#same w/ the cherubs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

explorevenus · 1 month ago

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my soul to keep ♡ vampire!leon kennedy x virgin!reader

nsfw (18+) - minors. dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops

word count: 6.4k

tags/warnings: romantic vampire leon, virgin/innocent f!reader, leon turns reader into a vampire, some religious allegory, bloodplay (obviously), gravedigging, some gory descriptions but not a whole lot, one instance of overeating (reader's learning, leave her alone </3), manipulation kinda, praise, fingering, p in v, creampie

description: leon creeps into your village at night for a quick drink, only to find himself infatuated with an angel like you. it's a good thing he possesses the means to preserve you for himself.

a/n: yes this is the vampire leon fic i started like a year ago don't look at me <33 i'm just proud of myself for getting it finished before halloween this year AAAAAAAA

divider by @saradika-graphics !!!!

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;

-venus ♡

The last time Leon remembered feeling this alive, well… he was still living, and that was a long time ago. When lonely and undead as long as Leon has been, it can be difficult to show restraint upon first contact with anything that evokes such emotion.

But he did, for a while. You were just too cute, he thought as he stood over your slumbering body that first night. It wasn’t something he liked to make a habit of, but a light hunting season for him meant starvation through the winter, and he didn’t have much choice but to go wandering into the nearby little village for a quick bite to eat.

Until he found you.

You looked like a cherub sleeping there in your plush little bed, buried beneath a quilt he could only assume you made yourself. Precious, fragile. You looked especially fragile.

And humans are so fragile, he thought. You smelled so sweet, it made his teeth ache just standing there staring at you without acting upon his festering need to sate his appetite, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to scare you, or worse, lose control of himself and kill you.

He wandered silently around your little cottage in hopes of learning more about you. It was tidy but lived in, well-kept in a way that made him think you were probably a good homemaker. Your old leather boots sat by the door, dirtied by years of garden work and general wear. There was a little handmade ceramic candle holder on your bedside table, the candle in it burned nearly down to the base, and he wondered if maybe you’d held onto it because the piece was sentimental to you. Carefully arranged bouquets of flowers were strung together and hung up above the cracked window, likely to dry them out and preserve them.

And suddenly he realized that maybe he would like to preserve a flower for himself.

He couldn’t allow himself to feed from anyone in your village that night. If word spread around about a vicious animal attack or some other form of brutality, it would only hinder his ability to ultimately get to you, and he couldn’t risk that. Weak and delirious and ravenously hungry as he was, Leon forced himself to bid you adieu and stalk off into the night, back to his crumbling old castle in the middle of the woods… but not before leaving you a gift.

His gift. The gift.

Your lips parted in a dreamy sigh as you slept, rolling over onto your back. He admired your face for a moment before he couldn’t take it anymore— if he didn’t leave now, you were going to become dinner, and he couldn’t have that. Hastily, he bit down on the meat of his palm and squeezed, watching as his old crimson blood bubbled up to the surface, and then he held it up over you.

Drip. Right between your rosy, plush lips. Even in your slumber your face scrunched up at the foreign taste, your heavy arm coming up to swipe at yourself like you were just trying to get your hair out of your eyes.

And just like that, he was gone, having taken his leave through the very same open window that gave him the idea.

He wasn’t a monster, of course. He kept an eye on you as you experienced the very same pain he felt decades ago.

The next day, you woke up later than usual feeling quite lousy. Your whole body was sore and weighty and, reasonably enough, you chalked it up to poor form while tending your garden the day before. It was an easy mistake to make from time to time, after all. But as the day dragged on, you only felt worse, so you retired to bed right after supper that evening.

The day after that, you woke up in the early afternoon feeling awful. Your head was screaming with a migraine and your heart was beating slow and hard in your chest. You were sweating and shaking and could barely even open your eyes because the light hurt so bad. A friend stopped in to check on you after noticing how late of a start to the day you were getting, and almost as soon as she stepped in the door, she was rushing back out to the apothecary, begging the village healer to come check on you.

The village healer loaded you up with tricks and tinctures and anything she could think of to break your fever or at least ease your pain. Dried herbs and poppyseeds and fungus ground up in the mortar and pestle, the paste slathered under your nose, on the bottoms of your feet, steeped into tea that was too hot for you to drink. None of it worked. At a loss for advice to give, the village healer urged you to drink plenty of water and rest, and to quarantine yourself. Couldn’t risk passing whatever you had to the rest of the community.

You woke up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night and didn’t even have time to throw your quilt aside as you doubled over the side of your bed and vomited. This continued for a few moments until you could barely breathe, tears dripping from your eyes as your face reddened with strain and you inwardly resented yourself, knowing you would have to drag your sick body out of bed to clean up the mess you’d just made. You struck a match and lit the candle at your bedside and hesitantly peered down to survey the damage, only to be met with the image of your beautiful wooden floors drenched in blood. Reaching up to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand yielded the same result.

As you stared at your own blood in horror, Leon stared at you in adoration from the other side of the window. For a moment your bleary eyes caught on the glass and he wondered if you saw him, but if you did, you didn’t react.

Even at a distance he could hear your heartbeat continuing to weaken. Soon enough you would be just like him, a beautiful preserved flower, and better yet, you couldn’t be harmed. You wouldn’t change, you wouldn’t grow, you wouldn’t die.

Although your village certainly thought you did. It was a dreary, overcast day when the village healer decided to stop in and check on you, only to find you completely lifeless and splattered with blood where you laid. She had to be the one to break it to your family that you had lost your battle with whatever illness plagued you. Leon watched from the shadows as your father lifted your limp, blood-soaked body from your bed and held you close, sobbing, hesitating to admit to himself that you were gone.

By the end of the afternoon, as the sun went down and the drizzling rain refused to let up, the entire village was standing over your grave, watching you get lowered into the soft, soggy ground.

Once everyone had paid their respects, Leon watched them all retreat to share a drink in your honor, hushed whispers revealing just how unsettled everyone was by your untimely demise. You were so young, they said, so bright and healthy and undeserving of your fate. They wondered what it meant for themselves, and only Leon knew it didn’t mean anything at all. Your illness wasn’t going to spread because he had what he wanted now, and that was you.

As soon as the final candle was blown out for the night, Leon took a shovel from your garden and began to dig, the metal piercing easily through the soaked earth until it revealed the handmade box you’d been laid to rest in. He popped the top off and looked at you, your arms still crossed delicately over your chest with a beaded rosary tucked beneath your palms, a pale flower in your hair. Your family didn’t need to know they’d be spending the rest of their lives praying over an empty coffin in the ground.

Leon scooped you up into his arms, cleaned up after himself and set off into the woods with you clutched to his chest like a princess.

It was a few days before you finally roused. Leon had barely taken his eyes off of you the entire time you slept, and admittedly, he was a bit grateful it had taken you so long, for your own sake. He watched over you and cared for you as the last of your body heat drained out and your fangs descended behind your lips. From what he remembered, that was the most painful part of the transformation, and you were lucky to have slept through the worst of it.

When your eyes finally shot open, he could barely contain his excitement. In one swift movement you sat up on the couch, bringing one hand up to clutch at your pounding head, the other massaging your sore jaw as your worried eyes darted around the room to drink in your surroundings. Then and only then did your gaze finally land on Leon.

The fright and confusion on your face were evident. He knew you would have a lot of questions, and he was prepared to answer them.

“There you are, darling,” he greeted you warmly, the first words he’d ever spoken to you. “How are you feeling?”

"W-Where am I?" You rasped, throat sore and shot from vomiting up blood the other day. Once your new condition fully set in, you would heal, but for now you were still a touch miserable. "Who are you?"

“I’m Leon,” he was gentle in introducing himself, taking your cold, shaking hand in his own so he could brush a polite kiss over your knuckles, “and this is your new home.”

You blinked slowly at him, brows furrowed as you mulled over what he meant, and you came up short. Tears welled up in your bloodshot eyes and you hesitated for a moment before asking him a question you were afraid to know the answer to; “Am I… Did I die?”

Leon wasn’t quite sure how to answer that at first. He imagined that question being posed much later in the conversation, so it sort of caught him off guard. He took a breath and then replied gently, “Something like that, yes.”

“Huh?”

“Shh, don’t worry,” he whispered, kneeling on the floor beside the couch so he could get on your level, his cold, pale fingers tracing gently over your lifeless skin. “You’re safe, your family is safe, your village is safe. I’m just here to take care of you, my beloved, to guide you in this tricky space between life and death. Do you trust me?”

Strangely enough, you did-- or, rather, you felt compelled to.

But that didn’t make the implications of your condition any easier on you. You were such a frightened little lamb, your cheeks hollowing and your eyes glowing like rubies and your skin tone taking on more and more of a pallid quality by the day as you refused to feed. He knew you would have some difficulty with this at first— after all, you were just far too sweet to kill anything— but he also knew you would only become weaker and more agitated if you continued to starve, and perhaps more grim, you would remain stuck in this odd limbo between death and vampirism.

He tried everything he could think of. You wouldn’t drink animal blood, from the body or in a glass, and you certainly refused human blood in either form too. Every time he broached the topic of sating your hunger you would cower away from him and shake your head, eyes screwed shut as you continued to deny the reality of your situation. Starvation brought forth only misery, that much Leon knew, misery and longing and weakness and worse, everything he didn’t want for you.

For two weeks you pushed back on the topic, insisting that if you couldn’t truly die, you would rather starve than take the life of another. As much as it pained him to see you this way, Leon appreciated that you could be so stubborn about your morals. He just wished it wouldn’t come at the cost of your own well-being.

He left you at the castle one night to go hunting himself. It wasn’t often he’d stumble into humans in these woods, especially during the winter, but he hoped he would get lucky for himself anyway. Leon burned a few hours stalking through the trees and all he had to show for it when he returned home was a few small animals that wouldn't last him more than two light meals, but it was better than nothing, he thought.

Then he stepped through the creaking castle doors and his nose perked up to the familiar rich scent of human blood-- thick and heady in the air, cloyingly sweet and indulgent. Intoxicated by it for the moment, it didn’t really dawn on him immediately what that meant… until he followed the scent from the foyer to the living room and found you.

You were on your knees in front of the fireplace, hunched over the writhing body of the village healer, her eyes wide and glassy as she choked out gurgled sounds of agony and clawed weakly at you to let her go. You didn’t even seem to notice Leon as he entered the room, a concerned grimace on his face, though it was accompanied by a tangible sense of relief that you were finally feeding.

