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x Charlie Swan x ambiguous!reader » ( hinted polyamory )
Content Warnings: mentions of smoking/nicotine and cigarette (aka Charlie being a fucking chimney)，mild dissociation，non-graphic blood mention，vampire feeding instincts (scenting/sniffing)，fluff，domestic，comfort.
Word Count | Characters: 782 | 4583 (yeah, pretty short)
Author's Note: English isn’t my native language, so please let me know if there are any grammatical mistakes! I did run the text through a few correctors, but you never know with those.
It was hard as fuck to find fucking Charlisle images, so yeah, y'all are just getting the film ones, but hey, Charlie is actually looking at Carlisle, so a tiny victory for Charlisle nation.
As always, they're kind of, if not all the way, OOC (out of character) just to fit this flat ass scenario, and the future ones, i dont know how to write characters without me thinking they're OOC, and they probably are, so help to improve is always welcome.
Fun fact: the title has the color of their eyes together, enjoy!
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The rain in Forks didn’t just fall; it saturated the world until everything, from the towering pine trees to the worn floorboards of the porch, felt permanently damp. Inside the small kitchen, the atmosphere was thick with the comforting scent of dark-roast coffee, wet wool, and the sharp, chemical tang of hospital antiseptic that always clung subtly to Carlisle.
You sat at the small wooden dining table, hands casually wrapped around a ceramic mug with tea for warmth, watching the quiet, domestic dance unfolding by the sink. It was a unique, delicate dynamic that had been building between the three of you for months—unspoken, effortless, and entirely yours.
Charlie was leaning his hip against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed a bit tightly over his chest, looking at the window, how the rain poured down—tho, honestly, he was kind of dissociating at that point. He still wore his dark blue uniform jacket, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as it sent a lazy curl of gray smoke toward the ceiling. Standing right behind him, almost flush against his back with a quiet, predatory elegance, was the ancient doctor. Carlisle leaned forward, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his tan trench coat. His golden eyes were closed as he deliberately pressed his face into the side of the Chief's neck, taking a deep, rhythmic breath. Sniff. Sniff.
“I can put it out,” Charlie muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He flicked his eyes sideways as he shifted slightly under the sheer weight of the immortal's focus.
“If the smoke bothers you.” He added after a small pause.
The vampire didn’t pull away. Instead, he took another deep, appreciative inhale right against the collar of the uniform, a soft, content hum vibrating deep in his marble chest.
“No,” Carlisle murmured, his voice smooth, velvety, and entirely unbothered by the tobacco.
“Leave it. I like it.”
You took a slow sip of your coffee, a faint, knowing smile tugging at your lips. The familiarity in the kitchen was palpable—a thick, sweet current that felt as natural as breathing. It was a deeply ingrained habit of Carlisle's to scent and sniff the people he held closest, a trait Edward had clearly inherited, though the patriarch possessed centuries of practice in masking it but here, in the privacy of this cramped kitchen, the immaculate doctor let the mask slip entirely.
“You’re going to burn a hole in his jacket if you keep that up, Doc,” you teased softly from the table, your voice steady and amused. Charlie’s eyes flicked to you, a rare, fond smirk breaking through his tired expression.
“Hear that? You're a hazard.” Despite his words, the Chief didn't move away. He leaned back just a fraction more, letting his human warmth bleed through his clothes to meet the vampire's cool chest. He was a man of few words, set in his ways, but the quiet acceptance in his posture spoke volumes. Furthermore, he welcomed the closeness just as much as his partner did.
Carlisle finally opened his eyes, the brilliant topaz burning with a quiet, intense affection as his gaze drifted from Charlie over to you. With a movement so fluid it defied human physics, he left his spot and appeared right at your side without a sound.
You didn't flinch when got close nor when he leaned down, entirely used to his sudden presence. His cool breath brushed your ear as his nose trailed a slow, deliberate line along your jaw, taking a deep, reverent breath of your scent. He inhaled the smell of your shampoo, the crisp rain clinging to the clothes, and the underlying, intoxicating sweetness of your blood—a mix that, to him, simply meant home.
“And you,” Carlisle whispered, his lips lightly grazing the skin just below your ear, his tone deeply affectionate.
“You smell of rain and cinnamon. It is entirely unfair how distracting you both are.”
“Then stop letting us distract you,” you replied softly, leaning back just enough to catch his golden gaze, your smile widening slightly.
From the counter, Charlie let out a low huff, taking a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in a glass ashtray. He didn't say a word—he never did when actions were enough—but he simply looked over at you, his eyes soft, before his gaze flicked up to meet Carlisle's golden ones.
There was an unspoken something between the three of you—a quiet understanding that didn't need a name, yet, to be real. It was found in the way Charlie shared his space, the way Carlisle protected your fragile human lives, and the way you anchored both of them between the mundane and the supernatural.
