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prythiansprincess · 2 years ago

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le coup de foudre.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: my love mine all mine by mitski.

author's note: this was a result of me binging dune and call me by your name. whoever fancasted timothee chalamet as regulus deserves a forehead kith cause look at him. he's so boyfriend coded it makes me sick.

Regulus Black did not believe in love at first sight.

It was a foolish notion. One that contradicted his pragmatic beliefs. At his core, Regulus was a realist. In his world, love was not a luxury one could afford. Regulus was raised with the expectation to marry according to class, wealth, and most importantly, blood status. The noble and most ancient house of Black only took the purest of the pure.

After all, Toujours Pur, always pure, had been the Black family motto for centuries. There has never been any doubt in his mind that he would marry another member of the sacred twenty eight. It wasn’t a matter of if, only a question of when.

During his sixth year, his mother made her intentions very clear. Walburga Black was adamant that he begin his search for a suitable bride. Leave it to his mother to compose a list of ladies she deemed suitable to become the future Mrs. Black. Regulus was to adhere to the carefully curated roster. They were names that he’d seen a million times before. Greengrass, Prewett, Rosier. Girls he’d grown up with and inadvertently had absolutely no interest in.

Still, his mother was insistent so Regulus complied. He took the girls out on dates. The formula was rather simple: dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town followed by a walk around the city square in which he offered to buy his date a dessert like the proper gentleman his mother raised him to be. Despite the fact that Regulus had the entire process down to a science, the dates were always unsatisfactory.

He was polite, of course. Opened the door, pulled out their chair, asked the appropriate level of questions to get to know his counterpart, but by the time the appetizers arrived, Regulus was on the verge of stabbing himself with the butter knife just to rouse himself from boredom.

Regulus placed no blame on the girls. They were only doing what their families had raised them to do. Sit pretty, chew gracefully, agree with his opinions. All while wearing breakneck heels and a smile to boot. It was all terribly fucked up, but this was the world they lived in.

The more he went on these dates, the more he realized that he didn’t want some pretty, docile wife. What he truly needed was someone who was willing to challenge him, to call him out on his bullshit, to argue with him when his own stubbornness prevented him from seeing reason. Regulus came to the horrible, earth-shattering realization that he probably wouldn’t find a woman like that on his mother’s list.

As he walked back from another mind numbing date, Regulus grappled with this newfound dilemma. He didn’t want to endure another one of these disastrous dates. He didn’t want to sit through an entire meal making small talk. He definitely didn’t want to disappoint another girl by not kissing them at the end of the night.

It wasn’t like any of them liked him anyways. Though they loved the idea of Regulus Black, he was quite certain that they wouldn’t afford the same affections to Reggie—the real and true version of himself. The one that Sirius often said Regulus kept in a neatly locked cage.

He wished he could be more like his brother. Sirius had always been the brave one. It was that infamous Gryffindor boldness that prompted his older brother to rebel against his family’s expectations. Instead of heeding to their mother’s ridiculous list, Sirius chose to date Remus in open defiance to Walburga’s orders. It resulted in him getting kicked out of 12 Grimmauld Place and burned off the family portrait, but Sirius didn’t seem to mind one bit.

In a lot of ways, Regulus envied his brother. Sirius had the guts to stand up for himself. He wasn’t burdened by the crippling pressure of pleasing their mother. In all honesty, Reggie wondered if such a thing was even achievable. As he brooded, Regulus found himself on the shores of the Black Lake. His body had taken him here on autopilot. It was his only place of refuge in the castle.

Regulus paced the rickety wooden dock. His mind was working so fast, so many thoughts spinning in his head, that it felt like he might work himself up to a fit. This has always been his problem. Sirius often said that he lived in his head too much. He frowned, trying and failing to get ahold of himself. For once, he wished he could just shut his brain off entirely.

Just then, Regulus felt a drop of water hit his head. He looked up and found dark, gray clouds hovering over the horizon. The stormcloud broke open and unleashed torrential rain all around him. Fucking fantastic. The world truly couldn’t give him a bloody break, could it?

With a sigh, Regulus began making his way back. The ground was sodden underneath his feet, his boots sinking into the sand and dragging behind his black coat. The waves lapped violently across the shore as the wind lashed against the murky waters. Regulus was almost at the edge of the beach when he spotted you.

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Regulus stopped dead in his tracks. There, at the mouth of the Black Lake, in the middle of the pouring rain, stood a girl with the most breathtaking smile he had ever seen.

Regulus was fairly certain that you had History of Magic together. He sat behind you in class, passed by you in the halls, even reached for the same book in the forbidden section of the library once, but Reggie had never once seen that smile. The gravity of it threatened to knock the very breath from his lungs.

There was something carefree about you. The way you spread your arms, tilted your head back, and laughed in the midst of the rain and thunder. Almost like you were welcoming the storm.

It was only when your eyes locked that Regulus realized he was staring. You cocked your head at him, trailing your gaze from the curls plastered against his cheek to the nice button down and freshly pressed trousers that were now soaked from the rain, down to the shiny leather boots that were now digging into the sand. You seemed amused at the sight of him.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Regulus snapped out of his daze and jogged over to you. Without hesitation, he raised his coat over your head to shield you from the rain even though you were already both drenched.

“What are you doing out in the rain?” Regulus asked, his voice full of genuine concern. “You’ll catch a cold.”

You stepped out of the refuge of his expensive looking coat and held your hand out, catching droplets in your palm. “I don’t mind. I just…I just needed to feel the rain on my skin, that’s all.”

You supposed it must’ve seemed strange to him, but the rain always made you feel better. Lately, life had been just a little too overwhelming. There was so much pressure to do well in classes, to hang out with friends while balancing your clubs and sports, as well as making time to write back to your parents. When it all became a bit too much, you tended to come to the Black Lake for some sort of refuge. The rain was just an added bonus.

If Regulus found your behavior bizarre, he didn’t say. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Well, you got your wish. It’s soaked out here.”

“I know,” you responded with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Standing out in the pouring rain? On a beach where lightning can strike me down at any second? Yes, it’s absolutely splendid.”

Your mouth quirked in amusement. “No one’s telling you to stay out here.” You nodded towards the castle. “You’re more than welcome to take your brooding inside where it’s warm and dry. Not to mention, free of the dangers of lightning strikes, which are extremely rare by the way.”

“With my luck, I might be the poor one in a million git who gets torched while getting insulted by a pretty girl.”

“Did I insult you?’ you quipped back. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You accused me of brooding.”

“I didn’t accuse, I stated. Even the Wizengamot would have to rule that you were, in fact, brooding.”

Regulus raised a brow. “What happened to innocent before proven guilty?”

“Unfortunately, the evidence is overwhelming and the verdict is set. You, Regulus Black, have been sentenced for glaring at the Black Lake so menacingly that even the giant squid refuses to come to shore. Off to Azkaban you go.”

“Do you promise to write me letters? Update me of how the world’s progressed without my dazzling presence?”

“It would be my genuine pleasure.”

Regulus chuckled at your dry humor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bantered like this with anyone, much less with a strange not-so-stranger. You sat down on the wet sand and patted the spot beside you with a grin.

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me all about your troubles.”

Beyond the bleak horizon, the spires of the castle peeked through the gray clouds. Regulus thought of the common room where his housemates would no doubt be gathered around the ornate fireplace for warmth. Knowing his friends, they’d probably be indulging in spiked hot chocolate and playing some childish drinking game. A few minutes ago, nothing appealed to him more, but now Regulus found himself choosing the violent rain and soggy sand. All because of you, his mystery girl.

You leaned back on your elbows and cocked your head at him. “What ails you, Mr. Black?”

“That depends. How much do you bill per hour?”

“Fortunately for you, I’m in a generous mood so I’ll throw in a free session. Consider it my pro-bono work.”

“How kind of you,” Regulus said with a serious expression. “My brother’s been nagging me to see a mind healer for years. All that childhood trauma, you know.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, revealing a set of dimples that he found rather charming. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“My brother is Sirius. I’m Regulus, remember?”

You snorted in a very unladylike manner, which only made Regulus grin. There was something so unapologetically you in your laugh that was absolutely endearing to him. Regulus smiled and knocked his shoulder against yours.

You mimicked the action and smiled back at him. “All sarcasm aside, I was being genuine. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

"Do you often offer therapy sessions to complete strangers?"

"Only to surly Slytherins with sad eyes and pretty curls," you quipped back. "And we're not strangers. I sit behind you in potions. We're practically best mates."

"You think my curls are pretty?"

"Like a little cherub's. Are you quite sure you haven't escaped from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? You look like one of Michelangelo's angels. Except with way more scowling." Regulus grinned. He got the feeling that you always said whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. It was refreshing. "There's a smile. See? Our session is already progressing."

"I think you might get more than you bargained for with me, I'm afraid."

You met the challenge in his words head on. "Try me."

“You were right. I’m definitely guilty of brooding.”

“What happened?”

Regulus hesitated for a moment. He had never been the type of person to be candid with his feelings, especially not with someone he barely knew. Usually, he just kept his thoughts to himself and ruminated on them in the privacy of his dorm until he drove himself mad by overthinking, but your presence brought him an unexplainable ease. For once in his life, Regulus chose not to question it.

“I’ve had a long night,” he said, tucking his knees up to his chest. “I just got back from a date.”

“It didn’t go well?”

“It was…fine. It’s always fine. But it’s the same thing over and over again, just with a different girl.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a playboy, Regulus Black.”

Regulus chuckled. “I’m not some unscrupulous rake, I assure you.”

“Yes, that much is obvious from your use of the word unscrupulous.” You tucked your legs underneath you. “So why go on all of these dates if you find them so tedious?”

“It’s my mother,” Regulus explained. “She has this list.”

“A list?”

“Yes, a list of girls that I’m to court. Noble, pureblooded, proper ladies of society that my mother has deemed worthy of marriage.”

“You’re seventeen years old. Shouldn’t you be worrying about quidditch games and potions exams?”

Regulus nodded. “Yes, one would think. But my family has always been different. Since my brother left, my parents have been obsessed with grooming me into becoming the perfect heir.”

“How do you feel about that?”

He sighed. “Stifled. Exhausted. Smothered. I can feel the weight of their expectations weighing me down every second of every day.”

“I’m sorry, Regulus. That’s a terrible burden to carry.”

Regulus shrugged. “Others have it worse.”

“It doesn’t mean that your problem is any less heavy.”

To Regulus, the acknowledgement felt oddly validating. Even though you knew nothing of his circumstance, there was wisdom in your words and you delivered it delicately, like you actually cared to hear his troubles. You were devoid of the judgment he'd grown accustomed to and he found that rather freeing.

“It’s just…sometimes I think that I’ll never be the perfect son. My brother, he’s always been the brave one. Classic Gryffindor,” he said with an eye roll. You chuckled, but stayed silent. It was obvious that Regulus had a myriad of thoughts to unpack tonight and you were more than happy to just listen. “Sirius has never cared what anyone thought about him, least of all our parents. I admire that about him, but I just don’t think I’m wired that way. I care too much.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you said softly. “Apathy is so common nowadays, finding someone who can admit that they care is refreshing. Though, I think it’s not without limits. You can’t please everyone. No matter what you do, someone is going to have something to complain about. You might as well be yourself.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Regulus pondered. “All of these girls on my mother's list, I think they like the idea of Regulus Black, but he’s an illusion. It isn’t the real me.”

“Then who is the real you?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m just Reggie. I like playing quidditch and reading depressing literature and memorizing obscure history facts. I hate messy rooms and orange juice and anything that crawls.”

You smiled. “And what kind of girl does Reggie like?”

“Someone witty. Someone funny. Someone who’ll argue with me. Someone who doesn’t just nod and agree with everything I say."

"So what you're saying is that you don't want a nice girl?"

Regulus shook his head. "No, I think I need someone who challenges me. Who sees me for who I am rather than what I represent. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the girls on my mother’s list are lovely, but I don’t think they’d actually like me if they knew who I really am.”

“I don’t know, Reggie seems like a great guy. That Regulus bloke, on the other hand…” you scrunched your nose in disapproval.

“Hey!” Regulus chided, “I’m pouring my heart out to you. That took a lot of courage, you know.”

“You’re very brave, Reggie,” you said with a grin. “But you know what would be even braver?”

Regulus squinted in the rain as you stood to your feet. Lightning crackled over the horizon, illuminating you with an ethereal silver glow. You held out your hand to him. “Come dance with me.”

“Deathly afraid of being struck by lightning, remember?”

“Sorry, what?” You asked as you shimmied around him. It wasn’t graceful by any means. It was the goofiest thing he’d ever seen and yet he’d never been so enthralled. You danced without a care in the world and it made him genuinely laugh. “I can’t hear you over all the fun I’m having.”

"This is ridiculous," he said over the roaring thunder.

You shrugged. "Perhaps. But everyone's allowed to be a little ridiculous sometimes. Besides, I was asking Reggie not Regulus."

“Are you really trying to peer pressure me into dancing with you?”

“That depends,” you replied with a cheeky smile. “Is it working?”

Regulus conceded with a sigh and leapt to his feet. The youngest Black brother bowed like a proper gentleman. “May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may, good sir.”