“Sweetheart,” he said lowly, causing you to blink with confusion and look up at him through your lashes, the poor village healer’s carotid still clenched tightly between your teeth. “Easy now, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Your brows furrowed and you bit down a little bit harder, siphoning out a few final greedy gulps from the woman before dropping her from your grasp, your eyes still trained on Leon as her weak body flopped limply to the floor. His eyes softened with empathy as he looked you over, gore dribbling down your chin and the front of your white dress, your stomach puffy like an engorged tick. Now that you weren’t feeding anymore it would seem you made the same realization he had, the fog of desire clearing in your brain to make room for the shame and discomfort. With a soft whimper, you reached for him with both arms outstretched, but otherwise didn’t move.

Leon gave you a nod of understanding before scooping you up into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he carried you out of the parlor. “My poor baby,” he sighed softly, “It gets easier, I promise. I’m so proud of you.”

He ran a hot bath for you and left you to soak for a while as he got to work cleaning up the mess you’d made. The village healer was barely clinging to what remained of her life, and while he was extremely tempted to nurse her back to health and keep her around to continue feeding on, he knew it would hurt you. He could already tell you hated yourself for victimizing her in the first place, the very same woman who’d tried so hard to save your life just weeks ago and who was responsible for ensuring the health of the entire village, which included your friends and family.

So he mopped up the blood, bottled what he could and wrapped her wounds to the best of his ability before compelling her to forget, dumping her just at the edge of the trees outside the village so someone would find her in the morning.

When he returned again, tired and dirtied from hauling an unconscious woman through the woods on your behalf, you were still relaxing in the tub. The water was tinted pink from all the blood and you still looked a bit swollen in the middle, but the color was returning to your skin and the expression on your face was one of such complete exhaustion that he wasn’t sure if you were actually conscious at first, until your gaze fluttered up to meet his.

Leon let out a deep, sweet sigh, sitting on the bench beside the porcelain clawfoot bath as he took your hand in his and whispered, “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry,” you said just as quietly, bottom lip quivering as you continued to drift back down from your blood-induced daze. “I d-didn’t want to h-hurt her…”

“Shh, shh, I know, darling,” his other hand came forward to pet gently through your wet hair. “She’s going to be alright, I made sure of that. But this can’t happen again, okay? I’ll help you get control of your urges, I promise, but you have to listen to me.”

You were nodding along as he spoke, clutching his hand and shivering in the hot bath. Even transformed you were still fragile. Leon wanted nothing more than to care for you like the fine china you were.

It was fun watching you learn how to walk, so to speak. You were like a baby deer, taking careful steps and looking back at him for reassurance after each one, like his guidance was all you could think to cling to. While your gingerly approach to things was incredibly endearing, he loved watching you grow to love your new abilities with an innocent sense of excitement that he hadn’t seen in a long time, not in himself or in anyone else, really.

You’d taken to exploring the rafters and the view of things from the ceiling, leaving the candles in your room unlit all night just so you could bask in how odd and cool it felt to see so well in the dark. It scared the moonlight out of him every time, when he would scour every inch of the castle in search of you just to find you perched criss-cross on the ceiling, lost in a lengthy novel in a pitch black room.

But he would never scold you, never tell you ‘no.’ In his mind that was a very important lesson for you to learn, one that would open you up to endless possibilities and happiness in an otherwise bleak state of consciousness.

So, when your small voice chimed in from the parlor ceiling one night and startled him more than he’d like to admit, and you asked him a deceptively simple question– “What now?”-- he knew exactly how he wanted to respond.

“Indulge,” he said just as simply, sitting calmly down on the chaise lounge to look up at you, hanging from the rafters by your knees. “Let me ask you this. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

You took pause, humming in thought for a moment. All your life you were never much of a forward thinker because you didn't really have to be. You lived your little old life moment by moment, taking extra special care to appreciate the here and now. You had good friends, a loving family, a beautiful community, food on your plate and a warm bed to return home to every night. That didn’t leave you wanting for much.

Finally, you spoke shyly, "I guess I always wanted to fall in love."

It was so quiet, if he was still human, he wouldn’t have heard you. But he wasn’t, and he did. The corner of his lip tugged up into an endeared and somewhat amused expression, baring the sharp edge of his right canine.

Leon adjusted his posture, sinking back into the couch to gaze up at you, trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking between your legs where your upside-down position left your skirt flipped up nearly to your waist. He cleared his throat softly and cooed, “You poor thing, you’ve never loved before?”

Your face burned and you avoided his eyes, stretching your arms out toward the floor just to give yourself something to do. “N-No,” you began, smoothing your skirt out over your thighs just to watch it ride up again. With a short huff of breath you pulled yourself back up into a normal sitting position on the rafters, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess I just never had the chance.”

“What, not enough fish in your little pond?” He teased, quirking an eyebrow at you.

You laughed, appreciating the way he eased the tension, but he wasn’t exactly wrong. “I mean, yeah, the dating pool made for a better puddle.”

“I figured as much.”

A comfortable silence blanketed over the parlor, broken only by the gentle crackling of the fireplace. You swung your feet idly back and forth, watching the warm flame as you asked aloud, “So… What does it feel like, then?”

“What does what feel like?” He responded, but he knew what you meant. He just wanted to hear you say it.

“Y’know…” You kicked your frilly socked feet, “Love?”

“Well, sweetheart, that’s quite a broad question,” Leon began, patting the space next to him in an attempt to beckon you down from the rafters, and to his delight, the gesture succeeded. You dropped gracefully to the ground and fixed your skirt before curling up beside him on the other side of the couch, your legs tucked up beneath you. You couldn’t possibly be more adorable if you tried.

As you situated yourself at his side, he continued, “There are many different kinds of love. You love your family, and you love your friends, but you don’t love your family in the same way you love your friends, and vice versa. Correct?"

He watched your expression for a moment to ensure you were following along, and surely enough, you were. Your posture was relaxed but you remained dutifully at attention, just like a good little doll should.

Leon felt a pang of pride when you nodded.

“It’s the same thing, just a different kind of love. I’m not sure I know how to describe it, really,” he said, tracing his fingertips along your knee casually. “But I could show you?”

“Show me?” Your head tilted with that innocent curiosity he loved so much about you, and his heart melted all over again. “Show me how?”

He said something lowly and it took you a second to register it because right after, he took your chin in his hand and drew you in for a kiss. Only after your lips collided did your brain recognize his words as, ‘Like this.’

With one hand cradling the back of your head and the other still tracing little shapes on your leg, Leon’s embrace felt all-consuming and overwhelmingly safe. Through it all, you really did trust him. Your fangs knocked together as he pulled you closer to deepen the kiss, making your head spin and your brows furrow in concentration. It felt incredible, unlike anything you’d ever experienced before, but the nerves kept you tense and you couldn’t help but fear you were doing a poor job.

So you let him lead. You resigned yourself to the feeling of his cold lips on your own and his tongue exploring your waiting mouth, his broad hands keeping you pressed against him and feeling slowly up the length of your thigh. His touch made you shiver and tingle in unfamiliar but exhilarating ways and when he eventually pulled away, you were left panting for breath and wanting for more.

He watched your face in an attempt to gauge how you were feeling, and it was evident you enjoyed it. Leon felt a rush knowing he had effectively just turned a new leaf in your training.

You had finally learned to walk. Now it was time for you to sprint.

Leon brushed your hair away from your shoulder, baring your neck to him. He’d waited so long for this moment, for the chance to sink his teeth into you. He wished he could have tasted you fresh, when you were still living, but he would settle for the alternative, and truthfully, it didn't even feel like settling. Especially not when your syrupy sweet blood hit his tongue and pulled a deep, guttural moan from the core of him, his pearlescent eyes rolling back in a display of momentarily mindless rapture. It was unexpectedly hot to see him react to you in such a way. No one had ever expressed such intense need for you, and you were so hung up on it that you barely noticed your thighs subtly shifting together.

But Leon was observant as ever, of course, the movement in no way making it past his keen attention-- you were too precious, too virginal for your own good. He wanted to ruin you, he wanted to tear you apart piece by piece and savor you like holy communion, to pump your undead heart with his own two hands until the end of time, his beautiful baby, his fragile little doll, his corpse bride, his darling and beloved consort.

You were both gasping for breath as he pulled away from your throat, remnants of your tart cherry blood smudged around his pallid lips. Blessed be the gift of undeath, Leon thought to himself, for it granted him the ability to feed from you without consequence-- and vice versa-- to strengthen your bond in the most intimate way imaginable time and time and time again. It still made you dizzy, of course, light and a bit tingly all over, but Leon didn't see that as a bad thing, and as it stood, you didn't seem to either.

He was just trying to come up with a smooth way to tempt you into tasting his own blood, but found himself pleasantly surprised by your initiative.

"Can I try?" You practically purred, your sweet voice all hushed and breathy as your dainty little hand crept up his shoulder, palm coming to rest at the leftmost side of his strong neck.

As you caressed the pad of your thumb over the icy expanse of his skin, you couldn't help but notice the faint, scarred over marks that were dotted about, barely-there dips and craters telling a story that suggested decades of indulgence like this, decades of past lovers, and your heart inexplicably clenched in your chest. Suddenly you were overtaken with the desire to leave your own mark there, much more prominent and recent than any of those faded old others.

Leon was quick to give you his consent, of course, and that was all it took for your mind to snap into a completely different mode of function. The highest points of your mouth were flooding with saliva and the lowest points were pooling with it, slicking your puffy lips as your tongue fell forward to drag a deep, wanton lick up the length of his cold carotid. Then, as anticipated, you helped yourself to a healthy bite of him.

And just like that, you had discovered a new infatuation, as he knew you would. You were bonding yourselves to one another in real time, creating a connection that not even true death could break.

You nearly went weak with how overwhelming it felt, like drinking down pure heaven, hardly even noticing you were moving for a moment as you crawled mindlessly into his lap to straddle him, grinding deep and slow. The pheromones in his sap made your head spin, bringing about the kind of spontaneous sensuality that you'd only ever felt after one too many glasses of mead, the kind that loosened your bones and tinged at your cheeks, the kind that called warmth to bloom at the pit of your stomach.

The flavor of him was coppery and rich, but balanced, a bit dull from undeath but otherwise magnificent. That it was faint only made you want for more.

"Easy, easy," Leon grunted quietly in your ear, reaching a hand up to card through your hair at the back of your head. "Don't drink too fast, little princess... just breathe..."

But it would seem you weren't really listening to him, and that needed to change. Thankfully, Leon knew just the way to grasp your attention.

Letting one arm slip between your two bodies, he wedged his hand down, down, down, until it dipped beneath your skirt to close his palm over the sticky cotton of your panties. That you were already leaking through the fabric like a busted faucet was perfect. You were an absolutely perfect little untouched virgin, and thanks to him, your body would remain that way forever, ripe for his plucking.