Summary: After a endless night of overwork, you retreat to the kitchen only for a tired, fiercely protective Wanderer to show up unannounced. What starts as a silent demand for comfort turns into a moment of soft caretaking as he helps you navigate exhaustion and your own carelessness with your binder. In the dark sanctuary of your bedroom, the weight of the world fades into a quiet victory of shared warmth, safety, and rest.
Content Warnings: non-graphic mentions of gender dysphoria，binder usage，burnout，overwork，mental health struggles. fluff，hurt/comfort，domestic，caretaking，praise，protective!char.
Word Count | Characters: 1410 | 8225
Author's Note: English isn’t my first language, so please let me know if there are any grammatical mistakes! I did run the text through a few correctors, but you never know with those.
Also, he might be slightly OOC (out of character) to fit my vision for this scenario. I'm always looking to improve, so constructive criticism is totally welcome─just please be kind! If it's not your cup of tea, feel free to skip.
I've never worn a binder before, so this might be inaccurate. Let me know if I missed something or if there's anything wrong! I tried my best here
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The heavy silence of the house clung to your shoulders, a suffocating weight after a relentless day of work. True rest felt like a distant shore, entirely out of reach despite how desperately your body craved it. With a frustrated sigh, the clutter of notebooks, open books, and the harsh, lonely glow of the desk lamp were finally pushed aside. A few long stretches followed─the hundredth attempt to shake the stiffness from your spine─before the inevitable decision was made: more coffee, there was still too much left to do.
The kitchen clock read 1:17 a.m., accurate and unforgiving, though the flashing numbers brought no real surprise. Staying up late had long since become a habit, an old friend whose company was no less taxing tonight. Between the endless research and the summaries that seemed to stretch into infinity, the praise from your superiors felt like a hollow reward, but oh, how good it felt. It was especially empty tonight, when old ghosts whispered in the dark corners of your mind, and your own thoughts played cruel tricks on you. A quick, sharp shake of your head cleared the fog, forcing your focus back to the simple ritual of caffeine. Five generous scoops of ground coffee hit the filter. The pantry was stocked with a massive jar and enough backup packs to survive a minor apocalypse with caffeine alone─a fact Itto had pointed out with a boisterous, echoing laugh, weeks ago. A faint smile touched your lips at the memory, but just as your fingers reached for the sugar jar, a distinct, metallic click-turn of the front door broke the quiet. Tension flared in your chest for a second, then vanished entirely as you remembered who held the spare key. Peeking around the kitchen wall confirmed it. There he was: a small, sharp-featured figure, frozen in a rare moment of domesticity as he kicked off his shoes and slid his pale feet into a pair of ridiculous, soft kitten slippers.
“This late?” The thought drifted through your mind like smoke, accompanied by a spike of genuine surprise. He didn't usually arrive at these hours, let alone without a single word of warning. You watched him for a heartbeat, seeing the tired set of his shoulders, before shaking off the shock.
“I'm in the kitchen.” Your voice barely needed to rise above a whisper to carry through the still, midnight air. As the freshly brewed coffee poured into your mug, the soft, rhythmic thud-thud of his steps approached. Suddenly, a forceful impact hit your back. A pair of arms wrapped around you with a desperate, iron-like grip, nearly sending the hot liquid over the rim of the cup. A few stray droplets splashed onto your skin, stinging sharply, but the heat was entirely ignored. He was clinging to you as if you were the only solid thing keeping him grounded in the world, his forehead pressing firmly against your shoulder blade as if trying to absorb your very existence.
“Everything okay? Did something happen?” Quickly wiping the small mess on the counter with a dishtowel, you turned in his tight, unyielding hold to face him, returning the embrace. When no words came, you buried your face in his hair, breathing in the scent of him, letting the silence bridge the gap between your questions.
“Kuni... are you alright?”
“That insufferable nickname again.” The murmur against your shoulder was muffled, biting, and thick with that trademark sharp edge of his. He didn't pull away, though; he only held on tighter, as if the words were a shield to hide his true vulnerability.
“Just shut up and stay still.” A quiet chuckle escaped you, a soft sound in the silent house, though a lingering thread of anxiety remained. He was wound too tight, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm that didn't match his outward composure. You reached up, your fingers tracing the soft, silkiness of his indigo hair, trying to soothe the tension away with slow, deliberate strokes.
“It's late. Let's go to bed, okay?” Without waiting for his inevitable, sharp protest, you scooped him up into your arms. Your body was thoroughly exhausted, every muscle aching from the day, but you still held onto enough strength for this. The kitchen lights were flicked off in a practiced, one-handed motion, and after navigating the dark stairs and helping him shed the remaining stiffness of the day, you both collapsed into the safe sanctuary of the sheets. He curled against you like a shadow, silent, unmoving, and fiercely possessive. But as the minutes ticked by, a sharp, familiar ache began to thrum in your chest. The binder had been on since early morning─far past the recommended safety limit─and his weight pressed against your torso was making the restriction unbearable, a burning pressure that stole your breath.