You grinned up at him as he took you by the waist and waltzed with you across the sand. Surprisingly, Regulus let you take the lead. He chuckled when you stepped on his toes and laughed even harder when you tried to twirl him. Towering a good foot over you, Regulus had to fully crouch for the maneuver to work.

Finally, you gave up the formality and just spun around in dizzying circles. There was absolutely no rhyme or rhythm to it. Just two idiots dancing in the rain with the biggest smiles on their faces.

Your coordination, or lack thereof, caused you to almost faceplant into the sand. Regulus yelped as you took him down with you. By the time you recovered from the laughing fit, the two of you were red-faced, out of breath, and laying side by side along the shore. He turned over to you and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“See? There’s more to life than just being moody and melancholic.”

“So this mystery girl of mine keeps reminding me,” Regulus said with a smile. “You never told me your name, by the way.”

“Wow, you don’t even know my name? I’m offended, Reggie. We’ve only been in classes together since fifth year.”

“I—we’ve never been introduced—”

You broke out into a smile and giggled. You thought it was cute that Reggie was so easily flustered. “I’m just kidding, Reggie.”

He sighed in relief as you stuck out your hand. “Y/N. My name is Y/N.”

Regulus slipped his hand into yours. He cocked his head, studying your eyes and your smile and those cute little dimples.

Y/N. The last name on his mother’s list. The one he saved for last because he didn’t know who she was.

The French had a saying—le coup de foudre. The infamous phrase translated to a bolt of lightning or love at first sight. Regulus had long dismissed it as flowery prose, but thanks to his mystery girl, he started to think that maybe the Parisians were onto something because meeting you tonight felt preordained. A date with fate. Like a bolt of lightning streaking through his dark, endless skies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.”

You grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Reggie.”

Regulus smiled and laced your fingers together. He was frozen, it was raining, and he was fairly certain that you were both probably going to catch a cold, but he didn’t care. In that moment, as he stared up at the sky, blinking back the rain, and intertwining his fingers with yours, Regulus had never felt more content.

So no, Regulus did not believe in love at first sight, but love at second, third, and even fourth glance? He smiled a little as he gazed back at you, letting his gaze linger as he drank in that infectious laugh and sunny grin.

You made him think that maybe, just maybe, a girl like you could convert a skeptic like him into a devout believer.

#ok but when can i run my fingers through reggie's curls hm? when is it my turn to be happy?#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black x y/n #regulus black fic #the marauders #the marauders era

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thatlittledandere · 11 months ago

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The ironic gay bullshit John and Dave pull in early Homestuck has me in a chokehold how much do you think they do it? Like Dave will write John a sappy love song called Ode to Egbert or some shit and it will have all the romantic cliches and inside jokes and digs at John for being a nerd and John will try to write some bullshit code that when executed just flashes the text MARRY ME DAVE across the screen but it doesn't work and he'll have to explain to Dave what the corrupted .exe is supposed to do and he'll call Dave gay for wanting to know even though he didn't ask.

And during all this Dave is suppressing an actual crush while John is genuinely just taking a piss. Having a ball. Making a list checking it twice seeing if Strider is naughty or nice (gay or not.) And Dave will make a jab at John for harboring undying erotic passion for Nick Cage while John is packing the Ben Stiller shades wondering if he should decorate the package with hearts as a haha joke. And he doesn't 'cos he's not a homosexual

#venlapost #homestuck #hammertime #pepsicola

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cloversnstrawberries · 5 months ago

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could you do platonic leon kennedy with his child that tried to escape him but failed, like how would he punish them?

"code 10-110" platonic!dad!yandere!leon s. kennedy & teen!runaway!gn!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist !

description; You know your dad meant well, but after he takes it way too far-- you decide to break free from his hold. Really, you should've known that you couldn't outrun him for long. After all, you were his kid, and he'd go to the end of the Earth to keep you safe (and by his side).

additional notes; hello!! i'm not sure if you aiming for headcanons or not, but i decided to do a oneshot!! i hope i did the concept justice,,, you're all very big brained when it comes to ideas. i love requests so much, because i don't think i ever would've come up with this idea; but i had so much fun writing it.

also, fun fact, i was in the gotham fandom for a long while!! i know a lot of police stuff because of that, so i vaguely remembered the "10 codes" from the get. 10-110 is a code for juvenile disturbance :D

warnings; Leon is Not Well, overprotectiveness, possessiveness, entrapment, running away, manipulation (more so of reader's environment more than reader themselves), cops/law enforcement, vague talk of violence/murder, and there ight be more I missed :[ if I missed one, please let me know! ^ ^

w/c; 4.5k

You didn't think you'd get this far.

Not for a lack of care in your plan-- no, you couldn't have been more careful as you planned everything and anything involved in your escape. Months passed before you enacted it. You bided your time, until you heard the birds outside start singing in the morning-- and when your dad came in to take away the space heater.

It was spring, and while you didn't know the exact date while locked away in a deceptively cozy, comfortable cell-- made to look like a bedroom, like your bedroom--, but he'd locked you away in September, so... around 5-6 months, you'd been holed up in there.

Your dad wasn't always like how is now, you think. Maybe there were traces of it-- but that was easily written off as him being a run-of-the-mill overprotective dad. He worked in law enforcement, he'd seen the worse humanity could offer and more.

And for that, you'd given him some slack. You tried not to snap at him when he made sure you weren't out of the house past 8, and that he had to have met a friend before you so much as hung out-- and god forbid sleepovers, those were reserved for only the most trustworthy friends with the must trustworthy of family.

There were a lot of rules when it came to interacting with you. Really, you tried not to let it get to you; but it was so... isolating. No one wanted to be your friend, and they especially didn't want to try and ask you out. It was like a death sentence, in their minds.

They took one look at your dad, and decided that'd he'd be the type to see you off to prom with a bullet in the head of your date. He's not like that. He doesn't kill people for it, for being near you or anything.

He'd never outwardly rude or violent about it either. But still, it was overbearing. It had gotten worse as you got older-- as he went on more missions, and after every one, he'd come back a little bit different.

A little bit more intense with his previously manageable protective nature-- you were starting to feel like a bird kept in a gilded cage. The list of rules he held you and your friends by was so long that even you couldn't keep track of it anymore,

Eventually, everyone left you. Ruled you off as the kid with a crazy dad that owns more guns and weapons then the average kid could've ever imagined.

You don't blame him for it-- not really. You understood it. He'd sat you down and explained to you time and time again, apologized for the way he was-- he just wanted you safe.

It all came to a head when he went a step too far.

15 minutes. That's all you'd been late by-- 15 goddamn minutes. He'd lowered the curfew from 8 to 7:30, then 7--

And eventually, it was down to fucking 5:00. You couldn't be out of the house without him being present after 5! Not even for a job! Nothing! He made no exceptions, and it irritated you to no end.

In an act of textbook teenage rebellion (not really, if you tried telling that to anyone around your age then they'd laugh in your face, call it a pathetic attempt at defiance) , you stayed out a little later than necessary. You popped into a gas station on the way back home from hanging out at the local library, got a bag of candy, and took your sweet old time walking home.

You knew there'd be consequences; but the ones you'd expected, like being unable to walk anywhere anymore, or losing privleges like your computer or TV, or even being grounded...

Well, safe to say that what he ended up choosing blew those other options far, far out of the water.

Anxiety curled in your gut as you thought about it more and more, the idea that you thought for sure you wouldn't make it this far. By no means did this make you feel any safer than you had before-- if anything, it puts you more on edge.

Honestly, you don't know what you thought you'd get out of this. You can't go to the cops-- you're just another runaway. Your dad hadn't skimped out on the story he wove about you,

When you first got out-- first pried your way out of that basement, bathed in mockingly warm light-- all the amenities your average teenager could ask for, save for the ability to leave--, you'd made the mistake of trying to head to the police station.

It was stupid, you realize. And nearly got yourself caught in less than 30 minutes-- they'd ushered you in, listened to your tale of how your dad trapped you down in a basement. The town had to have been buzzing, and you'd wrongfully assumed that your dad had been playing up the 'grieving father going through hell and back to try and find their kid'.

Luck. That's all you had on your side, pure, dumb luck that you got out of there in time. That the walls of the precinct were thin enough for you to hear the cops talking about you in the other room. They weren't much for hushed tones, which was stupid when they talking about someone in the room right next to them.

The chief had been called over, you think. Sounded like him. But regardless of who he was, what he said hit you like a ton of bricks, no matter the person behind it.

"You got Kennedy's kid? Ain't they sicker than a dog, though? Bedbound, didn't he say?" Then another one, the younger one that seemed the most trustworthy when she'd pulled you into the building, and gave you some water and a blanket, corrected the man, "He never said what kind of sick, sir. It might be... in their head, and I don't think he ever said bedbound. Just stuck in the house."

Blood rushed in your ears, grip tightening on the little paper cup in your hand. You fought against the primal urge to flee, to bolt straight up and scramble to the door you'd entered from; no regard for what or who you might of disturbed or knocked into/over.

Instead, you'd stood-- shaking, but trying to keep calm, and walked to the back. You headed out the employee entrance, where they'd clock in and out, you think.

You didn't run until you were a good ways away, until you got to a more residential part of the town. Frantically, like a startled animal, you darted past houses and through backyards; running in the general direction of a train track nearby.

God-- you don't know how you got it in your head that train hopping was the easiest way to hightail it out of there, but now, you're very much of the opinion that you will never do that again.

Maybe it was because it was your first time-- or maybe these things never get easier as you keep doing them-- but you were a hairs length away from losing a leg.

No.

You stayed on foot, or on greyhound buses and the occasional passenger train with the small bits of cash you could scrounge up before your escape from the house.

With no particular destination in mind, you found yourself in some non-descript, decrepit convenience store. The tiled floors were cracked and dirty, looking like they'd give you the black plague if you touched them head on; the fluorescent lights above bathed the store in a sickly sort of yellow hue, the buzzing seeming louder than it was supposed to be.

But hey, you weren't a code inspector. You'd gained nothing from ragging on the decrepit state of the place-- it was good enough, to grab some supplies. There were no bugs, and the displays were kept neat and clean; that's all you can really ask for, in a place like this.

When you got up to the checkout lane, the woman manning the register gave you a wary sort of look, on you've become rather accustomed to.

"Where you headin' to, sweetheart? I never seen you 'round these parts before." These sorts of conversations were a dime a dozen, you'd realized. It was only fair, for people to be worried about a random kid wandering about, seemingly unaccomponied by any guardian-- or even a friend.

But, you'd also become accustomed to answering these kinds of questions. To quickly shut them down with a soft hum and a "My aunt. I'm visiting her for a little bit."

You must've gone further south than you'd thought-- it was warm, and muggy, especially for spring. Her accent was heavier than you'd ever heard before, something you don't come across in the midwest. The kind of accent you only get if you've spent your whole life in the south, and never intend to leave it.

It might've been your lack of accent that set off alarm bells in her head, her hand stopping mid-scan. "What's her name, darl'? I bet I know her. Towns like these, you end up knowin' everyone by name."

Ah.

Yeah... that was a bit of a problem. Small towns and all-- but you can't really step into a big city either, yeah? It'd be crawling with cops, and you'd stick out like a sore thumb. Even more so than you do now.

"She's in the town over." You quickly pulled from your ass, but she didn't start scanning again "The next town is a 30 minute drive."

You bite your tongue, trying not to let irritation rise. She meant well, you're sure, but the longer you're here, the more of a chance you get discovered.

"I'm travelling by greyhound. The next bus comes in 10 minutes, and my bus stop is halfway across the city." There, that should put a fire under her feet, right? Make her start scanning again-- a solid enough answer to ease her worries, you hope.

For a moment, you were afraid she wouldn't. That'd she try to lead you to a backroom and call the cops, report a possible runaway. That was something that happened a lot, too. People who meant well, surely, but in the end-- all they could do was harm.

You don't want to think about how your dad would react. How he would punish you for this.

Then, as if angels were shining down from Heaven itself-- she started moving again, and the rest of the transaction went smoothly.

Though, the concern never eased from her eyes. You could still feel her gaze, piercing against your back as you made haste out of the convenience store.

Truth is, you... actually don't know when the next bus was. Or where it was going to. In all honesty, you'd been planning on taking a train out, but that wouldn't be here for a couple hours. You never did much research with it-- beyond making sure it wasn't going to some big city.

But, with a fire started under your own feet, you were forced back to the bus stop, and made to board the very next bus; no matter the desitination.

It seemed like your luck was running out now, as one-way country roads turned into four-lane highways, and when skyscrapers started coming into view; and the sign, declaring "ATLANTA - 5 MILES AHEAD"

You let yourself mumble a little curse, under your breath as you anxiously watched the traffic around you. This wasn't how this was meant to go. Yeah, you're in Georgia-- a far cry from the state of corn, wheat, and soy that you hail from, but still.

Not good.

It's almost certain your face was floating around on various TV programs, missing posters covering light posts and bulletin boards alike-- but you hoped and prayed to anything that'd listen that the efforts to make people aware of your disappearance hadn't stretched outside of your county, or at least your homestate.

But other than being caught, being in a city posed other risks. A lone-travelling teenager wasn't a good thing to be in places like these. You could easily get lost amongst the crowds, yes; but sometimes that worked in your favor, and sometimes it didn't.

This was not one of those times.