Bringing down some pressure on your clit with the base of his palm, testing your reaction, he reveled in the way you whimpered on his throat and unlatched to finally suck in a breath, rutting to meet his attention without a second thought, so easily captivated by such slight stimulation. He couldn't wait to show you more, but he'd need to work you open first. He didn't want your first time to be painful, after all.

Leon took you at the waist and moved to put you on your back, hovering above your spread out form on the chaise lounge and pinning you there in the most delicate way possible. Every bit of that attention to detail paid off.

"My precious doll... my most delicate princess," he sighed reverently, stooping low to breathe you in at the neck again, laving his tongue over the bite he'd left just moments ago. "This is what true love feels like, and I wish to share it with you for eternity..."

He let you ponder that as he continued, working you carefully out of your clothes, finding it cute how you seemed to shift and arch along with him to help him get you naked, like you just couldn't wait. In your pretty doe eyes, your undead life had just begun.

It was a bit strange at first, feeling his finger sink into you, but it wasn't long before Leon was seeking out your soft spots and doing an excellent job of it, no less. He curled and pumped one finger carefully in you until he was sure you were comfortable, until he felt any remaining tension in your muscles melt away, and then he introduced a second. You were so wet and so absorbed by the feeling of it all that you almost didn't notice at first, but that delicious stretch was impossible to miss.

"O-Oh," you quivered, head falling back against the plush velvet beneath you as you bucked into his hand.

With an appreciative hum, Leon allowed himself to become a little less careful with his ministrations, watching your reactions with interest as he worked you open on his fingers, his infatuation with you growing more and more with every moan and whine, every flutter of your silky walls.

"There you go, little one," he cooed, "you like that, don't you?"

Your response was barely more than an airy nod, but it delighted him anyway. How could it not? You were just too sweet for words, too cute to handle. You could've done or said anything in that moment and he would have adored it all the same.

Nipping playfully at your throat, fingers still pumping dutifully in and out of your drippy cunt, his lips trailed up to your ear so he could ask in a sultry whisper, "Think you can take more?"

The next several seconds were a blur of impassioned movement, each of you weaving around one another to shed the elder vampire of his own ensemble, revealing his carved marble frame piece-by-piece. You were amazed by the strength in his shoulders, how smooth and soft his skin was from being kept away from the sun for so long, the dark blonde trail of hair that disappeared below his belt, only for its path to be revealed upon the long-awaited removal of his trousers.

Leon's cock was painfully hard, tip flushed red and weeping with milky beads of precum as he freed himself from his confines at last. He felt the intense need to give it a few strokes with how pent up he was at this point, but he didn't see a point in wasting any time pleasuring himself when you were right there, skirt hiked up to your waist while you laid there panting and leaking your arousal all over his nice furniture. With a pout that pretty, it would be a disservice not to fuck you until you cried.

He angled your hips with one hand and lined himself up with the other, pushing in slowly. Your expression screwed tight for a short moment as the swollen head of him caught at your hole, an opportune moment of distraction for him to sink in deeper, stretching you out until he hit the root, drawing a shocked cry from your throat that gave way to a pleasured whine just as quickly as it came.

So he began to move, wanting to draw out that gorgeous sound for as long as you would allow him to hear it. Your cunt was so fucking tight, pulsing and squeezing around his shaft like you were made for it, made for him, delivered to him by fate so that he might just get to fuck you like this forever and ever, and in that moment, he knew he made the right choice in sharing his gift with you. For the first time in recent memory, the future felt bright.

"L... L-Leon..." You babbled, hooking one leg over his hip for purchase just to find out it allowed him to prod that much deeper. You went boneless at the feeling, finding strength only in your ability to claw at his shoulders for dear life, the faint scent of his blood lingering in the air and making your head spin. "Feels... g-good... so good... don't stop..."

He wouldn't dream of it.

Fingertips printing into your thighs, he pulled your legs up to rest over his shoulders instead, driving you down into the soft couch in a firm mating press. You were nose to nose, needy lips catching and fangs clacking between filthy words and gasps for breath as you felt his presence envelope you fully. Leon was in you, on you, around you...

Leon was your home now. Leon was where you laid to rest.

For the first time in your undead life, you felt your body licking with heat, temperature rising steadily at the pit of you and threatening to hit a fever pitch. Every inch of him lit you up from the inside.

"Oh, my baby," he groaned, letting go of you with one hand just to swipe his silvery blonde hair away from his face so he could gaze at you like a work of art. "You're getting close, aren't you? Squeezing me so tight like that..."

"Yeah," you whined, even though you weren't fully sure what it even felt like to be close. You weren't dumb, you knew what orgasms were, you'd just never had one yourself, and as such, you had no basis for comparison.

Leon aimed to fix that, to make damn sure you familiarized yourself with the feeling over the course of your shared eternity.

His thrusts picked up with renewed vigor, the legs of the old chaise lounge scratching against the hardwood floors with every push forward, and he didn't even care. Everything else about life felt so worthless in comparison to you, the new center of his universe. The whole entire house could collapse and he would still be content, so long as he had you.

And every time he remembered that he did have you, that you were here with him right now, squirming and rutting on his cock so beautifully, that he was all you had... it just drove him that much crazier, made him that much more determined to make your first time one you would never forget. He couldn't be happier to spend the entire rest of his endless life topping the last performance.

You were losing your grip, struggling to keep your eyes open and eventually sinking your itching fangs into what you could reach of his throat just to push yourself a little higher, a little closer. The flavor alone made you purr against his skin, jaw clenching tighter, and the delicious sting of it was pushing him forward too. Now his biggest concern wasn't just making sure you came, but making sure that you came first.

So he withheld, even as his balls drew up tight and ached to release, focusing instead on getting you there.

"Don't be shy, princess, I've got you," Leon moaned into your ear, "let it happen... just let it happen..."

Tears pricked at your eyes, the overabundance of stimulation rendering you down into a tearful little puddle, but it wasn't until he spoke up to encourage you that you realized you really were holding back, stalling yourself at the precipice like it was wrong to let go.

But it wasn't wrong. It was divine. It was indulgent.

Sucking back a mouthful of his blood, you unlatched from Leon's neck just to press your forehead against his own, your jaw stuck open in stilted whines and gasps for breath as that molten heat in your belly finally boiled over, and you discovered exactly what it was you were close to.

Your spine drew up into an arch, toes curling over his shoulders as you came on his length with a cry, thighs trembling with strain. Leon had never been baptized before, but it felt like he was just now. He'd never felt so close to God as he allowed himself to finish deep inside your perfect pussy.

You collapsed together in the afterglow, the parlor going quiet again as you both caught your breath and your bearings, a heaping pile of mess on velvet.

"Leon," you whispered, kissing some of the excess blood away from his cold skin as you innocently and earnestly admitted, "I... I think I love you."

He cracked a fond smile at this, if only because he knew you would catch up in time. After all, you still had much to learn, and he didn't want to overwhelm you more than he already had for one evening.

"I love you too, little one."

#venustext #sintext #resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #vampire leon kennedy #vampire leon #dividers by saradika-graphics

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dr3amfyr-e · 4 months ago

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brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. will prob get a pt.2. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy.

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature.

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer.

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure.

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care.

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited.

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public.

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet.

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist.

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement.

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year.

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys.

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard.

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour.

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course.

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers.

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her.

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold.

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable.

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos.

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention.

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement.

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older.

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception.

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that.

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend.

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team.

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club.

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked.

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind.

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was.

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though.

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking.

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature.

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence.

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies.

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home.

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase.

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same.

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned.

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company.

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him.

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes.

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative.

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion.

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule.

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other.

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England.

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive.

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.”

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together.

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber.

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt.

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen.

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class.

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy.

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin.

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home.

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire.

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very.

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.”

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself.

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold.

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back.

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study.

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair.

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.”

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?”

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response.

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.”

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.”

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze.

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,”

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes.

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten.

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal.

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe.

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating.

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer.

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth.

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face.

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat.

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold.

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours.

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream.

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth.

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force.

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his.

You don’t talk about it afterwards.

#guys be honest can you tell that i work for a newspaper #column ☝️🤓 editorial ☝️🤓#i wrote a whole 4000 word draft and fucked the perspective so badly i had to rewrite the entire thing #this actually kind of cooked me tbh #pls dont base my merit as a writer on this fanfic that i wrote in the car and also in a public bathroom in the suburbs of chicago #HONESTLY i'm not really a modern au enjoyer but this is eating my brain so it needs to get out into the universe #i got locked into a public bathroom while writing this btw #𖦹｡⋆ jace #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #hotd jacaerys #prince jacaerys

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imababblekat · 11 months ago

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Taking Care Of Baby Mutant Turtle W/ Donnie; Hc's

@valen-yamyam16 ,"hello how are you? I hope you're well, for days I have the idea of the f!reader with donatello taking care of a mutant baby turtle that they rescued from the TCRI or something like that donie and reader can be two fools in love who haven't confessed yet. Hehe(also I imagine the newborn baby maybe 2 weeks old,and I don't know if you want the others to interact with the baby?)"

~xXx~

first off, the tiny tike for a reason unknown to anyone, is that they only seem to stay calm when Donnie and you are in the same room, but you BOTH have to be there! No exceptions!

it's like they know on some cosmic level that you two like each other, and are trying to get you both to hook up by playing some pseudo game of house

Mikey once joked that they're like you're little cherub, and you couldn't have shoved a pillow fast enough over his face to stop him from blurting your crush on his brother to the world

Donnie on the other hand thinks it's some kind of taunting joke the universe is playing on him for all the endless pinning he's felt towards you

but if anyone ask, he uses science as an excuse, saying that the baby mutant most likely imprinted on you and him as you both were the first to find them in a TCRI lab

Whatever the case is, you two work as a team to care for the little one

Donnie does everything he can to make sure they’re at optimum health, and you help with that by providing nutritional foods

They might be mutant, but no way are they starting life off on just pizza!