“What?” A sharp, shallow intake of breath escaped your lips, making him pull back instantly. Indigo eyes looked up at you from the darkness, a frown deepening his features, his gaze searching your face for the source of your sudden discomfort.
“I love holding you like this, but I need to take my binder off. I've had it on since this morning... I completely lost track of time.” You offered him a faint, tired smile, your hand resting gently on his cheek, feeling the cool silk of his skin against your palm. The explanation hung heavy in the air, a confession of your own oversight, but you watched as his expression shifted, melting from raw confusion to a sharp, biting yet profoundly deep annoyance.
“Idiot. Why are you so consistently careless with your own body?” He sat up abruptly, his movements jerky and agitated. His hands─cold, as always─slid under your shirt to help. The sudden, icy sensation against your warm skin made you flinch and reflexively pull back, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Don't move away, dummy! You're the one who decided to suffocate yourself.” He growled, though the roughness of his voice belied the careful, deliberate gentleness of his fingers. He wasn't hurting you; he was dismantling the restriction with a focused, surgical precision, his eyes narrowed as if the fabric itself was an enemy he intended to conquer for your sake just as much as his.
“I can do it, really. You should change too. I doubt those clothes are comfortable to sleep in.” You countered gently, sitting up to find something soft and worn-in for both of you. You felt exposed for a moment, vulnerable, but his gaze remained steady, protective even despite the usual annoyance of his. After handing him a set of clean, cozy clothes, you headed toward the bedroom door. A pale hand caught your wrist, stopping you mid-step, his fingers tight enough to leave a mark but soft enough to be a plea.
“Where are you going now?” He asked with a genuine, wounded quality in his tone, looking genuinely bothered by the mere three feet of distance between you, as if the space was a chasm he couldn't bridge.
“To the bathroom. I'll give you some privacy to change, and I want to brush my teeth.” You explained it slowly, ruffling his indigo hair affectionately before escaping his grasp. The bathroom was a sanctuary of cool tiles and low light, but it felt incomplete without the weight of him anchored against you. When you finally stepped back into the bedroom, you found him fighting a losing battle with sleep, his eyes drooping heavily as he stared at the doorway, waiting. Heart softening at the sight, you climbed back into bed, and he immediately entangled himself with you again, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, his breathing evening out instantly.
“You took an eternity.” He muttered it into your skin, his voice thick and heavy with the exhaustion of the day, his body finally going limp against yours.
“I'm right here now.” You whispered, pulling the heavy duvet over both of your shoulders until the world was nothing but the two of you. You traced slow, rhythmic circles on his back, your fingers getting lost in his hair, a small, quiet victory in the middle of the night. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head. The world outside the bedroom door ceased to exist. There was no work, no lingering pains, and no research─only the warmth of the blankets and the steady, grounding rhythm of his breathing against yours.
Summary: After a shower on a difficult day, you return from your steamy bathroom to your room, just to find Jasper and Alice waiting. They stumble into a small ritual of survival. A childhood reward jar becomes a symbol of hard-won victories, quiet pride, and being deeply seen. Sometimes, making it through the day is enough.
Pairing: Alice Cullen x Jasper Hale x ftm!reader » ( polyamory )
Content Warnings: non-graphic mentions of gender dysphoria，depression，mental health struggles. fluff，hurt/comfort，domestic，praise.
Word Count | Characters: 1106 | 6460
Author's Note: English isn’t my first language, so please let me know if there are any grammatical mistakes! I did run the text through a few correctors, but you never know with those.
I also tried my best to keep the characters accurate, though I’m basing them only on the movies and not the books, so they might feel a little different from their canon versions. Still, I thought they would fit this scenario well.
Please be kind with feedback! I’m always open to constructive criticism and tips since I’m still learning. And of course, this is just my interpretation of the characters and the scenario—so if it’s not your cup of tea, feel free to just scroll past.
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The steam from the bathroom clung to your skin, a humid halo that followed as you cracked the door open. You stepped into the bedroom, scrubbing a towel over your damp hair, clad in your favorite worn-soft pajama pants, and a loose t-shirt. You felt clean and fresh, which was a victory in itself on days when that heaviness tried to glue you to the bed.
As always, you expected an empty room. Instead, you walked into a frozen, predatory grace. Jasper was leaning against your dresser, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed. He was the stillness before a storm, golden eyes tracking your movement with a softness that belied his nature. Alice, on the other hand, was sitting cross-legged in the center of your bed like a pixie on a mushroom, holding a big crystal-clear jar with both hands.
“You’re out,” Alice chimed, her voice like wind chimes in a gale—bright, sudden, and impossible to ignore.