You hadn't showered in a while-- a week and a half. Gross? Sure, you'll admit that much; but showering wasn't on your top priority. Escaping your dad was your biggest concern right now, and personal hygiene wasn't something that could trump that need at any rate.

But that singled you out. You were dirty, looked homeless. As you cut through a park, you noticed that various hostile architecture covering nearly every bench around. Ads for Salvation Army and local homeless shelters right by them.

It was obvious this place wouldn't take too kindly to you, if they were trying as hard as you think they are at cracking down on homelessness.

Right before you could exit the park-- you noticed a cop. You eyed them, keeping watch, making sure they don't spot you. What was the chance, that they would? Or if they did, that they'd even care? It looked like they were on break, anyhow.

Just when you deemed yourself in the clear, enough to take your eyes off the officer and focus your gaze ahead of yourself, did you hear someone shout "Hey!"

Maybe it wasn't for you.

It probably wasn't,

but you couldn't take the chance. Regardless of the intent, of who it'd really been aimed it-- if it was even the cop that said it, you took off running. No doubt looking suspicious as hell, in the meanwhile.

Behind you, your paranoia was proven correct when you heard the same voice calling "We got a code 10-110 in Freedom park! Looks to be in early to mid teens, on foot!" You sped up at that-- you didn't recognize the code, obviously. You didn't spend too much time familiarizing yourself with police codes, y'know,

But it didn't bode well at all, how they started describing you to a goddamned T, right down to your brown, fur-lined bomber jacket you'd snagged from the coat closet back home.

You pushed your body harder, lungs burning and throat closing up with fear-- this can't be how it ends. It just can't. You won't let it, you'd rather jump in the Chattahoochee river and swim your way down to Florida then get caught like this.

In your panic, you lost your footing. A loose pebble worked its way under your shoe, and sent you tumbling forward and sprawled out on the hard, unforgiving concrete of a city sidewalk. People avoided you-- especially when, before you could even get up on your knees, the cop grabbed you and kept you down, shouting what sounded like gobble-dee-gook through the radio they'd unclipped from their hip.

In the end, it was a goddamn pebble that took you out! A pebble! You can't even be that mad, it was so ridiculous-- sure, if you thought harder, then that pebble never would've tripped you up if you weren't noticed and subsequently chased by that cop, and you never would've been in Atlanta if you hadn't lied through your teeth to that random, well-meaning southern lady--

You could do this all day, track all your little slights and mistakes to that one harrowing, terrible moment that it all came crashing down.

Two months and 17 days.

That's how long you'd made it.

That's it.

Really, you should be proud of yourself. Again, you never expected yourself to make it that long-- but still, it did nothing to quell that world-ending despair you felt that it'd come to an end.

If anything, it hurt more, that'd you'd lasted longer. You really thought you had a chance, only for a pebble to slip you up, and have shipped right back to your dads arms.

Right back to the basement, that's significantly more bare than before. There were still the basics, but all your magazines, books, journals, your TV, CD player, 3DS, PS3-- everything. Just... Everything was gone, except for the furniture, some clothes, and your blankets and pillows.

Though, he didn't take your stuffed animals. Maybe you should've felt insulted at that, find a way to twist it and make it seem like he was treating you as a child (which, for the record, he absolutely was; but for other reasons).

It'd just be a waste of energy, though. He was like a brick wall now-- those little flinches, the sad looks that'd sometimes find its way on his face, how his apologies sounded so genuine at times...

They were all gone, replaced with a cold sort of determination you'd only seen your dad have when he was working on a particularly high-stakes mission.

You curled up tighter, clutching the Invader Zim GIR plush you'd gotten for your 8th birthday closer to your chest; seeking whatever comfort you could, now that were back here.

Not even home. You refuse to think of this place as home anymore, especially not your dressed-up cell. Even if it had carpet floors instead of cold tiles, and the walls painted a sky blue instead of a dingy grey; you still saw it for what it was.

A prison. And while your dad might've tried to change your opinion on it before, after your little 'stunt', as he'd dubbed it, he all but leaned into your perception of the space.

You heard the door click. And once upon a time, you would've rushed to it; hoped that you could shoulder your way past your dad-- only for him to laugh and think you were just happy to see him. You let him believe that at the time.

And now, you just flip over. You defiantly face the wall, not giving your dad the time of day. It was the only way you could fight back now, and even then you knew it was useless. That he'd force you to engage regardless of what you did,

That, realistically, your silent treatment couldn't last long at all. Eventually, you'll need to talk to him. To ask him for more toothpaste, or make a specific request for dinner; or even ask him the date.

He never told you the last one, always giving you wildly differing answers that'd thrown you off at first, before you caught on. Caught onto how he was trying to keep out of the know on the weather, so you wouldn't try and book it when the weather was more hospitable.

Even as you felt the mattress deep near the end of your metal-framed, twin-sized daybed; you didn't stir. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe; like a rabbit caught in the teeth of a tricky fox.

"Kid, you can't keep doing this." You don't answer him. This was by far the longest you'd been able to keep up with this small, but meaningful, act of rebellion. A few days, at least. You don't a way of tracking it indefinitely, but you've figured out a less concrete way of telling the passage of time.

That being how often he visited. It differed, sometimes he'd go longer without visiting, and other times he'd pop up every what-felt-like 30 minutes or so. There was no telling what mood he'd be in for the day, but you managed.

It's been a while, you know that much. And he was getting rather impatient, even if he tried to mask it. You haven't so much as looked his direction this whole time, only getting up and moving around when the coast was clear. When there was neither hide nor hair of your dad's presence,

Save for the camera, stuck up in the corner near the door. You know it's there-- it's a new addition, and you make a point of not looking at it, refusing to acknowledge it. You knew there was a good chance it was just a scare tactic, that it wasn't actually hooked up...

But still, you had to stick with this. You had to be going somewhere with this, after all.

A heavy sigh came next, then your dad shifted from where he sat at the end of the bed. Scooting up, closer to you. It took all you had not to curl up tighter. You had to stay still. You had to act like you weren't there, like you were just a ghost.

When his hand landed on your shoulder, you couldn't help but flinch a little at it. Even though the contact was soft, kind; just like the man who'd raised you all by his lonesome, though his current behavior was a far cry of who he used to be.

Or maybe, just what your perception of him had been. Maybe he was always like this, he just... snapped. Couldn't take it anymore and decided to put his worries to rest for the foreseeable future.

"Listen," You wish you didn't. You wish you could shut off your brain and just lay there, truly motionless; unseeing, unhearing, and unmoving, until he gave up and left you alone.

He knew you had to, though. Otherwise he wouldn't hve kept talking. You have nothing else to do, no other viable option but to listen to what he has to say-- whatever ultimatum he's come up with now.

You won't fold. You won't give in, you tell yourself. Not now, not ever; not until he gives up for good, and lets you back into society.

(deep down, you know that was never an option. especially now. you knew that he had his claws deep in you, that he wasn't going to let go. that he wouldn't dare to, lest his precious, sweet child get hurt along the way)

(it was all for your own good, he'd tell you. you never believed him. maybe he did believe that himself, but you knew better; you knew that, at the core of it, this was for his own benefit. keeping you locked up, away from the world-- it minimized the worries he had about you getting hurt.)

(about you being taken away from him, like so many people before you had. so many loved ones, friends, families, significant others-- he can't have the cycle repeating with you. he just can't. anyone else, anyone else but you.)

His hold on your shoulder tightened. Just a little, but it still made your haunches raise; made the hair on the back of your neck stand up straight. You hope he didn't notice.

"The sooner you accept this, the sooner your punishment will end, okay? This is for your own good."

Don't do it, you told yourself-- don't you dare, you don't need to respond--

"You keep saying that." Your voice was rough and croaky from disuse, and you cleared your throat to try and take a little bit of the edge off. You could almost feel the brightness and warmth of your dads smile, bearing into your back-- now that you finally deemed him worthy enough of a response. "And I'll keep saying it, as long as I mean it."

You huffed-- his definition of punishment had always been... loose. He never took it out on you, rather on others. He wasn't violent or rude per se, but if one of your friends were present when you two got into a tight spot...

Well. Let's just say your dad can yell like a drill sergeant if he's pushed to it. And that those friends never showed their faces around you again, in fear of inciting his wrath again. And you don't blame them.

But he's never done that to you, no-- you were his precious little angel, of course. He'd much sooner blame himself for being too 'lax' on you, that he left any doubt in your head that he didn't mean the best for you.

It was all very backhanded, how he assumed that you running away was not because of how insanely overprotective he was being-- but because he wasn't being overprotective enough.

Really, someone needs to study his brain. Maybe he got something in his system when he was on a mission, that crossed wires in his brain and made him think that this was perfectly fine. Lying about your kid being ill and locking you away for no fault of your own.

You two lapse into an uncomfortable silence, but not for long. No. Never for long, not with your dad around.

"I'm sorry you feel this way." There it is. He always says that-- not 'I'm sorry I'm basically holding you captive in the basement' or 'I'm sorry for not taking your thoughts, feelings, and dreams into consideration'. No, it's always 'i'm sorry you feel this way' or 'i'm sorry that you don't like it here',

Always followed up by an excuse, which speaking of, should be coming right about... "But there was no way around it. I just want the best for you, kid."

There we go-- he says that one a lot, 'there was no way around it'. You go to argue, but decide against it. It never gets you anywhere, and you consider going back to the silent treatment.

Until his hold on your shifted-- he flipped you over and pulled you up to sit. It never failed to spook you, how easily he could still move you around like you were a toddler. He worked as a government agent-- duh, he's going to be strong, but that didn't make it any less terrifying.

He could snap you like a goddamned toothpick if he so wished-- but you knew that wasn't a concern, not in the slightest. You much more afraid of him snapping anyone who was unfortunate to get close to you like a toothpick.

And then, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and pulled you close. The sort of side-hug was uncomfortable for you, physically speaking. Your neck straining at the angle it landed in, and you not caring enough to make nay move to alleviate it.

Surely, your dad noticed it-- but didn't comment on it. He did shift a little, though. Tried to have you more comfortable.

It worked a bit, but not by much. You couldn't be bothered to try any further.

"I love you, kid. You know that, don't you?" All he got in response was a little grunt, short and curt. What followed was the saddest little laugh you'd ever heard from your dad. "I know, I know. It doesn't feel like that, but I really am trying."

He pulled you closer, the hug feeling more like a boa constrictor's embrace than the comforting hold of a parent. "I can't lose you. I can lose anything else, but not you. Not my kid."

That part, you believed. Just for the clear, rock-solid resolve in his tone. You know he loves you-- you know that he doesn't want to lose you,

and that was part of the problem, a major one, no less.

"...I love you too." You manage to cough out, and only then did he release you from the ever-tightening, awkward side hug. As soon as you were free, you flopped right back on your side.

You didn't flip around to the face the wall just yet, thought. And your dad took that as an invitation for conversation-- you weren't too active in it, but you did give some input here and there.

#yandere resident evil #yandere leon kennedy #yandere leon kennedy x reader #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #teen!reader #dad!leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil x reader #yandere resident evil x reader #platonic yandere leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #my writing #platonic yandere resident evil #gn!reader #gn reader #reqs open #requests open

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kefiteria · 25 days ago

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Hello! I hope you’re having the most marvelous day, your sebek coat fic KILLED ME

I’m not sure if you take requests or ideas, so sorry if that’s listed somewhere, but this mini series is so good! I need to know what happens when this awkward boy’s feelings come to a head and sebek just accepts he’s down bad and attempts to commence courting PLS I beg 😭

If I Kneel, Let It Be Here

pairing: Sebek x Reader

summary: Sebek Zigvolt: professional knight, amateur disaster in love, who can’t stop writing angsty letters he never sends and flailing like a cat stuck in armor every time you breathe near him. He’s basically one awkward confession away from a full meltdown—and honestly, we’re all here for the trainwreck.

There is a silence inside Sebek Zigvolt that no sword can cleave.

It begins the first time you say his name—not in command, not in jest, but casually, like a thread pulled loose from an ancient tapestry. The syllables hang in the air and nestle in the hollow beneath his ribs. His breath stutters, his fingers curl then uncurl as if grasping for meaning in empty space.

From that moment, he is lost.

He tries to bury it beneath the armor of routine, reciting the knight’s code until the words grow hollow, until even steel feels less sharp than this ache. But you arrive each day, a presence clearer and more luminous than the one before, like a star steadying against the dusk.

You ask him for help with spellwork. His pen slips, scratches a jagged line. He swallows a curse, pretending the flutter in his chest is nothing more than wind.

You brush past him in the corridor. His breath stumbles. His fingers twitch beneath his sleeves, betraying the cool calm he fights to wear.

When you laugh—soft, unguarded—he hears it in the silence of his mind, the echo pressing against the inside of his ribs like a caged bird beating its wings.

He writes you letters. Never sent.

The first is stiff, clipped, formal as a summons. The last, a trembling confession.

To [y/n], the individual whose proximity has become a matter of internal catastrophe,

I am beginning to suspect that my heart was designed not for battle, but for ruin. Yours. Yours entirely.

I cannot look at you without trembling. This is not metaphor. My fingers tremble. My breath becomes disloyal. You speak, and the world disappears behind your voice like a city swallowed by fog.

Please remain unaware. Your knowing gaze would undo me.