You learn so much about turtle health from Donnie, and he ends up learning a lot about taking care of children from your own experiences with human kids

Donatello gets extremely excited about picking out clothes for them, and you find his excitement very adorable

Part of you wonders if it’s because he didn’t get to have much of that option growing up, and so have no qualm with indulging in buying cute articles of clothes that your closest friend picks out for your little one

Donnie nearly dies when you two show up in matching onesies, and just about ascended to a different realm entirely when you present him with one as well, hand crafted by your own hands!

that baby is the safest baby in the world you best believe!!

not only do they have three amazing uncles and super bad ass grandpa, but neither you or Donnie would ever let any harm come to that child

Since the baby turt is so attached to you, everyone thought it best you live with the brothers and Master Splinter for the time being

This leads to many nights falling asleep in the lab or Donnie’s room since the small bab really wants to be near him as well

Just like with the four brothers Master Splinter collects baby pictures of the newest addition to the family

His favorite by far is one he took of Donnie and you huddled together next to a makeshift crib with the baby being cradled by you both, each one of you fast asleep in the others embrace

~xXx~

#bayverse donnie x reader #bayverse donatello x reader #bayverse tmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #bayverse tmnt #aged up tmnt #@valen-yamyam16 #imababblekat's writing

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conceptofjoy · 10 days ago

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thinking about crockertier janejake and is it comphet? Jane (female) is in control of jake (male) which is a subversion of partiarchial norms, but at the same time theyre still doing cishet gender roles. Theres still the abusive domineering husband and the submissive sexualized wife except the husband is played by a woman and the wife is played by a man (in context of the canon, they are both acting cis). its gender but not queer

compcishet is expressed differently across the different societies in homestuck (cherub, troll, and human) theres a lot of overlap but also despite how aspects of it can seem subversive, it rlly isnt. whats “queer and polyamorous” for humans, is the equivalent of the institution of marriage for trolls. i mean like, the specifics of how quadrants interact with troll society. same w cherub standards, crockertier jane girlbossing it up isnt anything near feminist. neither is domestic abuse against a ‘male’ partner.

#d talks #ask #queerness comes at different metrics in the different societies

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yandereunsolved · 24 days ago

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" you're my lover, my protector, my favorite sin. " — Yandere Endverse Castiel w/ an angel darling

cw(s): yandere themes, light nsfw (sexual innuendos & non-descript intimacy), dubious consent

ʚɞ

🪽 It's no secret that the both of you share a sacred bond. Over many millennia, your brothers and sisters have whispered such things. No one has seen God since creation, an unspoken truth that can lead to losing an etheral being's life. Yet, you have heard others say that God destined that the both of you would fall in love. An action that is more forbidden than Eve and Adam taking a bite of the apple.

You were never fond of your 'siblings'. That word felt so human. It disgusted you. You were not related to them in any way but God, as all other creatures were. You held no loyalties to those who you served above in station and those you helped below.

The only being that stayed constant throughout creation was Castiel. Your Castiel.

When the seals began breaking, you stood by and allowed it to happen, as was fated. You fought with those in your garrison to protect heaven from the demonic onslaught. Somewhere within it all, you lost your Castiel.

He was assigned to save a soul from hell. Thousands of angels went with him; less than a hundred returned with their grace intact. You searched and finally rejoiced when he returned, albeit different than before. He avoided you as if you were one of the same creatures that he had to kill. You knew he was reprimanded and sent back to Earth.

That's the last you saw of him. You were told by your superiors that he was stripped of his wings and then killed. You nearly contemplated becoming one of them. Never had you felt such human emotions.

🪽 The apocalypse. Michael was supposed to possess the human Castiel saved. Only that human refused to do the one job he was made for! Then Lucifer came and slaughtered the ethereal beings in heaven, from lowly Cherubs to the mighty Seraphim. A handful survived.

You should have felt something. You were subjected to serve under Lucifer. A holy, loyal angel would have fought until their death. You just realized Lucifer had a point. All of this was so meaningless. There is no beauty to humanity, only hatred and sin.

Castiel, one of the last times you saw him, told you how precious God's favorite creations were. How foolish of you to believe him. If it weren't for his weakness, then he'd still be here. You both could have had something.

🪽 Instead, you're Lucifer's right hand. It is quite the job. You have to tolerate his quirks. Like when he makes flirtatious comments and tries, yet horribly fails, at making you pliant. You hold great respect for him. You just wonder how long he will harass you. You prefer his true visage and not the meatsuit he constantly dons.

When you aren't simply an angelic being to be admired, you work. You come to settlements bearing false gifts and then spread the Croatoan virus until all the humans croak. No one suspects a lone angel in a vessel to be their doom. On the off chance you come across a hunter—that can get a bit messy. Still nothing but more ashes in the wind to you.

You would rather do that than be subjected to Lucifer's lackeys. They are, for lack of a better word, buffoons. You would think demons were knowledgeable on the most efficient torture methods. Whoever was in charge of hell pre-Lucifer was failing, or just as much of an idiot, or both. You never really paid attention to the demonic hierarchy until now. You just follow orders.

🪽 So when Lucifer gives you another job, you think nothing more of it. Camp Chitaqua. Your boss, as funny as he is, left out the fact they had enochian warding sigils all over the camp. That coupled with devil warding and pretty much as many sigils that any one place could have. This people, or at least their leader, is no amateur.

You would have to gain explicit permission to enter the camp. That is, if they don't figure out you are an angel, work for Lucifer, and want to slaughter them all first.

You know all the happenings around the camp, outside of the warding. You find a stray, clearly intoxicated human. Jimmy Novak—no. Jimmy Novak's soul is not in this body. It can't be. C. Cas. Castiel?

"What's cookin', sweetheart? You new 'round these parts?"

Everything about him is not, was not, him. His dialog, body language, and most importantly, how human his energy is. He's smoking a blunt for angel's sake!

So now you have an easy way to gain permission and access to Camp Chitaqua.

You are conflicted on what to do.

Lucifer. That bastard.

🪽 Cas knows it's you. It's his baby. His love. Old Castiel was never brave enough to just spit out that he'd like to take you right then and there. Get your wings all ruffled up. Your graces intertwined and all that good stuff. Now he can. Well, not the grace part because he is no longer an angel, but he's sure he could still feel your grace. You could let him feel you in all the ways one could imagine.

He wants to know where you have been, but he kind of already knows. Even his stoned brain can put two and two together. The incredibly sexy dangerous beast that works for Lucifer and wants to kill them all, as informed to him by Dean, is obviously you. He knew you had a disliking for humans, but he didn't think you'd ever go this far. It's oddly attractive. Like, yeah, you can take him out anytime you'd like.

Angel, please, don't tease him like this.

He still yearns to hear the truth from those pretty lips of yours. He wants to tease the knowledge out of you. He wants to seduce you and show you what you've been missing out on. There's all these pent-up emotions when it comes to you. He just wants to let them all out. He'd prefer if all of them were let out inside you.

🪽 Cas shows you around the place. He is hanging off you the entire time. A few jealous looks are cast your way. At least what you felt was jealousy and arousal emanating from those campgoers. You nearly vomited from how strong it was. How tight does Castiel have these people wrapped around his finger? Very tight.

It kills him inside as he acts as if he hasn't the faintest idea of who you are. You're simply a lost traveler who he let in because you were just so lost... and hot... and he didn't want to miss his self-appointed orgey session with his favorites. He invited you to join them. It broke him when he saw your response. It was so much harsher than he thought. Yeouch.

He's gonna go self-medicate while Dean harshly interrogates you. You could have gotten out of the interrogation if you joined him. Just sayin'. You wouldn't even have to participate. Cas is fine with you just watching.

🪽 After one horribly long conversation with their leader and the failure of a vessel, you are suspiciously confirmed as a new resident in their camp. The wardings still dampen your power greatly, but you're able to fly out of there and back swiftly, just not in the blink of an eye.

You report back to Lucifer while everyone is resting. The damned devil knew exactly what he was doing, sending you in there. He makes piss poor excuses and decides to cut you a deal. Camp Chitaqua? It can stay for now. Even after Lucifer wipes it off the proverbial map, that fallen angel of yours can stay alive. You just have to... do a few things for him. Everything, in fact. No more of this informal loyalty business.

He is demanding a grace pact. The both of you intertwine your angelic nature to make a deal that neither side can break, lest their grace be snuffed out.

You obey his every order.

Castiel stays safe, and Camp Chitaqua also has temporary amnesty.

You loved your Castiel. That much is true. It's just—this new one isn't your Castiel. You have to get him back somehow.

🪽 Cas doesn't want to go back to how he was. He does want you. And you, you try so hard to 'fix' him. He doesn't need to be fixed.

You go as far as to reveal your true identity, but not your workings with the devil himself.

He simply takes a hit of his bong and buries his true feelings. He can't tell you how much he has needed you... for so many years... so many. The first time he ever came to was the thought of you. So many of his 'firsts' were thinking, wishing, yearning, and praying that it was you.

You can't love that pathetic, emotionless winged dick. He isn't a winged dick anymore. He's just the second part, and boy is he good at it.

He'll play your little games if it means you'll stay by his side longer. He's petrified that you'll abandon him once you realize this is him. He is no longer a dignified Angel of the Lord. He's this.

Why can't you just love the true him?

You play this never-ending back and forth. It's the same game, altered rules.

🪽 It takes him a while to learn about your pact with the devil. When he does, he gets pissed. His love cave is messier than usual. He pulled out all his old knowledge and is flipping through the few magical books they've been able to preserve. He cancels all of his fun times. He shuts everyone out.

His sole focus is figuring out how to undo this.

How fucking dare he. He may just be a mortal... a weak body of flesh and bone that can be killed by just a cut, but that doesn't change the fact that Lucifer has you by the tips of your wings.

Who knows what that, as his older brother said, big bag of dicks is doing!?

It makes you swoon. You see your Cas-tiel again.

Lucifer is able to feel that. What happens because of that? Only you know. And some of those things will stay deeply buried in your memories for an eternity to come.

🪽 Castiel takes more risks outside of base camp because he knows you'll save him. You're his own personal guardian angel. He uses that to his advantage. He locates information and finds ways to hide certain things from you. He isn't sure if he's doing a good job, but he has to try, just one more time. After all, the apocalypse has already happened.

"I'm going to make a really bad decision."

Lucifer himself knows what that means for you.

"Please, no."

Every time you say no to his idiocy, he takes that as a yes. You don't exactly mind it. You haven't seen this side of Cas before. Well—this... everything, you haven't seen before.

🪽 He relaxes back to his endverse self after a handful of months. He's made some good progress with his research. So he decided to grow bolder. Orgies! His favorite hobby.

Except this time he outs you as a divine being. He just tweaks the details a little bit. You're a sex goddess, hiding from the big bad Lucifer that wants to hurt you. He tells Dean this, and he believes it. Hey, Dean trusts Cas, and it makes a lot of sense. You're skittish and hella fuckable. Perhaps Cas can hook him up one night—if he ever gets a break from making sure everyone keeps their bits and bobs in place.

No wonder Cas's condom use has gone up quadruplefold since you appeared.

He holds elaborate sex rituals in your name and your name alone. All other gods are dead. It's time to make you a new one.

The coy fucker acts like this wasn't his plan. He just stumbled into it. He's just a silly little stoner. Your silly little stoner.

"Baby, I can feel your grace. Don't be mad—I'm just teaching others to worship you as I do." He worships you the best.