“I told Jasper, you’d be exactly forty-two seconds longer than usual because you were debating the conditioner.”
“You’re lurking.” You said, almost matter-of-factly, blinking—squinting at them, maybe—while dropping your towel onto the hamper beside your door frame.
“We’re waiting,” Jasper corrected, his voice a low, honeyed way that seemed to make you vibrate. He uncrossed his arms and drifted toward you—not walking, just appearing closer. He stopped a foot away, inhaling gently, letting your calm, post-shower emotions wash over him.
“You feel better. Lighter.” He pointed out lowly, softly.
“I do,” you admitted, running a hand through your damp hair. You looked past him to Alice, who was inspecting the glass jar as if it contained something more interesting than candies and mini chocolates.
“And that… put that down, Alice.”
“But it’s fascinating,” Alice said, tilting her head. The jar was packed with colorful foils, twists, and wrappers—a chaotic rainbow against the glass.
“It has such a specific history. I can see you years ago, reaching for it. I can see your mother filling it up.” She looked up, her topaz eyes wide.
“It screams 'reward'.”
You sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips as you walked over to the bed.
“It is. Mom started it when I was a teen. When my depression was at its peak.” You joked, just for your own sake. It was still a bit challenging at times.
“For the days when existing felt difficult, you know… getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, showering.” You gestured to your damp hair.
“We call them: 'small victories'.” You said softly, making quotes in the air with your fingers. A bit of a smile peeked through your lips.
Jasper moved up behind you, his chest brushing your back, like a solid, cool wall of marble. His hands came up to rest lightly on your waist, grounding you, holding you.
“There is nothing small about fighting a war inside your own head, darlin',” he murmured, his nose grazing the curve of your neck.
“The emotional resonance attached to that glass… It's pride. Hard-won pride.” He said softly, voice hitting your neck, making you shiver in the spot because of the sensation.
Alice grinned, popping the lid off the jar. The sound of the seal opening was loud in the quiet room.
“And sugar. It’s also sugaring. Which is the best delivery system for pride.” She held the jar out to you, shaking it slightly, so the contents rattled—a small ocean of bright colors and sweet tastes.
“Go on. You showered, put on clothes, and faced the mirror. Take one.”
“I feel like I'm being conditioned like a Pavlovian dog,” you muttered, but you reached in. Your fingers brushed against the cold glass, digging through the layers of hard candies and chocolates. You pulled out a fruit chew—strawberry, bright red wrapper with yellowish dots all around.
“Good choice,” Alice said immediately.
“That was the one I was going to suggest.”
“Of course it was,” you said, unwrapping it. You popped the candy into your mouth, the burst of artificial sugar and nostalgia hitting your tongue. It tasted nothing like a strawberry, but it was good nonetheless.
“Can I?” Alice asked, her eyes glittering. She didn't really eat, not like you did, but she was fascinated by the ritual of it.
“Go ahead.” Alice’s hand darted in—a blur of pale motion—and retrieved a shiny, foil-wrapped caramel. She didn't eat it; she just held it, turning it over in her fingers, delighting in the texture, and how it shone in the dim light of the room and the near end of the day.
Jasper, however, hadn't moved from your back. He was soaking up the feeling of the room—the domesticity, the acceptance. You could feel his restraint, the way he held himself perfectly still so as not to startle you, treating you like something precious and breakable—which it was kind of true.
“Jasper?” You asked, turning in his hold to face him.
He looked down at you, his expression pained in that beautiful, tragic way of his, softened by an immense amount of affection.
“I don't require sugar,” he said softly.
“Your emotions are sweet enough right now. Contentment suits you.”
“Take one anyway,” you said, reaching back into the jar Alice was still holding. You fished out a peppermint—simple, classic, strong, kind of suited him. You held it up to him.
“For waiting. And for not making fun of my coping mechanisms.” Jasper’s lips quirked up, a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He took the candy from your palm, his cold fingers lingering against your warm skin. He didn't unwrap it. He just held it.
“To the victor go the spoils,” Jasper whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. It was cold, hard, and perfect.
“You two are ridiculous,” you mumbled, chewing your strawberry candy, face heating up.
“We're yours,” Alice corrected, hopping off the bed to stick to your back, leaning her head on your shoulder, and leaving you in between them both, perfectly sandwiching you.
“And now that you're showered, fed, and praised… I foresee a movie marathon. I picked the films already.”
“Let me guess, I'm going to love them?” You asked, looking between the vampire who saw the future and the vampire who felt your heart.
Jasper chuckled, a low rumble against your body.
“You're already excited about them, and she hasn't even told you the titles yet.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on then.” You rolled your eyes, still holding the candy wrapper like it was some kind of trophy. Maybe it was.
The jar went back on the nightstand, catching the soft light of the sun finally setting.