He burns the letter and writes it again, and again.

Three days pass.

He avoids you as if retreating would stave off the inevitable collapse.

But avoidance is agony.

You find him in the gardens, where the sun sifts through leaves like golden dust. Holding a book—the one he recommended—lightly, like a secret. You look at him with calm patience, and his knees threaten rebellion.

He stammers, voice thick and uneven.

“I—Do not be alarmed—I am not avoiding you—I mean, I was, but not deliberately—that is—”

“Okay…” you say, steady and soft. “But don't forget to breathe, Sebek.”

He inhales sharply, as if air were an enemy. Then exhales, only because you asked.

Lilia watches him unravel, his eyes fond but sharp.

“My darling knight,” he hums, “your love is warping the air. Birds circle in confusion.”

Sebek growls, a sound caught between frustration and surrender.

“I cannot tell [y/n],” he mutters. “They are calm. Unshaken. They walk through my chest like it is a battlefield with no flags.”

“And yet…” Lilia says, voice lilting, “you kneel.”

He says nothing.

He kneels.

So he tries again.

In the garden, you read beneath a canopy of dappled light, the sun tracing cathedrals on your eyelashes.

Sebek approaches, slow and hesitant, like a soldier crossing enemy lines.

He bows, too quickly—the motion jerks, off balance.

“I—I have something to declare.”

You lower your book, unfazed.

“Mm?”

“I am… experiencing profound inner disturbance.”

“I find myself compelled…” he continues, words catching on their weight, “compelled to attend to your presence, to guard it, to remain in it.”

His hands clench then release, his pulse drumming against the skin of his wrists.

He sways. A man caught in the tempest, he cannot command.

“I wish to—court you.”

“I know.” Your smile is small, unmocking, almost tender.

“You… knew?” He falters, a breath lost.

“You’re not very subtle.” you answered.

A low sound escapes him—a groan? A prayer?

You close your book, eyes soft. “If you want to court me, Sebek… just stay.”

He does.

He writes again, but this time, the letter is not meant to be burned.

Dearest—

What word can I use that won’t betray the trembling inside me? You, whose voice quiets the screaming machinery of my soul—what am I to do with you?

You do not reach for me, and still, I am reached.

You do not kiss me, and still, I am undone.

There are nights I imagine you beside me—not in lust, no, that would be too easy—but in stillness. You would rest your head on my shoulder, and I would not move. I would remain perfectly still, for days, if it meant you stayed near.

This is madness. I know it. And yet—

I would let the world burn if you so much as whispered that I mattered.

You walk together sometimes now. He keeps a careful distance—two steps behind, like a shadow sworn to watch.

“You don’t have to trail like that.” You glance back at him with a soft smile.

“I mustn’t impose.”

“You already are…” you chuckle shaking your head. “Come closer.”

He obeys. Always.

One stormy afternoon, you find him by the old tower. Rain slicks his hair. His fingers twist a pendant, white-knuckled.

He says nothing, only looks at you like you are the last star above a crumbling world.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, soft as a page turned before the storm.

Sebek stiffens, as if struck by the weight of your attention. He doesn't speak at first. Instead, his eyes shift downward—somewhere between the hem of your robes and the terrible precision of his thoughts. His throat moves around the words before they arrive.

“You smiled at someone else today.”

You blink, not confused but in calm. “A child…” you say. “They dropped a coin. I picked it up.”

He nods once. Twice. As if the act of agreement might lessen the sting.

“Yes. I know. I saw. And still—” His voice breaks like glass beneath bare feet. “I felt something awful, something vast. As though I’d failed you without ever being chosen in the first place.”

He breathes in a stuttering rush. His hands—so often folded behind his back with militaristic precision—now hang at his sides, fingers curled in helpless rhythm.

“It’s shameful…” he mutters faintly. “The way I… ache. The way I unravel, just from the idea of you giving a kindness elsewhere. I know it’s irrational. I know.”

You say nothing. You only step forward, careful not to frighten the trembling creature his love has made of him.

“Sebek.”

Your voice is a hand on his shoulder in the dark, a warmth that doesn't demand but waits.

He looks up—finally—and it is the face of a boy who has built a cathedral of devotion from nothing but restraint and breathless panic.

“I don’t know how to love you quietly…” he says, barely above a whisper. “I only know how to fall—loudly, painfully, and with no promise of grace.��

You reach for him, not to stop the falling, but to be the space, he lands in.

“I don’t need your love to be quiet,” you say, voice low and impossibly kind. “Only that it stays.”

In the end, there is no declaration, no applause from the heavens.

Only the hush that follows survival.

You read beside him, the soft rustle of pages like a prayer for continuity. He sits close, impossibly careful, as though your nearness is a thing that might vanish if disturbed. His fingers wrap around yours—not possessively, but as though anchoring himself to the fact of your existence.

His cheeks burn a quiet red, a confession blooming where no words are needed.

Breath comes slower now, as if learning, for the first time, that he is permitted to breathe where you are.

And for once, he does not prepare to flee his feelings.

He remains.

Still—not from peace, but from awe.

Still—not because the longing has left, but because you’ve allowed him to feel it in your presence.

And in this small stillness, he is—impossibly, unbearably—happy.

Postscript, unsent:

If I should vanish tomorrow, I want this truth carved into the stone of the world: That I loved you with a knight’s discipline, and a poet’s despair. That you ruined me in the gentlest possible way.

And I thank you for it.

a/n🍨: thank you for requesting!! im sorry it took me a while to write this because i was trying to balance out flustered sebek vs his inner self hehehe~ i hope it's to your liking 🩷

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leighsartworks216 · 5 months ago

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Birdcage

Sylus x gn!Reader

Sequel to My Pretty Bird

Fucking love Mephisto!Reader so much I love being a silly little bird in the arms of a big ol man

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, kidnapping, swearing, smoking, rescue

Word Count: 1,234

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You squawk and screech and make all sorts of sounds. Your wings beat relentlessly against steel bars, padlocked firmly shut. A man hits the cage with the butt of his gun. It swings back and forth, knocking you off balance.

"And why can we just shoot this damn thing?" the man asks. He glares at you. You stare right back, cawing indignantly in his face. He hits the cage again. "It's so fucking annoying!"

Another man in the room laughs. Smoke sifts through his teeth, drifting lazily through the air. "Don't tell me you're gonna let a bird get under your skin."

The first man covers your cage with a heavy cloth. It doesn't do much to quiet you and you beat more defiantly against the bars, but at least he doesn't have to look at you.

"Crows are smart birds, you know. You give them an inch, they'll take a mile," the smoker says. "It probably likes annoying you cuz you're making such a fuss."

"It doesn't annoy you?"

"Hmph. I have three sisters - I'm used to it."

The dark doesn't mean much when you have night vision, but night vision doesn't mean much when there's nothing to look at. Everywhere you turn: bars and nothing beyond. And there's nothing you can do on your own to get out of it. Code-based locks are easy enough to break, but a key-lock? You're shit out of luck. Still, you peck at it restlessly, without thought of if it would work or not.

You sent out the beacon a while ago. Sylus still isn't here. Unsurprising, given he was all the way in Linkon and you're halfway across the N109 Zone in some other fool's territory (intel-hunting, as it were). From what you gather, they have no idea who you belong to. The idea that the leader of Onychinus could come here is an utter impossibility in their minds. You just hope he'll be here soon.

You hear the click of a door opening and heavy boots entering the room. "I didn't even need to ask for directions," a new voice jokes, "I could hear it all the way in my lab."

Lab?

"Thank fuck you're here, doc. It's giving me a headache. Can't you shut it up?"

"Without damaging it," the smoker reminds them. "The boss wants to know how it's built."

The new person laughs. You try clawing through the bars at the cloth, with no luck. That voice, that laugh - it unsettles you.

"If what you described is true, I'd hate to damage it." The heavy boots walk closer. "Can I...?"

The first man hmphs. "Go ahead, doc, I won't stop ya."

The cloth is removed without ceremony. A face stares at you through the bars. A gaunt woman with an unsettlingly wide smile, eyes obscured by thick goggles. She gasps in pleasant surprise as she sees you.

You scream in her face, flap futilely in your little cage to try getting away. It's the only thought you have - you have to get away.

She chuckles lowly. "You're still as spirited as ever, I see."

The jagged, jolting sound of electricity registers milliseconds before it touches the cage. It travels through the path of least resistance: from the taser she holds, through the steel bars of the cage, and into you. The best way to describe the sensation is like waking up from anesthesia, except the "waking up" comes from your synthetic heart and mind being temporarily stopped. Your wings feel numb and uncoordinated. You can't stand, falling weakly to the cage floor. Your eyes see, but nothing processes.

She hums, satisfied. "Where did you say you found it?" she asks the men.

The smoker is the one to answer. The first man is too busy staring with gleaming eyes at your new silence. "It was slinking around the market. Don't know what for yet."

"Probably just looking for something shiny to bring back home." She pokes your body through the bars. You jolt away, tripping over your own feet in the process, feathers on end. "Isn't that right? Where do you consider home now, I wonder."

"Doctor?" the smoker interrupts. "Have you met it before?"

She giggles, louder as you manage to make a pitiful sort of sound. "I was there when they created it. I even helped out here and there. It's a remarkable piece of technology, but it's incredibly difficult - if not impossible - to reproduce."

"It's a machine, right? Can't you just wipe its memory, like a computer?" the first man asks.

"I'd hate to erase so much valuable data." She pushes the cage, stepping away as you go round and round. Your head spins. You squawk indignantly. "Where's your boss? I need to discuss price-"

The door clicks open again. She gawks up at the man who enters. His red eyes glare intensely into her.

It's a mess, after that. You manage to face the action, trying to record it to rewatch later, but actually keeping up with it in the moment is tricky.

From what you do pick up on, the two men opened fire on the intruder. Sylus's Evol was able to stop some of the bullets, too worn and weary to have any chance of catching them all. One hits his shoulder, distracting him just long enough from the doctor. There one moment, she seems to disappear the next. She's not gone - not at first. But Sylus is shoved aside in his moment of weakness and the door swings loose on its hinges, her heavy boots receding into the distance beneath the crossfire.

Two quick shots from a pistol end the fight.

He grunts, holding his shoulder as he looks down the hall. You don't know if he would have chased after her. That's a question that won't be answered perhaps for a lifetime, because your soft cawing draws him back to you.

Tucking his gun into its holster, he crosses the room to you. You stumble and trip trying to stand on your feet to meet him. Despite the situation, his lips curve into a slight grin, glad to see you again and with your same persistence.

The padlock clicks open. You nearly fall through the door and to the ground in your excitement, but he catches you, holding you securely against his chest. The blood on his hand stains your feathers. You start emitting a strange sort of purr, picking at his hand in an odd form of preening.

"What did she do to you, hm?" He idly scratches under your chin as he steps over an outstretched arm and into the hallway. He looks down the way, seeking any traces of the woman left behind without any luck. It aches deep within, reignites a fire that never truly went out, as he turns and heads for the back exit he came in through. "Sleep. I'll wake you when we're back home."

You nibble at a callous on his finger. He truly thinks you'll be a stubborn little thing and refuse, staying awake until he gets you home where he can get you fixed up. Fortunately, you relent. You tuck your beak into his hand, hiding away from the world. It's not long after that your feathers fluff slightly and you fall asleep in his arms.

He'll find that bastard one day. And he'll make her pay for everything she did to you.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red

#fanfic #fanfiction #sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

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starkeymeow · 26 days ago

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❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-one, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, everything that happens after katniss n peeta win, announcement about the quarter quell !