🪽 As one does, he sacrifices those he doesn't like. In secret. He takes out those infected with Croatoan virus, or so everyone thinks. He isn't sure if Dean has caught on yet. If Dean has, then he hasn't confronted Cas on it.

It stems from jealously. You are starting to help others in camp. You have never helped humans like this before. It's strange. It should be him! Only him! It's selfish, okay? He gets it. But he has known you for far longer than anyone. Only he knows how to take care of you. He is the only one who has earned your blessings.

So—someone else gets your aid? Oh, no, no, no, no, no! You are his provocative savior.

And also just a teensy eensie weensie blood ritual that could set you free from Lucifer and tie you to him. It requires a lot of blood. And unfortunately, willing or unwilling participants aren't easy to come by.

🪽 All of these human needs in him. He needs you corrupted. He's sure Lucifer has been trying this entire time. Lucifer doesn't have what you have with him.

He doesn't want you to fall, not that there really is a heaven anymore to punish you. He just needs you to be so utterly fucked out, so entirely his.

So little old you is struggling where your loyalties lie. He knows this. He can still read you, somewhat. He knows you'll choose him in the end, after the end.

You always do.

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vagabond-umlaut · 9 months ago

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it's easy to ferry souls, not carry them

deep down in the realm of the netherworlds, there exists a rower who transports deceased souls from the land of living to the land of dead-

and occasionally lends an ear and a hand, in the event of yet another collision between their weary queen and her just as cheery suitor...

[uraume deserves a raise.]

▸gojo satoru x fem!reader; the tale of kore!gojo & hades!reader w a guest appearance by charon!uraume; uraume is a very nice parental figure to you [ooc!uraume but ehh]; the reader is honestly so sweet and hot-tempered...; the cutest doggy cerberus too is there!!!!; gojo satoru must be his own warning...; uraume does not like gojo [no parent [blood-related or not] actually wld]; fire hazards; 2k wc

▸ i've nvr read percy jackson and wtv i wrote here is based on my shaky knowledge of greek myths and stuff 😁😁 anyways, this header's from pinterest, these dividers are by @benkeibear and the characters used ain't mine. pls do not plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

▸ belongs to series 'wreaths of asphodel' – same universe as the work 'hey, where is the pomegranate tree?' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

"why is kore so set on marrying me, uraume?"

it isn't the ask itself which causes the rower to nearly lose grip of their oar– but the way it is spoken: soft, solemn and faintly tense. they look away from the endless expanse of the styx before, to find you staring at your reflection in the inky waters, features unnaturally crumpled.

uraume holds back a frown. "has her majesty considered asking the god the same?"

"i have asked him," you mumble, "but i did not receive any conclusive answer in return. the imp was being too vague– must be a trait learnt from those shifty nymphs always sticking to his side."

if your faithful follower detects anything except dislike in your words, they make no mention of it. merely humming as they continue to row the boat, "and may this servant know the question her majesty asked the god?"

"two," you mumble even more clumsily now; they take a beat to grasp it, too concerned by the way you drape yourself over the edge, nearly falling into the water as you say, "i asked him two questions— one, if he loves me; two, if he wants to have children should we get married."

shock must not be uraume's first reaction to these queries, yet it is— and for a moment, it isn't you sitting there anymore.

instead, it is a little girl, no older than seven or eight years, cherubic face fixed in a look of deep concentration and fascination while the rower narrates to her stories from times millennia ago–

only for the child to morph into a young lady– no, goddess– the very next beat... slouched under a regal cloak too heavy for her shoulders, under a royal crown too large for her head... that sweet innocence of childhood nothing but traces now, having been withered by the foul, dirty politics of those damned deities high up on that mountain—

"what answers did the olympian offer her majesty?"

"he said he would love me and sire my children if that is what i want— i asked if he wished anything out of our union— he said all he wanted is to be my husband–"

something between a frustrated sigh and an exhausted scoff erupts from you, becoming an opaque fog the moment it hits the frigid air of the underworld. uraume plucks the oar out the water to come sit next to you, letting the boat be driven by magic.

"you're worried," they state, forgoing all formalities in favour of giving you some much-needed comfort. you never much cared for stations anyways, quite unlike your elder brother, the former king.

"an unfamiliar friend poses more risk than a familiar enemy, uraume," you mutter, resting your head on their shoulder, "why do you think kore wishes to marry me so much, if not out of love or the prospect of the powerful offsprings we might beget?"

"marriage is not solely for love or for procreation," the rower starts to explain, mildly amused before it grows into sympathy at your baffled expression.

ah, they muse fondly, not unlike a parent watching their child witness the world seemingly the first time ever since they learnt to walk, you who presides over something as profound as death yet knows not of the trivialities of life...

"it can also be for many other reasons like–"

the remainder of the words skitter away from uraume— cerberus is playing with gojo.

the fierce guard of the netherworlds, the three-headed hound, loyal and dutiful to a fault: hades' dearest canine companion is frolicking with the god of life in a green meadow, that most certainly was not there so close to the stygian marsh, when they last—

"gojo is laughing," your remark draws them away from their musings, only to find a changed shadow over your countenance— pensive yet not thinking at all; almost as if you too are floating in the stale air of your kingdom akin the soft flower petals...

another ring of raucous laughter pierces the silence, mingled with a delighted series of barks— cerberus is busy licking gojo's face now, the olympian reduced to a puddle of giggles as he scratches behind the dog's ears.

his happiness so clear in the stretch of his grin and the crinkle of his eyes, very much the jarring contrast to the last time—

oh. oh, oh, oh–

"escape," the word leaves uraume in a sudden moment of realisation, as quiet as a breath but loud enough for you to whip your head back to face them, confusion engraved into your scowl. "escape?? what is that supposed to mean, eh?"

the rower feels their lips lift into an infrequent smile. "the god of life wishes to marry you to escape— from his mother, or from his many suitors, or perhaps from mount olympus itself."

"wha– how– hah," you breathe out a disbelieving little huff, "that is simply ridiculous. have you even heard yourself? that is ridiculous."

used to such resistance from yourself, even more from your brother, they move to state their points, only to beaten by you as you persist to speak.

"no one in their right mind will decide to come live in the underworld, no matter how overbearing their mother or insistent their suitors are. have you seen this place? it's too, too unlike the lushness of the earth or the grandeur of the heavens he has experienced. and–" you add, a harsh laugh accompanying it. "gojo satoru is a god. a fish might leave the water— but a god never steps a voluntary foot down that horrible mountain. never."

"but the olympian never truly lived on mount olympus," uraume says once they're sure you've completed your tirade, "and you are a goddess as well. why do you speak so ill of the heavens then?"

"why?" you echo the word. they nod, hoping you take the bait they've intended for you. you do.

"why, because that place is nothing but a shining apple with a rotten core!! everything is polished marble and glittering gold there. people constantly wave at each other, lavishing smiles and praises like there is no tomorrow. everything is so warm and bright— what a bunch of lies and liars!"

familiar fire burns in your aura, the immense heat making the waters erupt into boiling— uraume uses their powers to cool the river down, lest anything disturbs you.

you're too far gone in your rage to be shaken, however, continuing:

"but it never can hide the grime and dirt accrued beneath such shine and sheen. nor the vicious minds and crooked hearts of those deities up above– what lame excuses of gods and goddesses, hah. and you might think me to prefer the light and warmth up there— you will be sorely wrong, my dear uraume!! i much prefer the genuine darkness and frigidity of my beloved kingdom to the faux comfort of the awful mount olympus—"

"is there no possibility the god of life too despises mount olympus for these same reasons, milady?"

you open your mouth and close it, then open it again to let out a very aggrieved whine– momentarily transporting uraume to your younger days. the rower merely chuckles when you punch their arm lightly.

"you're the worst, uraume," you cry, getting up and moving to sit on the other end of the boat. the rower too rises but only to resume rowing the boat by the oar.

"you never spoke this way when sukuna was the ruler— only because his baby sister is the ruler now, and you think she is very stupid—"

"as much as i respect and revere lord sukuna, he wasn't one to listen to anyone else," uraume interrupts gently, "you do, though– which is why i spent so much time telling you this. i hope you did not mind."

"hey, no," you immediately wave away their concern with a wide grin, eliciting a smaller one from the latter, "i could never..."

another peal of laughter and barks rings through the otherwise-quiet. you abruptly trail off, the same conflicting expression from before on your face yet again. though not without a spark in your eyes, uraume notes, almost as if you're slowly learning how to solve the puzzle who is repeatedly offering himself to you.

uraume keeps the silence you initiate, choosing to row the boat while you keep staring at the assortment of hues near the stygian marsh...

until you call their name and declare, an odd firmness in your smile, "well then, it is decided. i shall allow gojo to stay here for as long as the god so wishes to, escaping whatever or whoever he is escaping. and i shall protect him from the latter, should it ever come for him."

a beat. your smile falls into something graver. "would it be better if i swore by the dread water of styx, uraume?"

"uh, um," the rower finds themselves at a loss of words, the first time in seemingly forever, and they have been around since titanomachy– but before they can recover themselves enough to formulate a proper reply, a giggly voice joins in—

"well, if my rose does that, i would consider myself the most blessed amongst all mortals and immortals!"

— and the waters surrounding the boat shoot upwards in a scathing geyser-like jet and steam— the ferocious queen of the netherworlds visibly torn between remorse and terror, as they offer uraume a stiff nod and gojo a horrified look, before vanishing in a wisp of fog.

the boiling waters of the river styx calm down only after a twenty-minute-long struggle by uraume, joined at the very end by gojo.

the latter looks positively delighted, when the former collapses to the bottom of the boat, exhausted beyond belief. "hey, charon. was that a result of your queen getting flustered by me, huh?"

yes, it was. it very much was, the sentences nearly slip past the tired rower's crumbling defences... until it hits them– who they serve, and who they don't.

uraume decides to throw back a glare and a lie. "her majesty was not flustered, lord kore. she was enraged at how you invaded the privacy of her weekly boat ride, intended to make her relax."

"oh, puh-lease," the god makes a face. the rower is certain he would have been punished in the pits of tartarus for all eternity, then some more were he to pursue you this way during your brother's reign, let alone disrespect you thus.

ignorant and insolent, he continues, "in few days time, i'll be allowed into the privacy of her living quarters; what is the privacy of her boat th—"

"you're lucky you did not make such outrageous remarks in front of the queen," uraume cuts him off, none too kindly nor gently, "if you did, her majesty would have certainly burnt you along with the boat to a crisp–"

"i know," comes the defeated reply within the instant. and while gojo is still not in uraume's good graces, the latter decides to notch him a level higher, considering the god of life accepts their queen's powers.

not many do.

he strikes a pathetically pitiful figure, uraume reckons, seeing him sit then slouch on the bench. "was she serious when she said she would protect me?"

your loyal subject nods, certain and solemn. "yes, she was. the queen is never careless when it comes to making promises."