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the capitol hasn’t been quiet since katniss and peeta won the games. there are celebration parades, commemorative fashion drops, parties thrown in honor of “true love,” and new candies named after their kiss. the capitol is buzzing with affection for them. but for you, everything feels off.

you haven’t seen finnick in weeks. you haven’t heard johanna’s laugh in even longer. not at a party, not on a screen, not in a passing car or a balcony three floors above yours. and it’s not like they’re avoiding you. it’s like they’ve disappeared. the only victors you’ll ever see are the ones in district two.

since the suicide pact, everything has changed. most people haven’t noticed, not the way you have. but you know.

it wasn’t an act of love. it was an act of defiance. and snow saw it, clocked it immediately. same as you.

you’d felt it before, long before this.

when you were a kid, like five, maybe six, you remembered a riot outside your apartment. there were signs, a lot of yelling, peacekeepers had to come in and shut it down. when you asked your dad what it was for, he told you to keep your eyes down and never talk about it again.

when you were eight, there were whispers about a lot of “accidents” in the training academies, like explosions, deaths, or weapon malfunctions. the adults would call them accidents at least, but in retrospect, you would wonder if some may have been sabotage or staged to cover up conflict within the ranks.

even when you were ten, a merchant girl at the edge of the market slipped you a small roll of paper with no words, just a black circle with a line drawn through it. you still don’t know what that meant. but she was gone the week after.

even back then, the undercurrent was there. district two isn’t known for open rebellion. you would wonder over time if people would throw down subtle, coded, or hushed signs of dissent.

so now, when katniss and peeta refuse to play the final card of the games, you know what you’re watching. you know what it looks like to people with nothing left to lose. it’s hope. and hope, to snow, is a dangerous thing.

but snow doesn’t lash out at them, at least not publicly. not yet.

he uses you. both you and rafe.

your interviews drop off, your sponsors grow cold. you still show up at events, still wear the gowns they send you, still wave from the balcony, but your presence feels like something half-forgotten. they don’t promote you like they used to. they don’t glamorize your victories. you wonder if this is a good thing.

but rafe notices it too. the cameras stay on him longer than before, but only to watch. not to admire or to celebrate. they’re there to monitor.

it’s like you’re being measured, like they’re waiting for a misstep. like a conversation too long with the wrong person, or a word out of place. one breath of rebellion in your lungs and they’ll close the cage door for good.

you haven’t heard from your dad in months.

your mom sent a message a few weeks ago, said someone was following her when she walked to work. said it was probably nothing, just her imagination, but she locked the door anyway. she told you not to worry. told you to stay quiet, just like dad did when you were younger. everything just feels wrong.

you don’t sleep well anymore. you check the windows too often. you don’t go out unless you have to. and when you do, you wear the persona the capitol gave you.

rafe’s been thinking about moving his family into victor’s village. he brought it up once in passing, said it might be safer. said they’d have better food, better medicine, more warmth. but he didn’t do it. he wouldn’t. not because he didn’t trust you, but because he did. and too much. said it wasn’t your job to carry his family too. said you shouldn’t have to bear any more weight than you already do.

you didn’t argue. but you would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.

and through it all, you’ve never met katniss or peeta once. you’ve watched them on television, seen them in the crowd at events you’re both required to attend, you’ve even sat rows away while they stood on the victory tour stage and spoke about cato and clove with scripted grief.

you’ve wanted to speak to them and reach out. just something, especially now that you know what they’ve gotten themselves into. you just wanted a nod, a signal that they’re not alone, that you see them. that you understand.

but you never do. rafe told you not to.

it wasn’t to be strict or control you, but he said snow doesn’t want the old victors mingling with the new ones. he doesn’t want the stories overlapping, the connections forming. said if you talk to katniss or peeta, it’ll be taken as something more. like something dangerous.

because if one victor defies the capitol, it’s a fluke. if two do, it’s a pattern. and if four start talking?

it’s a movement.

but now the quarter quell is coming. the seventy-fifth games. it’s a milestone and a warning at the same time. every person in panem knows what that means. every twenty-five years, the capitol chooses to remind the districts just how deep their control runs. not just with the games, but a twist. it’s a message. a punishment.

you’ve lived through regular reapings before. hell, you literally survived one, but this is different. this has history in it. every person in the country who’s lived long enough has witnessed or participated in a quarter quell. everyone has their story about where they were when the last one happened. your father once told you he watched the fiftieth games from the square, saw haymitch’s face flicker across the screen, bloodstained and unrecognizable. there were twice as many tributes that year. twice as much death.

you remember what they taught you in school. the twenty-fifth quell required the districts to vote on who to send into the arena. some thought it would breed solidarity. it didn’t. it bred silence.

but now, it’s your turn. your generation’s turn. the seventy-fifth is coming. and you can’t help it, you’re nervous. the capitol is being tight-lipped, which only fuels the rumors. everyone’s got a theory.

some say this year, they’ll reap out of the usual age range, like nineteen-year-olds, twelve-year-olds. others whisper about siblings being reaped together—brother and sister, side by side, one heart breaking twice over. you’ve heard one that says the capitol might reap descendants of those who participated in the first rebellion. it's far-fetched, but not impossible. the capitol collects blood samples every year for the reapings. you wouldn’t be surprised if they already had the family trees mapped out, tucked away in some database, ready to be unsealed the second president snow snaps his fingers.

the weekend arrives quiet and slow. rafe’s family pulls up to victors village just as the sun dips low, and snow’s announcement looms.

you've been nervous, but you welcome the distraction.

his dad is the last to show, as expected. he’s the kind of man whose presence is like a winter gust. it’s cold, sharp, and calculated. he doesn’t say much when he arrives. just a nod at rafe, a once-over at you, and then he disappears into the guest room like he owns the house. the visit isn’t really about him, anyway. it never is.

rafe’s stepmom spends her first hour pretending to be helpful, offering to dust shelves you already cleaned, to organize cabinets you know are spotless. sometimes you think she thinks you can’t take care of yourselves sometimes, as if she actually gives a fuck. you catch her peeking into the laundry room when she thinks no one’s looking. rafe pretends not to notice. you let her do her rounds. eventually, she gets bored or satisfied, whichever comes first, and starts talking about her neighbor’s new garden and the rising price of bread. she’ll definitely be gone by tomorrow night. ward will be too. they just do their routine check-in and call it a day.

but his sisters . . . they’re different. they always are.

sarah and wheezie come barreling in like the house belongs to them, arms full of overnight bags and snacks. sarah wraps you in a hug before she even says hello, and wheezie flops dramatically onto the living room couch like she’s home from war. rafe watches it all unfold with a smile, muttering something about regretting this already, but you can tell he’s happy. this is the version of him you like best: soft-voiced, gently bullied by his sisters, just a little bit easier to breathe around.

you and sarah talk in the kitchen while rafe sets up extra blankets and pillows. it’s always the same, sarah asking about your hair, about food, about the boy she’s been secretly seeing and isn’t quite ready to tell her dad about. she asks how you’re doing in that quiet, honest way only sarah can. and you smile, trying to dodge the real parts. you tell her not to worry, that it’s nothing she needs to carry. and sarah, like she always does, believes you, but not entirely.

when the house quiets hours later, it’s wheezie who shows up at the door to the living room, voice small and curious. she doesn’t knock. she just leans in and says your name, like it’s a secret.

“what’s it like?” she asks, standing at the door. “being a victor.”

you look at her in the low light. she's smart, sharper than most, and too observant for her age. you can tell she's been thinking about it for a while now. maybe she saw something in your eyes, something no one else caught.

you want to lie. you want to make it sound like something glorious, something she can point to and dream about. but your silence says more than words could.

wheezie frowns. “is it bad?”

you run your fingers through your hair. “it’s just . . . not what people think.”

she just nods, doesn’t really ask anything else.

rafe finds you both asleep like that in the morning, wheezie’s arm draped over your side, your face smushed up against the pillow. he doesn’t say anything. he just watches for a second longer than necessary, then goes to make coffee.

the announcement comes tomorrow.

the house is quiet now. by nightfall, sarah and wheezie are tucked away in the living room again with half-finished cups of tea and a blanket fort they never finished building. they’d both fallen asleep mid-conversation, heads tilted toward each other on the couch.

you smile softly, easing the blanket up around their shoulders before shutting off the light and tiptoeing down the hallway.

rafe’s already asleep. or he looks like it, at least.

his back is to you at first, covers tugged high on his shoulders. you close the door behind you and move to your side of the bed.

you slip beneath the covers gently, careful not to shift the mattress too much. but the second you settle, pulling the blankets up to your collarbone, rafe exhales low and turns. he rolls onto his side, one arm finding your waist like it’s muscle memory. the other slides beneath his pillow. you end up pressed against his chest, nose brushing his sleep shirt, his breath warm at the top of your hair.

you smile, so he hums, and that’s all it takes. you know he’s awake.

you whisper, “i thought you were asleep.”

“was trying,” he mumbles, voice still rough from whatever half-dream state you just pulled him from. “but my nerves suck.”

you nod slowly, letting out a breath through your nose, the same way he does when he’s trying not to think too hard. “yeah. i get it.”

you don’t say more. you just lie there, but when you finally tilt your head back to look at him, he’s already watching you.

he’s beautiful. even in this light, maybe especially in this light. his lashes are unfairly long, the lines of his face softened by sleep but still so sharp it hurts to look at sometimes. his hair’s buzzed now. he said it was for “low maintenance,” said it like a joke, like he was some high-end model who couldn’t be bothered with styling products. but you remember him saying once, just once, something quiet about how hair holds memories. and then he shaved it all off two days later.

it suits him. really suits him.

your hand comes up to touch the side of his face. he leans into it automatically, eyes slipping shut. your thumb strokes over his cheekbone, and then you reach higher, fingers dragging across his buzzcut. it’s soft and bristly. your palm settles against the top of his head, and you sigh.

“are you nervous about tomorrow?” you ask, still looking at his hair.

he opens his eyes and stares at you, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “uh, yeah. obviously.”

you huff out a breath and roll away from him, burying your face in your pillow with a quiet groan. he watches you, something soft pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“hey,” he says. “don’t. c’mon, we don’t even know what it is yet.” you don’t move, but he keeps talking. “it’s probably gonna suck, yeah. but we’ll get through it. we’ll mentor the strongest ones, right? that’s how this works. we save one kid. maybe two if we’re lucky.”

you know he’s joking but a part of you wants to correct him. president snow will never let that happen again.

you shift slowly, turning back over to face him. he’s already there, one hand resting lightly on your hip, fingers draped over the curve of it.

“we’ve done it before,” he says. “just don’t think about it tonight. not until they say it out loud.”

you know what he’s doing. it’s distraction. he’s not wrong.

you narrow your eyes at him a little, then roll them, leaning in until your lips find his. the kiss is slow at first, just a press of mouths. his fingers curl against your skin, and then his hand comes up to cradle your face as he deepens it, tongue slipping past your lips, pulling you closer.

but you smirk and grab his jaw, grip firm, and pull him back before he can really get carried away. he blinks at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed, lips parted like he was in the middle of a sentence.

you raise an eyebrow.

“did you brush your teeth?”

there’s a pause, like his brain short-circuits. his eyes narrow just slightly like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. the realization washes over him slowly, that weird cocktail of she’s kind of serious, but also . . . not really. because of course you’d ask something like that. because you do care—but also? you don’t. not enough to pull away for good.

his grin starts lazy, crooked. he leans back in, nose brushing yours. “you’re so stupid,” he murmurs.

you smile too, lips already parting to meet his again, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s deeper, slower. his hand slides down, finding the hem of your shirt where it rests at your hip, fingers curling there like he’s memorizing the shape of you. then he moves, hand slipping beneath the fabric, palm warm against your skin as he drags it up, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

the morning comes later.

you make your way into the living room with the tea kettle still steaming in your hands. you step barefoot onto the rug, your eyes flicking up to take in the rest of the room.

sarah’s already curled into one corner of the couch, legs tucked up beneath her, palms wrapped tight around a mug. she looks nervous, biting at the inside of her cheek every few seconds. wheezie’s leaned forward at the edge of the opposite couch cushion, elbows on her thighs, eyes locked onto the television with a kind of intensity that practically borders on obsession.

rafe, meanwhile, is pacing behind the couch. you can tell by the way his jaw is clenched that he’s been upset for a while. his fingers twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them as he mutters something under his breath.

“they should be here,” he snaps, a little louder now, stopping in his tracks. “this is the kind of thing wh— where families are supposed to show up. ours should be here.”

sarah looks up slowly. “rafe . . .”

he doesn’t look at her, but he hears it in her voice.

“you know dad can’t be here. he’s not allowed to leave base anymore for—”

“i know that,” rafe says, “i know. but rose? she could be here. but she’s not. again.”

sarah’s lips press together, the argument already finished in her mind before it begins. there’s nothing left to say that she hasn’t said before.

you quietly refill both your mug and sarah’s.

you don’t speak either, not yet, but when you lean forward to place the kettle down, your shirt pulls slightly. you don’t notice, but rafe does, his eyes catching on the thorns etched into your spine like they’re blooming right out of your skin. it pulls something in him, stops him mid-step. he exhales through his nose and slowly rounds the couch, not saying anything as he drops down into the cushions between his sisters.

he’s just there to be close. wants to be there.

“some guys at school were saying they think this year they’re gonna make it, like, career tributes only,” wheezie says suddenly, almost like she’s been waiting to say it, like she needed to fill the silence. she’s still flicking through channels on the remote way too fast for anyone to follow.

sarah gives her a sharp look. “that’s stupid.”

“is it, though?” wheezie counters, not even glancing her way. “they haven’t done that before. would probably make a good show for the capitol.”

“they’re not gonna do that.”

“you never know,” wheezie says, clicking to yet another static-heavy channel. “they do something worse every time.”

“they’re going to show it on every channel, wheeze. stop it.”

wheezie gives her one of those deadly little sister looks and tosses the remote at sarah’s lap like fine then, you do it. sarah rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything else.

you settle down onto the floor in front of the couch, nestling in between rafe’s legs without needing to ask. his hands find your shoulders like it’s instinct, thumbs pressing slowly into the muscles there. you lean back against him more fully as you watch the screen.

it’s like right on cue: the screen flickers. all the channels go dark for half a second before one clean hologram feed takes over.

the crowd is massive, packed into the grand capitol square where they usually hold the tribute parade. you can barely make out the edge of the platform, the massive podium in the center. the camera zooms in until all that’s visible is the upper half of president snow.

his voice comes in smoothly, already mid-introduction, like this has been planned and rehearsed more times than you could count.

“—thank you for coming out to join us here today,” snow says, smiling just enough for it to be unsettling, “we are reminded of the sacrifices that have shaped panem. of the victories. of the blood that feeds our soil. and of the peace we now enjoy.”

you feel rafe’s thumb pause on your shoulder blade. wheezie’s entire body is still. sarah leans forward, her tea untouched, and you just stare at the screen.

“ladies and gentlemen,” snow finally begins, “this is the seventy-fifth year of the hunger games.”

you don’t blink or breathe. your knees bend slightly as you rest your forearms against the tops of your thighs.

“it was written in the charter of the games,” snow continues, face beaming like he’s reading holy scripture, “that every twenty-five years, there would be a quarter quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against the capitol. each quarter quell is distinguished by games of a special significance.”

sarah’s breath hitches next to rafe. wheezie’s lips move without sound, mouthing the words like she’s trying to read them ahead of him. meanwhile your heart skips, because something about the way snow says special significance doesn’t feel procedural.

“and now, on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third quarter quell as a reminder . . .”

his pause is calculated. his breath easy.

“. . . that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the capitol.”

your stomach folds in on itself. your brows furrow as you tilt your head slightly, mouth parting like you’re about to whisper something to rafe, like you’re about to ask what does that mean? but the words never come, because then he says it.

“on this, the third quarter quell games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped . . from the existing pool of victors!”

the sentence hits like a body blow.

your vision goes quiet. there’s no ringing in your ears, no sound at all. your face doesn’t change at first. you’re not even sure it can. it’s blank, stuck in this space between disbelief and knowing exactly what was just said.

your fingers twitch as you feel rafe’s hands slip off your shoulders.

you’re trying to sit up straight but your body won’t move the way it’s supposed to. your palm reaches out for the coffee table like it’ll help you remember how to breathe again, like if you just touch something real that you’ll wake up from this. but nothing wakes you up.

sarah’s sobbing openly, no hesitation. her hand flies to her mouth and she leans into the couch cushion as if she might pass out from the force of it. wheezie just stares at the screen, stunned.

you’re on your feet, though you don’t remember standing. the room tilts.

“y/n—” rafe chokes out, voice low and shaky. it’s not really a plea. it’s a reflex, like he can’t help himself. like saying your name out loud might stop you from walking away. but his throat closes around it.

you don’t look back. you can’t. the nausea builds so fast it’s like your stomach turns inside out. your hand covers your mouth but it’s too late, your legs move before your brain can even catch up, bolting through the kitchen doorway. your feet skid against the floor and you barely make it to the sink in time.

you throw up hard. your arms brace against the metal of the basin, body jerking forward with each heave. your mouth tastes bitter. your knees threaten to give.

you spit, cough, then hang there, trembling and breathless. everything smells like mint tea and bile. everything hurts.

you can’t go back.

your mind says it like a chant.

you can’t go back. you can’t.

you survived, you did your time, and you paid. you promised your mother you’d never—

a sob catches in your throat and tears rip down your face before you can even register the burn. your hands grip the edge of the sink tighter, knuckles bone-white, until that too gives out. your palms slide and you fall down to the floor, your hip knocking the cabinet, back curling up as you pull your knees to your chest.

you cry painfully, the kind that shakes your ribs. from the other room you hear rafe shouting your name again.

“rafe,” sarah’s voice tries to hold him back, “just stop—!”

and then something shatters in the living room. glass, probably. maybe ceramic.

you flinch at the sound and tuck your face deeper into your knees. you don’t care what broke. because the only thing that really matters—your life, which has already been taken from you—is already in pieces.

between you and enobaria, one of you has to go back into those games.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

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onefleshonepod · 9 months ago

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On Barbie

I'd like to share my thoughts on John’s choice to house Alecto in a body that looks like Hollywood Hair Barbie.

To the best of my recollection over the past year, I've seen several people claim that Barbie being a famously unattainable beauty standard for women and arguably a sex symbol was irrelevant to John's decision to make Alecto a Barbie lookalike, and that rather the main impetus for this decision of John’s was his trauma, gender non-conformity, internalized homophobia, and desire to return to the comfort of childhood. This argument posits that John's decision had little or nothing to do with patriarchy, misogyny, objectification of women, or impossible beauty standards placed on women by men.

I empathize with the above position to a certain extent — it's absolutely crucial to remember and consider in our analyses that John is a queer working-class Indigenous man.

But………....................

John is not a real person. He is a character written to advance plot, themes, and political commentary within a carefully crafted story.

If I'm Tamsyn Muir writing John 1:20 in Nona the Ninth, and the point I want to make about my character is specifically and only that he is struggling with self-doubt, trauma, gender non-conformity, internalized homophobia, and yearning for the comfort of home and childhood — and I want to say nothing about patriarchy and misogyny?

I'm not having him make the soul of the earth into a Barbie!

I'd be having him model Alecto after a completely different popular 1990s toy for girls, like a Polly Pocket, or Betty Spaghetti, or a Raggedy Ann doll, or another doll that doesn't carry the same connotations as Barbie. Or, hell, I’d be having John make Alecto look exactly like his mum, or his nan, or female Māori mythological figures from stories he must have heard from his nan in childhood, like Papatūānuku, or the first woman, Hineahuone, who was made from earth.

I'm not smarter or more creative than Tamsyn, and the above ideas are just the alternatives I thought of in five minutes that would have specifically symbolized John's personal trauma and nothing else.

But Tamsyn didn't do that. Tamsyn picked Barbie specifically. I think that's worth taking into consideration.

Let’s examine exactly what John says in John 1:20.

Hollywood Hair Barbie's physical appearance comes first in the list of reasons why she was his favourite, and her other characteristics come last. He lists two physical traits and one non-physical trait of hers. “My favourite was her old Hollywood Hair Barbie,” he murmured. “I loved her little gold outfit and her long yellow hair. She was the best. She got to have all the adventures.”

He discards as an option a model of a woman who doesn't conform to patriarchal, Eurocentric beauty standards specifically because of her appearance: “There was also a Bride’s Dream Midge, but Mum had cut Midge’s hair into this weird mullet.”

He chooses a blonde Barbie body that he can mould into and mentally map onto glamourized versions of women created by men through the ages. “I made you look like a Christmas-tree fairy … I made you look like a Renaissance angel … I made you Adam and Eve … Galatea. Barbie. Frankenstein’s monster with long yellow hair.”

Our famous cultural images of Renaissance angels are all idealized depictions of women made by men — Raphael, Titian, Albrecht Dürer, etc. Frankenstein's monster, a man loathed and discarded by his creator, is a more nuanced comparison... but the only thing John notes is that his version has long yellow hair.

I'm not even getting into the whiteness (or the plastic-ness) of it all, but three of John's comparisons here are specifically coded as white women considered beautiful by Eurocentric standards in the Western cultural imagination (Christmas tree toppers, Renaissance angels, and Barbie), and the others are often depicted as white.

Galatea specifically is such a telling comparison. This myth is the story of a man caging and controlling his idealized, beautiful female creation, which exactly parallels John’s goals with Alecto: “From my blood and bone and vomit I conjured up a beautiful labyrinth to house you in. I was terrified you’d find some way to escape before I was done.”

Given all of this, I genuinely think that John's choice of Barbie as a model for Alecto was intended to position John as a symbol of patriarchy, misogyny, and objectification of women, through both a political and religious lens. Tamsyn is way, way too smart to have not made a careful, considered, intentional choice here.

John didn’t make Alecto into a Māori goddess from his nan’s stories. He didn't make her into a cheerful Raggedy Ann. He made her into a beautiful, blonde Hollywood hair Barbie.

#ours #john gaius #the locked tomb #tlt

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lovelytsunoda · 2 years ago

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954 // logan sargeant

summary: florida man fucks shy college girl. or, back home in fort lauderdale y/n’s welcome home party is sabotaged by her race winner brother, and it gives her a bit of a complex. at least her brothers best friend is there to make her feel better about it.

pairing: logan sargeant x female kirkwood! reader

warnings: straight up smut, kyle kirkwood is a lot to handle in large doses (but we love him anyways), feelings of anxiety, minor sibling rivalry, body image issues. i am going to hell, littered with spelling mistakes because of how fast I was typing and pure laziness to go back and fix it

author's note: 954 is the area code for fort lauderdale. and technically kyle kirkwood lives in jupiter, but for the sake of the story let's pretend he's also from lauderdale.

she sat at the edge of the pier, jeans rolled up past her shins as she started off into the horizon, watching the sun dip below the ocean line.

“it’s your party, what are you doing out here alone?”

she rolled her eyes, pulling her feet out of the water before following the voice. “why do you think? kyle hijacked it. I’m back home for less than a day and he’s already stealing the spotlight again.”

that was the way it always went in the kirkwood household: y/n came home from school, and everything was great, and then kyle waltzes in and suddenly everything is about him again.

logan shook his head, settling onto the pier next to her, a gentle hand resting on her thigh. she shrugged it off, anxiously twisting one of the rings on her hand.

“you know he doesn’t do it on purpose, right?” logan soothed “he loves you, and he hates that you feel like this.”

“i know. the inferiority complex is all me.”

“it’s not a complex, and your feelings are valid.”

she shook her head. “everyone tells me i shouldn’t have quit karting. even when it made me hate myself.”

she sighed, laying down on the pier, worn wood scratching at her skin, but not splintering against her baby pink tank top. “what am I doing with my life, logan?”

“hey, look at me.” logan encouraged, fingertips against her chin to angle her face towards him. “you are doing great things. deans list every semester, you’re a great artist and I’d be shocked if firms weren’t lining up to hire you as a litigator.”

“you’re just saying that.” she refused to meet his eyes. logan was kyles best friend, for god sakes. she’d crumble under his stare, his touch.

“but I’m not.” logan insisted, gripping her face now, making her look at him. she needed to know how wonderful she was, and he was going to be the one to tel her. “you are smart and funny and all kinds of wonderful, kirkwood. any guy would be lucky to have you, and anyone else should consider themselves blessed to have you as a friend.”

“you really mean that?”

“why would I lie to you, y/n?”

she barely had time to respond before logans lips were on hers. she was hesitant at first, unsure if logan really knew what he was doing. unsure if he was really kissing her because he wanted to or because he pitied her.

the intrusive thoughts didn’t stay long, however, as she snapped to attention and moved her lips against his, wrapping her body around his.

“jesus.” logan breathed. “those jeans make your ass look incredible. well, your ass always looks incredible, but these jeans are really doing it for me.”

she laughed at how red logan's face was, a shade that looked more salmon under the sunset. the pier was digging into her skin, and she was starting to get uncomfortable, logan's lips along her neck not quite enough to distract from the discomfort of what she was sure would become a splinter if their activities were not relocated.

somehow they made it to her bedroom without being discovered by the partygoers, much less kyle. the fairy lights tacked to her dusty pink walls were the only light in the room as logan backed her up against her bookshelf, securely caging her body against his.

she felt safe in logan's arms. protected.

"i've been crazy about you for years now." logan growled in between kisses. "every night i came over to watch panthers games with your brother, and you were there in those tight little jean shorts, laughing and giggling with your friends. or when i'd stay the night and you'd walk past his bedroom door to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night, your skimpy silk top falling down your shoulder just enough to give me a taste of your gorgeous body. do you know how many times i've jerked off to the thought of you in kyle's bathroom? you're stunning, y/n. don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

her mind was reeling, and she couldn't find the proper words as she tugged at the collar of logan's button down shirt, pressing her lips back to his. logan sargeant was interested in her.

logan saw her for her, not just as kyle kirkwood's baby sister.

clothes were shed, buttons ripped off shirts. her head was spinning, elated and giddy and she couldn't find the words to tell logan how incredible she felt as his large hands squeezed her breasts over the mesh padding of her bralette.

she gasped, logan taking that chance to slip his tongue into her mouth, his fingers grappling for the clasp on her bra.

all at once, reality came crashing back down on her. she pulled away, hands flying up to cover her exposed breasts as the pale fabric tumbled to the hardwood floor.

she wouldn't meet logan's eyes, scared to know what he thought of her naked body. scared to see him stare at her and not know what he was thinking.

his eyes softened, the lust drawing back as concern seeped in to his irises. "y/n, pretty girl, you don't need to hide yourself around me. who made you think that you weren't sexy as all hell? i never want you feel like you have to be shy around me."

he gently gripped her arms, guiding her towards the wall length mirror hanging on the back of the ensuite door. logan stood behind her, lifting her chin so that she would meet his eyes in the mirror. placing his hands over hers, he gently pulled her palms off her breasts, exposing her bare torso to the soft lighting in the room.

"look at you beautiful you are, y/n. i'm serious."

"you're just saying that so you can get your dick wet." even as she said it, she knew it didn't sound like she meant it.

but even still, staring at herself in the mirror, all she could focus on was the way that she looked: the stretch marks on her breasts, the smattering of freckles up her arms (or were they moles, like the two on her back?).

"what will it take to show you how sexy you are, y/n?" logan rasped, undoing the button on her jeans. "should i make you watch yourself as i touch you?"

"yeah." her voice was shaky. "i think you should show me how sexy i am. clearly, i need reminding." where was this sudden boldness coming from?

"that;s my sexy, shy girl." logan cooed, tugging her jeans down her legs, kissing over her ass and down her leg before coming back up, eyes hungry at the sight of the young woman in front of him, panties hiked high on her hips and fairly see through as he slipped a hand over teh fabric and between her legs, teasing at the dampness beginning to form.

she gasped as logan slicked up his fingers, slipping them inside of her in one swift movement, working around the fabric of her cheeky panties. she was breathing hard, biting her bottom lip as she took in the sight in the mirror: logan's fingers flexing in and out of her, arousal running over his pale skin, his face contorted in concentration as he growled down her ear, telling her how tight she felt, and how good she was for him.

her own skin was rosy and flushed, a sheen of sweat beginning ro form as she felt her body heating up. there was something sinful about watching herself in the mirror, finally allowing herself to let loose a moan.