"oh, that's reassuring," gojo says quietly— only to recline even further in the very next beat– an anguished, grating wail tearing from him to the stifling silence looming near the stygian marsh. uraume wonders if it is worth it to steer the boat towards acheron... then push him into its waters of woe...

they decide against it on catching the desperation worn by the god.

for all it is, it might nothing more than a ploy. yet something tugs at their mind to pause and listen when gojo howls, "why does my rose always scurry away after tilting my world on its axis? why does your queen always torment me like this, charon?"

uraume stares pensively at their face in the sacred waters of styx for a while. then heaves a mighty sigh.

certain, this exchange between the goddess of the dead and the god of life will impact not only your and gojo's respective worlds— but the general world and everyone else in it, as well.

did you know, in the actual greek myths, persephone was never called so before her marriage to hades? she got it only after, w the name meaning "bringer of death". her initial name was kore, referring to her being a maiden & the spring goddess.

the river styx was called the "dread river of oath" by homer– in both the iliad and the odyssey [greek epic poems], swearing by its waters is the "greatest and most dread oath for the blessed gods" -> this shows how serious the reader is towards ensuring gojo's safety and freedom, and how deeply this affects gojo as well [source: wiki 😇]

also: the reader is totally ready to jump into the water to swim away when she realises gojo was listening in on her conversations- but then she remembers she can js vanish away and so she does js tht— the queen of the underworld, and of escaping, hehe

also also: the reader is slightly jealous when she is talking of the shifty nymphs always sticking to gojo's side. [uraume identifies it; you think it is js your usual dislike to such frivolous things and ppl as flowers and nymphs etc.] [hades is emo imho 😊]

▸ masterlist

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #kit posts 📝

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cinnamostar · 1 year ago

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02: home

part one.

pairing : minho x gn!reader

summary : “I have known you for thousands of lifetimes, and I don’t regret meeting you in a single one.”

wc : 7.3k

cw : childhood friends, arguing, angst, sadness, mentions of bullying + racism/xenophobia, best friends to lovers, fluff, sappiness, its so doooomed

a/n : pls read part one before this! i was in so much pain as i wrote this, so im sorry in advance, my dear reader. please let me know what you think! likes and reblogs appreciated

tags: @im-on-a-hellavator , @httpswilloww @atinyniki (its not letting me tag so i hope this works ;w;)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Maybe that was a little too harsh, Minho thought to himself as he remembered your glassy eyes and the guilt that painted your face a depressing blue, the bashful glowing smile of yours he adored nowhere to be found. Oh, how his heart soared to the heavens when he saw you back at the pond you both once called home years later, the same vibrance you carried as a child seemed to have never left you even after so many years. How he missed seeing you smile so timidly, yet lovingly, at the tadpoles who swam underneath the pond's surface, how he missed seeing how breathtakingly beautiful you looked as the wind bellowed through your locks, and how he missed you.

It didn’t matter how many times the earth had rotated around the sun, it didn’t matter how long it had been, his heart could never let you go.

The instant he saw someone standing at the pond, his body and soul knew it was you, there was no way he’d ever mistake that nostalgic, comforting presence of yours as anyone else’s. The way the soft rays of the sun highlighted your features nearly made his heart skip out his chest, as if he just saw an angel standing before him; the cherub he once knew as a child had grown up.

How he hoped you’d finally come back home to him, how he desperately wished for years to relive the sweetest moments of his childhood, how he wished you were there for each and every milestone in life, and how he wished you two could finally make up for lost time. And while his heart yearned for you, the abandonment he felt in his childhood festered inside him, as if he had taken a swig of poison that sought to destroy the love and adoration he had for you in a bitter, resentful, rage. He couldn’t help it, the pain and misery he felt growing up had never truly left and your presence reawakened those wounds he never learned to heal. His heart stretched painfully in this twisted game of tug-of-war, unsure on whether he should feel thankful for your return or relent to the enmity that had rotted within him for god knows how long.

Yet, it was so easy to submit to the indignation he was feeling as it overpowered any sense of gratefulness, choosing to ignore the miracle of you being back as his mouth soured over the taste of resentment.

Had his prayers finally been answered? Has he finally wished you back into his life? I’m an idiot, he cringed as he began to regret his behavior. Maybe his anger wasn’t justified, maybe he should’ve met you with more grace. After all, you weren’t wrong, you were just a kid who knew no better. It wasn’t fair to him, but neither was his treatment to you after the fact. Ah. The guilt you must’ve felt over the years could not have been easy to manage on top of the stress of living in an entirely foreign country, as your tearful eyes showed him how much you had been agonizing over this. For so long, he had convinced himself you had forgotten him entirely, no longer cared for him as he mourned over you as if you had died, yet the years of the youth you both shared came rushing in like a tsunami the minute you both made eye contact. The overwhelming emotions of nostalgia and regret was a feeling only you two could ever understand, and my, was it complicated to choose how to feel with thousands of nameless emotions competing with one another.

The love Minho had for you never left, almost as if it laid dormant for years as it hoped for the day you two would meet again, the familiar butterflies of his childhood crush blossoming once again at the sight of you. Somehow, everything and nothing about you changed, it was something Minho didn’t have words to explain or couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. You were the Y/N he knew and doted on as a child, but you had grown into an astonishingly beautiful adult version of yourself and he found himself falling in love the instant his soul recognized you.

For so many years, Minho had tried his best to erase any memory of you, but his heart couldn’t deny the love it had for you and no matter how hard he tried, it was always you. Through the trials and tribulations of life, you were his safe haven, the very thought of you bringing a sense of peace and tranquility no other could, and during the lowest points of his life, his body always instinctually took him to the same pond as a refuge. He coveted you and your presence, yet the pond was the closest he could get to you and the feelings he had longed for.

Just maybe Minho was being unfair to you, he thought. After all, you both were just kids.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Since your run in with Minho, you had been suffering with an overwhelming amount of guilt, carrying the weight of shame on your shoulders as you came face to face with him for the first time in years. Having to finally confront the pained and saddened expression he wore was something you could have never prepared for, and the very memory of it was enough to make you break down in tears.

You knew what you had done to Minho was extremely hurtful, and you couldn’t imagine what that must’ve felt like, no matter how hard you try. But knowing and witnessing it were two completely different things, and after seeing Minho’s watery eyes, you weren’t sure if you could ever forgive yourself. He was right, though. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back, maybe coming back was only reopening old wounds you both didn’t need to be dealing with all because of your selfish need to reconnect with your culture.

Though, after spending most of your life overseas, you were starting to feel like you didn’t belong in your home country anymore. You had lost touch with cultural traditions, basic etiquette, and even struggled to speak your native tongue as well. You still spoke like the eight year old that had moved away long ago, and it was becoming increasingly embarrassing as you compared yourself to everyone around you. You stuck out like a sore thumb and for the first time in your life, you began to realize you didn’t fit in anywhere. Not here, not in the states. You were too much of your ethnicity to be considered a proper American, and you were too American to be considered a true citizen of your country, despite spending the first eight years of your life here. Coming back home didn’t reaffirm your identity, but only left you more confused and questioning who you even were.

Minho was right, this was a mistake.

You so desperately craved a sense of belonging, and you became certain you weren't finding it here anymore, but you had to make it through the rest of your trip at the very least. You were just going to try to continue business as usual though, hoping you would not run into Minho again and would simply forgo the pond entirely. It should be simple enough, you thought. No one needed to know about your accidental meeting with Minho and you were sure he’d avoid you like the plague. It should be fine.

Well, that quickly changed as soon as your mom told you Minho’s mother invited your family to dinner at their house. The color from your face immediately drained as a cold sweat formed all over your body, your mother seemingly ecstatic at the news, “Oh, it will be just like old times! And you can finally see Minho after so long, isn’t that great, sweetheart?” she beamed, your father also nodding alongside her.

You cleared your throat as you forced a fake smile, “Yeah, that does sound great, mom. When are we going over?”

“Tonight! So make sure to be ready to walk over by seven, okay?”

Tonight? Oh, god, no, that was far too soon when you had just barely recovered from seeing Minho yesterday, and now tonight? Breathe, Y/N. Just one night, then you’ll never see him again, you ressaured yourself, trying to find a way to make this news manageable. You honestly should have seen this coming, your mom was also best friends with Minho’s mom, but for some reason that detail had escaped you.

Just one evening, just one dinner, then it would be all over, right?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Dinner was going as well as it could have. Minho’s mother spent a great deal of effort preparing a feast for your family and she showered you with compliments as soon as you walked through the door, commenting how you had grown into such a lovely young adult.

Minho and you only exchanged an awkward hello, which didn’t raise any alarms in either of your parents as they somewhat expected this, especially considering how your friendship ended as children. Nonetheless, it did not stop the onslaught of questions each set of parents asked in attempts to catch up, nor did it stop them trying to force a conversation between you two.

“So, Y/N, how was university in the states? Did you like it there?” curiously inquired Minho’s father.

“Oh, it was great! Definitely got to meet some life long friends there and had lots of fun,” you politely responded, “I didn’t exactly live the typical all-american college experience, but it was still nice. Excited to start my new job once I get back though! I got a really good offer and the position I wanted.”

Minho’s mother gasped as she congratulated you, “That’s amazing! I remember your mother telling me how stressed you were about those interviews, but I’m glad you got it,” she then turned her head to Minho while giving him a slight nudge, “Minho also graduated, he got a job offer as well. Tell them about it, Minho.”

Minho awkwardly cleared his throat, “Uhm, yeah, I just got an offer with a bank here as an analyst, but I’m waiting to hear back from another company before negotiating.”

You nodded as he spoke, looking anywhere, but him as your parents also commended him, you weakly congratulating him as well. Wow, this felt painfully awkward, but somehow neither of your parents seemed to care too much about the tension between you two.

“How about a special someone, Y/N?” Minho’s dad asked, the question catching you by surprise. Your eyes landed on the boy who sat across from you, who looked just as surprised, but fully interested in your response.

“Ah, no, not right now… Kinda focused on myself for now,” you respond, a stiff smile on your face, feeling nervous under the sudden intensity of Minho’s gaze.

Your mother let out a chortle, finding your embarrassment endearing, “What about you, Minho? Any girlfriends?” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows as everyone else joined in laughing.

“Minho does have a girlfriend! It’s such a shame she couldn’t make it tonight, she was a lovely girl,” his mom piped, “Reminded me a bit of you, Y/N, if I’m being honest.”