"that's my girl. don't get shy on me now, i want to know that you feel as good as i do." logan groaned, sucking on her neck. "touch me, baby. i know you want to. feel how fucking hard i am for you."

she loosened her grip on logan's wrist, internally grinning at the nail marks that she left behind in his skin before slipping an arm behind her, cupping his bulge in her hand.

she was floored. she knew logan was big (she could always see the outline in his swim shorts, forcing herself to stop staring before he noticed) but knowing that she had this effect on him?

it was a powerful thing.

"jesus, logan." she whined. "i need it inside of me."

logan's eyes sparkled. "what do you need inside of you, sweetheart? i need you to say it for me." he started pumping his fingers faster, his other hand moving to fondle her left breast, tweaking the rosy bud of her nipple between his fingers.

she sighed heavily, feeling her legs turn mushy as she leaned back against logan. "need your cock." she mumbled, unsure if she could speak any louder.

"what was that, darling? don't be shy now, i can't give you what you need if you don't tell me, love."

fuck you, she thought, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. she was clenching around his fingers now, unsure of hoe much longer she'd be able to last. but she needed him inside of her, felt like she might die if he wasn't.

"your cock!" she shouted. "please, logan, i need your big cock inside me, please, god, i need it."

why did she say that? she should never have said that. it made her sound desperate. but in a way, she was desperate, wasn't she?

logans fingers stopped their ministrations, pulling out of her and taking a trail of her juices with them. she thought her eyes were going to roll back in her head before logan laid her down on her queen bed, her hair fanning out behind her as he started to undo his jeans, resort shirt still hanging off his frame, face flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat as he licked her arousal off his fingers.

"do you have condoms, kirkwood? because i really don't want to have to go digging for them in kyle's room."

"please don't talk about my brother when i want you to fuck my brains out."

logan smirked. "not so shy now, are we, my sexy girl."

"shut up! go the ensuite, top vanity drawer on the left. you literally cannot miss the box."

she could have laughed, lying back on the bed and kicking off her panties as logan ran, half naked and dropping his resort shirt behind him, to the ensuite.

he stumbled back, tripping over discarded clothes and the fluffy carpet, triumphantly holding the box above his head.

"the whole box? how much do you think you're getting tonight, sarge?"

logan raised an eyebrow. "call me that, and i'm going to make you forget how shy you are and have you scream my name all night long."

#logan sargeant x reader #formula one x reader #f1 smut #f1 x reader #logan sargeant #f1 imagine #logan sargeant smut

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antisnookdog · 2 months ago

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I made a humans are weird pamphlet

⸻

[Welcome to Earth!]

Diplomatic Briefing Pamphlet: The Human Species

(For Official Use Only – Do Not Leave in Orbit)

⸻

Species Designation: Homo sapiens

Common Names: Humans, Earthlings, Gremlins with God Complexes

Status: Emotionally volatile. Excessively curious. Terminally dramatic.

Threat Level: Vibes-based. Somehow both harmless and extremely dangerous.

⸻

1. General Overview

Humans are a carbon-based bipedal species that developed intelligence, opposable thumbs, and the alarming tendency to either love or destroy everything they encounter.

They are fueled by caffeine, spite, and memes.

Despite their fragile physiology, humans are incredibly persistent. If an environment is considered “inhospitable,” a human will attempt to live there for fun or content.

⸻

2. Cultural Duality

Humanity exists in a state of constant contradiction. Examples include:

Dark Side Wholesome Side

Warhammer 40k Stardew Valley

Doom Eternal Animal Crossing

Final Destination Pride and Prejudice

The Crusades Bake-Off Competitions

Exploiting labor via colonial empires Adopting stray animals and crying

They are simultaneously writing love poems and building orbital death platforms. Proceed accordingly.

⸻

3. Violence (See Also: Sports)

Humans made rules about how to be less evil during war, then immediately violated them. These are called the Geneva Conventions.

They also made sports out of fighting each other for trophies, fame, or vibes.

Favorite pastimes include:

• Beating each other senseless in a cage

• Running at 40 km/h for fun

• Climbing lethal mountains

• Jumping out of flying machines

Note: They will say it’s “for the experience.”

⸻

4. Denial Reflex

Even in the face of literal interstellar beings landing on their lawns, many humans will:

• Claim it’s CGI

• Blame the government

• Insist it’s demons

• Ask for merch

They evolved this reflex to avoid existential crises and somehow made it a cultural cornerstone.

⸻

5. Reproduction & Romance (Warning: NSFW)

Human mating behavior is chaotic and often ritualized via elaborate apps, confusing signals, and courtship dances involving memes. They:

• Invented robots for companionship

• Wrote fanfiction about everything

• Made “tentacle romance” a genre

• Occasionally attempt to seduce supernatural entities

Proceed with caution and boundaries. Consent is important. They learned that… eventually.

⸻

6. History (Not for the faint of core)

Earth’s timeline is packed with:

• Empires built on slavery

• Religious wars over metaphysical real estate

• Repeated cycles of “oops, genocide”

• Philosophers who were also warlords

• Burning witches. And books. Sometimes both.

They also recorded these events, dramatized them in film, and won awards.

⸻

7. Interaction Tips

• If a human offers you food, accept it. Then ask if it’s poisonous. Sometimes it is. They eat it anyway.

• Avoid debates unless you have 6 hours to spare and a tolerance for shouting.

• They will name you. Prepare to be called “Steve” or “Gary.”

• Do not show fear. They can smell it.

• Show them a shiny rock and they might worship it or mine it. Possibly both.

⸻

8. Warning List

DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE:

• Mention their oceans. Even they don’t go down there anymore.

• Bring up Australia without mental prep.

• Assume they’re peaceful just because they’re smiling.

• Take them to space before explaining that aliens exist.

• Say “Warhammer is real.” Some believe it already.

⸻

Final Summary:

Humans are unpredictable, violent, hilarious, empathetic, and incredibly weird.

They’ll destroy a planet for oil and then cry over a 2-minute animal rescue video.

They are terrifying and lovable, like if a raccoon had a PhD and nuclear codes.

We recommend extreme caution, cultural immersion, and bringing snacks.

⸻

Issued by:

GCIR – Department of Chaotic Species Affairs

Document: Earth-001-HowToHuman (Rev. 2.0 – Updated after Florida Incident)

⸻

#humans are weird #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians

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smutoperator · 1 year ago

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Masterlist - A to J

This is the masterlist for groups starting from A to J. The groups will be listed in alphabetical order, the stories inside each group in chronological order and the convention will be as it follows:

Title (members of that group, other groups and their members if present in the story)

AESPA

Spicy Illusions (Karina)

Versace On The Floor (Ningning)

Noona's Birthday Gifts (Karina, Girls' Generation Taeyeon)

Art of Escape (Winter, Billie Tsuki)

Dirty-Talking Leaders (Karina, Itzy Yeji)

Party Monster (Giselle w/ Full Group)

Baby, It's Cold Outside (Karina)

Double Date (Ningning, Kiss of Life Natty)

Snake Charmer (Winter)

Takin' All of Their Air (Giselle, Itzy Yeji, Kiss of Life Julie)

Strees Relief (Karina)

AFTER SCHOOL

Photoshoot Imaginations (Nana - short smut)

ALICE

New Year's Dinner (Sohee)

AOA

Like a Pet (Seolhyun)

Yoga Classes (Seolhyun, Blackpink Jisoo)

ARTMS

Aphrodite (Heejin)

BABYMONSTER

The Babes & The Monster (Ahyeon, Asa)

BILLIE

Art of Escape (Tsuki, Aespa Winter)

BLACKPINK

Breakfast at Jennie's (Jennie)

Morning Roses (Rosé)

A Horny Hostage (Lisa)

Yoga Classes (Jisoo, AOA Seolhyun)

Meet Me At The... (Rosé)

The Ruby Experience (Jennie, Lisa)

CIGNATURE

I Love Her Smile (Jeewon)

CLC

Debut Party (Elkie, Twice Tzuyu, Jihyo, Dahyun, Chaeyoung, (G)I-DLE Shuhua)

Vacation in Vietnam (Seungeyon, Dreamcatcher SuA)

DREAMCATCHER

Luck Inside Her Backdoor (Yoohyeon)

Vacation in Vietnam (SuA, CLC Seungyeon)

FROMIS_9

Crossing The River (Jiwon, (G)I-DLE Miyeon, Minnie)

Wild Ride (Jiheon, Chaeyoung)

F(X)

Wife's Revenge (Krystal, Ive/Iz*one Wonyoung)

(G)I-DLE

Crossing The River (Miyeon, Minnie, fromis_9 Jiwon)

Super Whores (Full Group)

Profession: Fucktoy (Miyeon)

Debut Party (Shuhua, Twice Tzuyu, Jihyo, Dahyun, Chaeyoung, CLC Elkie)

Motherhood Dreams (Soyeon)

Dress Code (Minnie)

GFRIEND

Bad Bunny (Eunha)

GIRLS' GENERATION

A Special Fanmeeting (Yuri)

Noona's Birthday Gifts (Taeyeon, Aespa Karina)

Lost in Bermuda Triangle (Yuri, YoonA, Seohyun)

A Day With a Superstar (YoonA, Sooyoung)

GUGUDAN

Home Office Holidays (Sejeong, Twice Jihyo, Iz*one Eunbi)

I.O.I

Gym Intruder (Somi, Itzy Ryujin)

Wild Swingers (Somi, Twice Chaeyoung)

Home Office Holidays (Sejeong, Twice Jihyo, Iz*one Eunbi)

How I Met Her Father (Somi)

ITZY

Gym Intruder (Ryujin, I.O.I Somi)

Sensate Focus (Yeji)

Livestream (Yuna)

Dirty-Talking Leaders (Yeji, Aespa Karina)

The Nerd (Chaeryeong, Ryujin)

A Night to Remember (Yuna)

Takin' All of Their Air (Yeji, Aespa Giselle, Kiss of Life Julie)

Red Hot (Ryujin)

IVE

Bunny Wants Carrot (Wonyoung)

Rookie Initiation (Yujin, Liz)

Dear Priest (Rei)

Wife's Revenge (Wonyoung, f(x) Krystal)

Her Sister's Boyfriend (Wonyoung)

Slave Sunbae (Gaeul, Yujin)

Barbie Doll (Liz)

Unnie's Surprise (Rei, Red Velvet Joy)

Leg Day (Yujin, Wonyoung)

My Naughty Niece (Leeseo)

IZ*ONE

Get It Like Boom Boom Boom (Chaewon)

The Breeding Clinic (Eunbi, Twice Jihyo)

King Of Oshiri (Sakura, Le Sserafim Kazuha, Twice Sana, Mina, Momo)

Underwater (Eunbi)

Hard (Chaewon, Minju)

Bunny Wants Carrot (Wonyoung)

Rookie Initiation (Yujin, Ive Liz)

Blast From The Past (Minju)

Wife's Revenge (Wonyoung, f(x) Krystal)

Out of Her Cage (Chaewon)

Her Sister's Boyfriend (Wonyoung)

Home Office Holidays (Eunbi, Twice Jihyo, Gugudan/I.O.I Sejeong)

Leg Day (Yujin, Wonyoung)

After The Photoshoot (Eunbi)

#masterlist

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floatingcatacombs · 6 months ago

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The Normal Author’s Girlfriend’s List Of Bad Yuri Anime

12 Days of Aniblogging 2024, Day 11

So you’ve seen some good yuri anime: Revolutionary Girl Utena (and the movie, if you want), Bloom Into You, Puella Magi Madoka Magica (plus, of course, Rebellion, which is essential), Bocchi: The Rock!, Girls Last Tour. You know HaruMichi and Farcille and poor sweet Tomoyo Daidouji and Quanxi’s whole deal. You’ve been queerbaited by Kyoani, or maybe you got lucky and watched Dragon Maid which was actually gay; you no longer get weirded out by incest; you wanted more Utena and got The Witch from Mercury S1 (good) or Revue Starlight (bad); maybe you’ve even gone back to Oniisama e and discovered Ryoko Ikeda’s incredible butch-for-butch technologies.

You’ve seen some good yuri and that’s been great. It’s just… there isn’t that much of it. Well, you could start reading manga, or books, or talking to actual women, but you want more yuri anime specifically.

To you, dear reader, I offer up this solution:

Bad Yuri.

Floating Catacombs 2025 Presents:

A Normal Author’s Girlfriend Production

The Normal Author’s Girlfriend’s List Of Bad Yuri Anime

Before we get started, let’s define our terms. First: Bad Yuri must not be in good taste. Second, let us consider some ‘ungood’ yuri, that we might understand what we aren’t looking for:

Case 1: Liz and the Blue Bird.

Boring and forgettable. Bad Yuri must be watchable.

Case 2: Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight.

Yeah the butchfemme was good but I spent this entire show waiting for KuroMaya and they only got half an episode. I don’t fucking care about ‘childhood friends’. Bad Yuri must be enjoyable.