You didn’t know why, but something inside you sank, an indescribable wave of disappointment washed over you at the words girlfriend. Of course he had one, he’s, well, an attractive, smart, man. Of course, but why were you so bothered by it? You haven’t spoken to him in years, you virtually had no relationship with him and only had remnants of the past to hold onto, yet your stomach began to twist and turn inside you, almost as if you were jealous? Ah, no, this is weird, this isn’t right. Maybe the food just isn’t sitting with you well, maybe you caught a stomach bug that just so happened to show its symptoms just in this moment.

The boy coughed, “We, uh… We broke up, that’s why she isn’t coming.”

Everyone stood in silence, not expecting that kind of news over dinner, both sets of parents shooting him an apologetic look, but for some reason, you felt relieved to hear that. The pit that was forming in your stomach suddenly vanished, as if Minho’s words just cured you of your ailment.

“What, you never told us!” Minho’s mother exclaimed.

“It was a few weeks ago, it happens. I’m fine, really.”

Maybe that explains the tired look in Minho’s eyes when you first saw him yesterday, maybe that explains the somber look he carried that day, and perhaps he went to the pond for a moment of peace, just as you did, except your very presence ruined it. There returned the familiar hand of guilt that rested its heavy hand on your shoulders, never giving you the chance to take a deep breath.

Beside that, dinner did move on relatively well as everyone took turns to catch up or reminisce on the olden days, all while gossiping about who was up to what. As dinner came to a close, both sets of parents decided it was best for you two to be left with washing the dishes alone in the house, as they moved to the patio area to chat amongst themselves.

Minho and you silently stood next to each other as he washed the dishes, handing them to you for them to dry with a rag, much as you two did while growing up. Although you two were much older, there was a comforting air that hung around you two that allowed you to relax the tension your body had been carrying over the dinner, humming a quiet tune as you dried each plate.

“You still hum while doing the dishes?” Minho asked, a small amused smile taking over his features.

You froze in place, not expecting him to willingly speak to you, much less take the time to ask you a question. “I guess I still do,” you replied lightly, afraid that the mere sound of your voice would somehow upset him.

A quiet lull returned after your response, neither of you knowing what to do or even say around another as guilt nibbled away at each of you, but for your own different reasons.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry”

You both turned to each other, eyes widened in surprise as you both rushed mumbled apologies to each other at the same exact time. Neither of you knew what to do in this unexpected situation, awkwardness filling both your eyes as you both struggled to stammer out a response.

“I… I’m sorry for never telling you I was leaving, I should’ve known bet-”

“No, no, we were both kids. Neither of us knew better. I’m sorry for being so… rude. I don’t know what got into me. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered anxiously, continuing to dry the glass cup in your hand, “It’s a lot to handle all at once. I don’t blame you one bit.”

“It really isn’t okay. We were both hurting in our own ways, I think we both did the best we could at the time,” he smiled reassuringly at you, the same one he had flashed you the first day he dragged you out to the forest to find the pond, a smile you had come to miss.

“Oh, and sorry about… your ex? Break ups suck…”

“It’s fine, I actually am glad we broke up… she was, well… it wasn’t great for either of us,” he mumbled, not willing to divulge any further, “Break ups suck? Sounds like you’ve had your fair share.”

You laugh lightly, “Unfortunately. Mine weren’t as peaceful as yours. You sound a lot happier than I was.”

“Well, you’ve always been a crybaby. Guess not much has changed about you, huh?” he mused, a teasing smirk forming on his face.

You rolled your eyes as you snorted, playfully nudging him with your hip, “Shut up. You’re still as annoying as I remember too.”

“I bet you missed it.”

“I did. A lot. Moving sucked.”

He handed you the last of the dishes to dry, deep in thought as he leaned his back against the kitchen counter, “Was it hard?”

You sighed as you put the last dish away, turning to him as you swallowed thickly, “I think I cried nearly every day for two years straight,” your gaze was stuck looking down at the floor as you fiddled with your fingers, “It was really hard. I didn’t have friends for a long time. No one understood me when I tried speaking English, and I didn’t understand the other kids a lot of the time, but I always knew they were laughing at me.”

Minho’s heart ached hearing how your voice slightly quivered as you recalled the memory, he could tell it was your first time ever saying any of it out loud. There was an icy sadness surrounding you as you spoke, yet no tears were to be found. Maybe you were good at hiding them, or maybe you had grown too tired to cry for your younger self at this point, but it didn’t take away from the scars the loneliness had left on your heart. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I should’ve been there for you.”

You shook your head, an exasperated laugh left you as a resigned smile took over your face, “It’s okay, it was years ago. I’ve learned to deal with it. Besides, I did end up making friends and I ended up learning how to speak English.”

Minho was amazed at your ability to force a cheerful expression while discussing something so traumatic, something he would have never expected you to be able to do. He couldn’t help but wonder what you had endured all these years on your own, wondering where the sensitive and delicate version of you he had once knew had gone, feeling angry that you had been hurt so much that your tenderness was forced to become a callous exterior.

The child he had once known was so fragile, he had to wear gloves when handling your porcelain heart, nervous his very own touch or breath could crack it if he wasn’t careful. Minho hated seeing you cry. He would defend you, fighting tooth and nail, like his life depended on it if anyone ever upset you, even going as far as angrily huffing and puffing at your parents if they ever raised their voice at you. And every time, he would comfort you right after in a gentle embrace until you calmed down, making sure to glare at anyone who tried to disturb your peace. How much did your little heart break over the years? Who was there to pick up the pieces and comfort you through those moments? Had you really dealt with it all by yourself? The thought alone made Minho’s heart writhe in despair, aching as he mourned this realization.

You reached out to grab Minho’s arm as you saw the downcast expression on his face, “Hey, it’s not your fault. I learned how to defend myself and I think I turned out pretty okay at the end of it,” you reassured before laughing, “Unless you think I’m lame now.”

Your laugh was enough to bring Minho out his incessant thoughts, a mischievous grin returning, “I never thought you were cool in the first place.”

“Minho!”

“Kidding, kidding. I’m just glad to have you back. I missed you lots.”

“I missed you too.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Over the past few days, you and Minho had become inseparable, spending nearly every minute of the day with one another, much like how you two did when you were children. For the first time in years, you finally felt that you belonged somewhere, no longer feeling out of place like you have since the day you moved away. It didn’t matter where you were, but as long as Minho was there, you felt like you were at home. He knew this too, he noticed the change from the first day he found you at the pond again to now. You were much more relaxed, as if all the worries in the world disappeared while you both were together, giggling over whatever stupid joke was made. You weren’t on edge as you were before, and the walls you had surrounded your heart with slowly crumbled away through his affections.

And even though over a decade has since passed since you two last spoke, it was as if time had paused since the moment you left, and only resumed from the day you both made up. Nothing has changed, except everything about the two of you changed. Your childhood friendship continued like it was nothing, playing like a song that had been paused, waiting to sing its tune, except you two were much older, more matured, and had experienced so much of life. Whatever you each went through shaped you into the adults you were today, yet the kids you each knew hid behind locked doors that only the two of you had accessed.

Yet, there was a more complicated matter that you had to address before it snowballed out of control. Your feelings. Love was never a word you and Minho shied away from, as you often told each other ‘I love you’ while growing up, it seemed natural during that time of childlike innocence. You knew you loved Minho, and you knew he loved you, but saying it as adults had an entirely implication and your feelings were indicating something much deeper than platonic love.

It was no secret that your childhood best friend had grown into a rather handsome man, and the childhood crush you once had on him was flourishing into something greater than just a crush. The smallest of gestures would send a frenzy of butterflies and warmth rushing throughout your veins, hoping to god Minho had not noticed just how much of an effect he was having on you.

If you two were walking through a crowded area, he’d grab your hand without hesitation as he led you through the swarms of people. If you had food stuck on the corner of your lips, he’d grab a napkin and wipe it off. If you saw a small trinket at the shopping mall you wanted, the very next day he’d come back with the item in hand, saying he bought it so you could remember to text or call him when you went back to the states. It was moments like those that felt so incredibly intimate to you, but part of you wasn’t sure if it could all be explained away by how comfortable you two were with one another.

And here you were again, sitting on the couch of Minho’s living room after he had begged you to watch a new scary movie with him, insisting this was to make up for the pre-teen years you both missed out on and that he would’ve forced you to watch one then. You tried to protest, saying that you guys weren’t kids anymore and there was no need for these ‘tests of bravery,’ yet you couldn’t resist the way he would pout and whine, begging you to do so for him just like he would as a child.

You were barely watching the movie, just peeking out from behind a blanket as Minho’s secure arm wrapped around your shoulders, your head laying on his chest as you cowered in fear over the pure suspense of the movie. Each time you’d flinch, you could feel a soft rumble come from Minho’s chest, doing his best to stifle a laugh and hide the fact that he was enjoying every moment of this.

“I fucking hate you,” you scowled, still recovering from the last jumpscare.

Minho giggled at your face, finding your attempt to look upset absolutely adorable, “No, you don’t,” reaching his other arm over you as he squeezed you into an affectionate embrace, “It’s not my fault you’re still a giant baby after all these years.”

You grumbled while doing your best to shove Minho off you, but there was no way you’d be able to overpower him. You’ve hugged Minho so many times throughout your life, but this time, it sent your heart racing so loud that you could hear it drumming in your own ears, silently praying that he couldn’t hear it too. Something about this hug felt different, especially when he kept you close in his arms, refusing to let you go as he snuggled into you. This trip was going to be the death of you.

Without fail, every time you jolted in your seat, Minho was quick to chuckle at each of your reactions and tighten his grip on you gently, not skipping a beat to plant a chaste kiss on your forehead while whispering to you that it was just a movie. If you were two kids, this would be something normal and innocent, but right now, it left you feeling like a flustered mess who was melting under the heat of his affection.

You were slowly feeling yourself short-circuit, your body starting to sweat from the heat of embarrassment that was washing over you. Surely, Minho would feel the amount of warmth emanating from you at this point, yet he seemed completely unbothered as his eyes were trained on the movie ahead of you. You were relieved that he seemed aloof to the distress you were experiencing, but also mildly insecure that he seemed so… relaxed despite the proximity you two shared. Maybe he had only seen this under the same childhood innocence and nothing more, maybe it was only you making a big fuss over this.

It was becoming too much for you to bear as you started to shift uncomfortably, slowly getting up while excusing yourself to the bathroom. Minho’s eyebrows furrowed with concern, “Are you okay?”

You nodded your head hastily as you made your way to the bathroom, “Uhm, yeah! Just not feeling well suddenly, not sure why. Just gonna splash some water on my face.”