Case 3: Hibike Euphonium

It has to be gay. Come on. This is like the most basic requirement.

Case 4: MagiRevo, Undead Murder Farce

Being gay is not enough. You have to have actual characters.

In sum: Bad Yuri must be in bad taste; it must be watchable on a minute-to-minute basis; it must not leave the watcher with a bad taste in her mouth; it must actually be gay; and it must have some semblance of characterization. In practice it is basically always violent and horny. We’re talking like Kill La Kill levels, although if you ever want to watch that you should just go see Promare instead. Also, I reserve the right to break any and all of these rules whenever I feel like it. Without further ado:

Cross Ange

Content Warnings: Blood, Violence, Death, Sexual Assault, Ryona, Incest, Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, It’s Just Porn At This Point, Incredibly Stupid Plot Twists, Pretty Much Every Fetish

Princess Ange’s traitorous older brother exiles her to an island full of lesbians, where she must pilot a mech to fight dragons in incredibly revealing clothing.

This is Code Geass if it was about a girl and also worse (sorry Roze of the Recapture). This show starts with a baby being arrested. They put the baby in a special little baby jail cage in the back of a police car. The first episode ends with lesbian rape under the justification of a strip search. The weak girls on Pussy Fight Island pull knives on each other at the slightest provocation; the stronger girls pull guns; the strongest girls just use their hands.

It’s got all the subtlety of villainess manga. It’s got girls pissing themselves. It’s got a girl named Riza, short for Lizardia, because she is secretly a DRAGON. Forget ‘Lesbian soldier hopelessly in love with her commander’ – it’s got that too but it has I kid you not a lesbian harem where the top dies in combat so one of the four harem girlies has to turn into a top like a clownfish undergoing sequential hermaphroditism and take over. And then she dies too and the next one in line has to take over and then it happens again and then when it’s down to two one of them leaves because she can tell the current top’s heart isn’t in it and defects to Akio Ohtori’s side, because at least he’s willing to fuck her (lesbian cuckold count: 1) And everybody’s ass is out at all times.

It’s also got a surprising amount of Gundam intertextuality? The comparisons to Iron-Blooded Orphans are obvious; Kira Yamato is there, for some reason; her mecha is the Zeta Gundam but if it was the Strike Freedom with the TR-6 Woundwort’s Psyco Blade Goddess Antenna from Mobile Suit Gundam: Advance of Zeta: The Flag of Titans; the girls in Ange’s squadron each map perfectly to Shaddiq Zenelli’s Grassley girls.

But that’s not what you’re here for. You’re here for the scene where Hilda confesses that she’s in love with Ange but understands that Ange can never love her back, because Ange is already in love with Kira Yamato, and also with Salamandinay, a DRAGON princess from the True Earth who arrived through a dimensional rift to free Aura, the first DRAGON and the source of all magic, before Ange grabs her and gives her a full kiss while telling her that the world she’s fighting to create will have all kinds of relationships.

God Jill is so hot.

Shlock: Maximum

Lesbian: Yes, somehow, and bisexual as well. It is a male gaze thing but that’s going to be a constant with this microgenre. The vast majority of people who like women are men statistically and sometimes thank god they produce something like this

Watchability: High, if you have covid

Quality: Awful.

The Executioner And Her Way Of Life

Content Warnings: Death, Ryona, Incest, Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, Incredibly Stupid Plot Twist

Menou is a priestess in Isekai World whose job is to hunt down and kill Isekai Boys before they start causing problems with their Isekai Boy Powers. But this latest Isekai Boy Target… is a Girl With Enormous Tatas who she can’t kill because she auto-rewinds time to erase any wounds.

What really does it here for me is Menou’s relationship with her mentor, Flare, who groomed trained her from a young age to cut off all her emotions in order to make her a better executioner. I’m not immune to Empty Spaces/Combat Dolls/Signalis. What if Christianity wasn’t about raising girls as lambs to the slaughter but was instead about raising girls to use knives to kill people? A seductive premise for those with my particular flavor of religious trauma. Akari is fine, although I feel like Smith (Bravern) did Homura better.

I also like Momo, although I have a weakness for lesbian cuckolds (more on that later, possibly).

Shlock: High

Lesbian: Lesbian

Watchability: Moderate

Quality: Mid

Kakegurui

Content Warnings: Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, Boy Protagonist before the story thankfully gets bored of him, It’s Just Porn At This Point

Yumeko Jabami transfers into Gambling Academy, where everybody gambles and failing to pay your debts means being forced into petplay slavery. Luckily for her and unluckily for everyone else she is the world’s most perfect gambler because it turns her on.

Maybe the highest exposure show on this list? It’s got gambling, and sexual gambling, and a girl who can only orgasm if she’s actively taking place in a gamble where she could die. At one point she whacks off in a bathroom playing solo Russian Roulette. It’s got a Netflix original season 2 villain who was a girl forced to dress as a boy for years in ways that drove her sexually insane. It’s got The Tower of Doors, which is the most woman game that any woman has ever played.

My favorite bit character is probably the early villain who collects fingernails from everybody she beats because that’s her fetish, or the hopelessly-devoted Student Council Secretary who wants only to lay her face on the chair where her beloved Student Council President sits (lesbian cuckold count 3; 4 if you count Midori). She asks to gamble with her life and Yumeko says that that’s boring, and that there are things she values more – and that they’ll gamble with one life vs her relationship to the Student Council President instead.

Watch the opening for this one – it’s very clear about what it is, and if it doesn’t hook you it isn’t the show for you.

youtube

Shlock: Very High

Lesbian: Surprisingly

Watchability: Very high

Quality: Fine

Akuma No Riddle

Content Warnings: Violence, Sexual Assault, Death, Ryona, Bad Taste, Needlessly Edgy, Fanservice, Various Fetishes

Bishonen girl assassin Tokaku Azuma has received her first assignment: attend the Black Class at Killing People Murder High School and kill sweet and innocent-seeming Haru Ichinose, who she immediately falls in love with. Unfortunately the other eleven members of the Black Class are also there to kill Haru.

And they’re all lesbian or bisexual. And they’re all freaks.

They’re constantly pulling guns and knives on each other. Like every conversation a weapon will come out – possibly two. There’s a lesbian serial killer who really likes using scissors on girls. Sexually. The Student Council President is sexually devoted to the school principal. There’s a twenty-year-old spoiled rich girl with a boy’s name because she was named after her mom, who was a gay man. Her dad was also a gay man. If you dare say anything homophobic about this she will kill you. Two of these girls locked eyes right as they transferred in and immediately dropped everything to engage in a 24/7 ageplay dynamic. The other spoiled rich girl is secretly a cyborg and in love with the multiple personality girl, who wants to kill her as well.

This is by the author of infamous shotacon BL manga Loveless, so I guess all that is to be expected.

Also… Akiko Morishima got really into making doujinshi for this one? Sure.

youtube

Shlock: High

Lesbian: Yeah

Watchability: Pretty decent

Quality: Sure

Yuri Kuma Arashi

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Bad Taste, It’s Basically Just Porn At This Point, Bears

Lesbian Bear Storm.

For my money, the best Ikuhara post-Utena work is Sarazanmai, but Yurikuma Arashi absolutely earns its spot on this list. The pieces of a story about how lesbian desire is used to titillate a male audience but never fulfilled, how desire is regulated and rendered hideous, and how girls enforce heteropatriarchy by manufacturing consensus completely independent of men are in there somewhere under the moaning naked girls licking honey off precisely-positioned lilies. I think? It’s well-directed, at least.

Shlock: Ikuni

Lesbian: Ikunirappa

Watchability: Ikunichauda

Quality: Ikunigomamonaka

(the first half of) Birdie Wing: Girls Golf Story

Content Warnings: Violence, Bad Taste, Incest but not really, Golf, The Threat of Having To Resort To Survival Sex Work Underlying This Stupid Golf Show

Birdie Wing is the story of a girl who hates golf and a girl who loves golf. Season two fails to make par because it loves golf too much; season one, with the baffling metaverse vr episode, the underground mafia roguelike golf-to-the-death course, the woman who golfs so hard her robotic arm explodes, and the inexplicable Bandai property references, is the way to go.

I hate golf in the way only an eldest daughter forced into golf lessons hates golf. When Birdie Wing hates golf – when Eve swaggers onto the course in her stupid outfits, refusing to adhere to any etiquette, uses only three clubs and slaps a ball directly into the flag to drop it straight down? I love that. When she lifts her driver and points it and says she’ll kill somebody with it? I love that.

Also like when Aoi says she’ll get her attention with this and pulls her extra long driver out and holds it like a strap. And then her beleaguered caddie talks about how Aoi pierces everyone through with an innocent smile. That was good.

The thing that stuck with me the most wasn’t actually any of the golf shenanigans – it was the way that Eve effectively shoots Aoi down when they discover that they shared a father and were therefore half-sisters. Well, it’s yuri – incest is just something you get used to. Except then it gets revealed that that was a fakeout, because Aoi’s dad was actually her dad’s best friend and her parents were in a throuple that the dad who raised her left behind to secretly raise Eve. Also her dad is Amuro Reiya and also Char Aznable is in this one? And the HG Turn A Gundam? Don’t forget to increment the Lesbian Cuckold clock up to five – Aoi herself and her poor caddy, who didn’t deserve a mysterious blonde swooping in like that.

Oh god I didn’t even mention Vipere, the slutty snake-themed bisexual underground mafia golfer (you know, for the underground golf mafia) who uses pheromones to control her opponents, gets outgolfed, and then shonen-rival style sticks around to help out whenever somebody needs a car (as the girls are too young to drive).

Shlock: Absolutely

Lesbian: Somehow

Watchability: High

Quality: Better than it had any right to be

Maria Holic

Content Warnings: Transphobia, Bad Taste, Fanservice

Kanako Miyamae is a hopeless hapless lesbian excited to attend Lily Yuri Girls Only Academy. She falls in love with a beautiful blonde girl, the queen of the school – and discovers her ideal gf is actually a boy crossdressing to attend the academy who wants nothing more than to torment her sexually.

Maria Holic works like this: Mariya wants something from Kanako, and wears a sexual little outfit/exposes his feet/blows her a kiss/strips his maid’s top off to control her through her sexuality or just because he feels like it and she falls over of anime nosebleed disorder before she remembers “oh right Mariya is a boy” and starts eating her own organs Pearl Steven Universe style. Occasionally a girl who calls herself god will say something uninteresting. Kanako has a little pervert fantasy about one of her classmates. The cast has a reference-heavy Studio Shaft Conversation. Kanako can’t get Mariya out of her head. God I had to retype every ‘him’ up there from a ‘her’ because there is no way that little bitch is anything but a girl – it just doesn’t stick in my head. They don’t make boys like that. Torturing a girl like that is a female trait.

If you don’t want to watch a lesbian get relentlessly edged by a brat this show may not be for you. In all honesty even with Studio Shaft direction I found this almost completely unwatchable but it does earn its slot here. If you want a good Studio Shaft yuri show? Go watch Madoka Magica or Hidasketch.

It does have an excellent opening though.

Shlock: High

Lesbian: Well it has at least one

Watchability: No

Quality: No

Re: Cutie Honey

Content Warnings: It’s Basically Just Porn At This Point. but god. Natsuko Aki

“Honey Flash!” yeah she sure does huh

Transforming android Honey Kisaragi fights against evil organization Panther Claw, with the reluctant help of her annoyed cop eventual bestie Na-chan. This is good, actually. Go watch it.

Seriously. The animation is so fun and vibrant! They do the super-cost-saving stills being moved thing in a very high-energy way that comes across as a reference to the original manga format and then every so often they’ll pull out absolutely incredible action sequences.

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Look at this!!! Her triangular stompy steps! The super low line count on her as she slowly advances with the gun flying toward her hand! Her Go Nagai snarl!!!!! It’s a real treat for the eyes even without the naked women. There’s only so much “saving your best friend by the power of being naked and kissing” you can do before it stops being bait and starts just being They Are In Love.

Shlock: Absolutely

Lesbian: NATSUKO AKI

Watchability: High

Quality: Yeah

Akiba Maid War

Content Warnings: Genre-Typical, No Spoilers Don’t Worry About it

Go watch this right now.

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Shlock: Less than you’d think

Lesbian: Yes

Watchability: Extreme

Quality: Genuine

A Very Specific Set Of Monogatari Arcs

Content Warnings: yeah that guy is sexually harassing that 11 year old and also that tiny little vampire and also both of his little sisters.

Show beloved by pretentious internet perverts.

Alright. You are going to watch Episodes 1-8 of Bakemonogatari Season 1, (skipping 3-5 depending on your tolerance for watching small girls getting sexually harassed) and then you are going to watch the five episodes of standalone arc Hanamonogatari, halfway through Season 2. If you really like Hanekawa, who is bisexual, watch 11-15, Neko Black and Neko White. If you really like animation, watch Kizu. Do not be tricked into thinking more of this show will be gay because Hanekawa and Senjougahara had sex in a shower once. If your goggles are really on tight, enjoy Nadeko Draw but you’ll have to sit through the previous Nadeko and Yotsugi arcs to get there and I can’t in good conscience recommend you do that.

Shlock: Less than you'd think

Lesbian: One

Watchability: SHAFT

Quality: Yes

#12 days of anime #yuri #guest post

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