He didn’t seem too convinced, he could sense there was something more to it, but decided to let it go. You raced to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you to finally catch a breath, shaking your hands as if you were trying to remove all the nervous energy out of you. Your face was hot to the touch, thankful for the cold water from the faucet as you splashed it onto your warm cheeks. You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but it was long enough for Minho to come knocking at the door, “Y/N? Is everything okay?”

You swung the door instantly, startling Minho as he backed up from the door, his eyebrows raised at your change in behavior, “What’s wrong? Don’t lie to me, I can tell something’s up.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed as he looked into yours, trying to search your eyes for an answer as you bit the inside of your cheek, your eyes entirely avoiding him, “It’s nothing, I’ll be fine-”

“Y/N.”

“I promise, I’m probably just overreacting, Minho. I’ll be fine.”

He stared down at you with his arms crossed, pursuing his lips as he watched the corners of your lips twitch, a telltale sign that you were lying, “Am I making you uncomfortable? Was the movie too much for you? You know you can tell me anything.”

You shook your head panickedly, “No, no, it’s nothing like that, I swear! Don’t worry about it.”

“Y/N.”

You gulped, you knew there was no way out of this. Minho knew you better than anyone else, he knew you weren’t randomly feeling ill over nothing, he knew it had nothing to do with the movie.

“I really don’t wanna talk about it, Minho. It’s okay.”

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it, but can you at least tell me if it has anything to do with me?”

The stubbornness you found charming as a child was definitely an absolute pain in the ass as the adult man in front of you analyzed every microscopic detail you, trying his best to get to the bottom of what had you acting strangely. You couldn’t lie to him, no, he would know as soon as you opened your mouth it was a lie. Sure, you could tell him he was the cause of your unsettledness, but would that even go well? There were too many factors to consider, too much to think about and your long pause told Minho everything he needed to know.

He sighed, taking a step back as he started to make his way back to the living room, “It’s fine, I can tell. If this is too much, we can stop here. We can talk about it tomorrow morning.”

“N-no!”

The words flew out your mouth before you had the chance to even think. Oh, you were mentally cursing at yourself as Minho turned to you again, his face furrowed with confusion, “No?”

“I just… I mean, it’s just a lot, but it isn’t at the same time?” you sounded so unsure as you said it, which only caused Minho to tilt his head to the side as he tried to understand you.

“It’s too much, but it isn’t…” he mumbled to himself, his mind straining to figure out the riddles you were speaking, “I know I said we don’t have to talk about it, but you do realize you’re not making any sense, right?”

You forced a tight-lipped smile, inhaling sharply, “Uhm, yeah… It doesn’t make sense to me either.”

“You’re lying. You know exactly what you mean, you just don’t want to tell me.”

You winced at his bluntness, not really surprised at how direct he was being with you, “Do you not trust me anymore?”

His eyes glossed over with insecurity and worry as he asked that question, your heart dropping immediately, wanting nothing more than shoo those feelings away, “What? Of course I still trust you.”

“Then why can’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s complicated?”

“But why?”

“Why can’t you just drop it?” you raised your voice in frustration at his insistence, not willing to budge as he tried to pry his way into your mind.

“Well,” he hesitated, “The last time you hid something from me, you left. So forgive me for being a little scared.”

Your mouth dropped open at Minho’s statement, not expecting him to be so vulnerable with you out of nowhere, “I… Minho, I’m sorry,” you whispered tearfully, your stomach flipping onto itself as it digested the grief Minho had just voiced. You stepped towards him, reaching for his hands as you clasped them between yours, “I’m sorry, it’s just… I don’t really know if I should be saying this.”

“Trust me this time, please? I don’t want to be left in the dark again,” he pleaded, his mind reminding him of the day he waited for you as the amber sunset turned into the night sky.

Your hands started to tremble in his, your nerves taking over as you unexpectedly found yourself about to confess your feelings to a man who lived thousands miles from you, a man you had only started talking to a few days ago, a man who had somehow known you your entire life, despite missing so many crucial years together. Your breath hitched as the butterflies in your stomach got caught in your throat, your nerves signaling off as the electrifying feeling of adrenaline took over, “I, uh… I am really happy we’ve made up, I’m really happy to have rekindled our friendship with one another, and I’ve loved all the time we have spent with each other over the last few days, but…”

Trepidation ran through you, biting your lip for a brief moment as you hesitated to continue your sentence, “Maybe I’ve come to love it a little too much?” At this point, you were looking for every way possible to avoid saying your actual feelings, hoping Minho would connect the dots for you, but his face told you he had no idea what you meant. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me I’m still not making sense, I can see it in your face,” you sighed. He nodded, urging you to continue with patient eyes.

“I… like you?”

It was quiet, so quiet you swore both Minho and you could hear your heart thumping, your hands clamming up as you held his, terrified eyes examining his face for his reactions. He stilled for a moment, as if he was processing your words before breaking out into a grin, a hearty laugh escaping him.

“I already knew that.”

You froze in place, disbelief painting your face as you stared at him incredulously, “What?”

“Don’t tell me you’re also still clueless after all these years,” yet he took your silence as confirmation, shaking his head as he giggled, “Do you really think I was being overly affectionate with you for no reason?”

Your mouth dried up from nerves, stuttering over your reply, “I… Yes? I thought you were just… I don’t know, I thought you were just treating me the same way you did as when we were kids.”

“And do you know why I treated you like that growing up?” he questioned with a candied smile.

You blinked slowly, your head shaking cautiously as you tried to decipher his words, “Because… I don’t know? We were best friends.”

“Sure, that was part of it, but it was more like me having a giant crush on you.”

“...”

“... That means I still like you, if that wasn’t clear enough for you.”

There was no way this was real, this all had to be a dream, you just couldn’t believe your ears. Your childhood crush, the man that caused our feelings to go absolutely haywired in a matter of a few days, felt the same exact way for you this whole time and you just somehow missed it? No, no, this was certainly a dream, why on earth would he be into someone like you, someone who-

“Y/N,” he removed his hands from yours, resting them on top of your shoulders as he leaned down to come face to face with you, effectively waking you up from your reverie, “Let’s make up for lost time,” he whispered, his breath fanning on your lips, “Can I kiss you?”

You stared back with doe eyes, all your vocabulary escaping you as you gulped, nodding your head perhaps a little too excitedly. Minho’s smile only widened at your reaction, his rough hands traveling to cup your face with half-lidded eyes, his head leaning forward as his chapped lips closed the gap. His lips melded against yours, your hands grasping at his t-shirt as you felt your knees buckle under him, clinging onto him as if your life depended on it. You felt yourself weaken under his touch, becoming prisoner to his affection as the world around you quieted, much like the moment of silence that existed between the end of a performance and explosive applause of the audience. Everything stalled, as if the expanse of the universe took a pause and the supernovas’ violent bursts slowed to witness feverish kiss between you two. You were becoming lightheaded, pulling away from the dizzying kiss as your chests heaved in an attempt to catch your breath. Minho’s cheeks and ears burned a bright scarlet, a sweet smile grazing his features as his eyes brimmed with love and affection, softly whispering:

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Once again, the familiar, low, hum of mosquitos filled your ears as Minho’s firm hand led you down the same dirt trail you’ve traveled down hundreds of times, leaves brushing against the skin of your arms as you cautiously followed his grasp. Today, Minho told you he had one last surprise for you before you traveled back home, blindfolding you at the entrance of the forest as butterflies fluttered in your stomach, temporarily distracting you from the fact that this was your last day here before returning to the states, returning to your mundane life and leaving this mind numbing summer romance behind.

He slowed down his pace, signaling to you that you had arrived to your destination, his hands slipping out of yours as you felt his presence behind you, gently removing the blindfold as he softly whispered, “we’re here.”

As soon as the blindfold was off, your eyes blinked rapidly as they adjusted to the change of lighting, scanning the scene that stood ahead of them as Minho made his way into your vision, a saccharine smile beaming at you, “Do you like it?”

Like was an understatement as a grin broke out onto your face, your heart filling with an overwhelming amount of adoration as you took in the surprise Minho spent so long preparing for earlier this morning. There, beside the pond, laid a small plaid blanket with a picnic basket centered atop of it, a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a bottle of wine propped up against the basket. You gasped with delight as your heart softened, “Oh, Minho, I love it.”

His shoulders relaxed at your words, no longer feeling nervous as he grabbed your hand and guided you to the blanket, sitting down next to you as he gingerly laid out the food he prepared in front you. “I made you some of your favorites,” he added, gently opening the bottle of wine and pouring you a glass, “I hope its as good as it looks,” he laughed anxiously, handling you a small bento box with the a serving cutely prepared, the vegetables cut out into small hearts decorating the rice. You took a bite of the food as soon as you had the chance, a small moan escaping you due to how delicious it was, your eyes widening in surprise, not expecting it to be so flavorful, “Minho, this is so good, you made this?”

He proudly nodded, pride bubbling up within him as you complimented the meal he made for you, one where he spent an agonizing amount of time to make because it just had to be perfect for you, especially today of all days, a day he wanted to send you off with the happiest memories.

You both continued to enjoy the date Minho had put so much effort in, occasionally teasing one another or chuckling at whatever lame joke the other made, both of you trying to avoid the looming topic at hand, the inevitable ending of this summer love story that was doomed to last for only a few weeks.

“So…” Minho anxiously drawled, “You’re leaving tomorrow…”

You smiled weakly as you cleared your throat, “That I am.”

He pursed his lips, struggling to ask the question you both knew you needed to address, “So… what does it mean for us?”

A heavy sigh escaped you as the tension in the air thickened, both of you intently staring at one another, trying to decode what the other was thinking before speaking, “What do you want it to mean?”

“I asked you first,” he responded a little too fast for your liking, not willing to voice his thoughts without hearing yours first.

“Well, uhm…” you paused, debating with your mind and heart as you decided your next words, “I am going back to the states, back to my friends, back to my job, back to my life.”

“Right,” he mumbled with a crestfallen expression, “Your life is there, not here.”

“It is.”

“What about me?” he whispered in a quivered voice.

“Well, your life is here, my life is not here. I don’t really…” you took a deep breath, tears starting to prick your eyes, “I don’t know how we would work.”

He nodded tearfully, knowing he couldn’t deny the difficulty of managing a long distance relationship, especially one like this, “What if I moved with you? What if you moved back?”

You shook your head, your heart breaking at Minho’s attempts to find a solution, “Minho, you don’t even speak English, you wouldn’t be able to find a job there and use your degree-”

“I can learn! I promise, I’ll start studying-”

“Minho.”

He stopped mid-sentence, his stubbornness refusing to let him accept the reality you two had found yourselves in, “Minho, you already have a job offer here, your friends and family are here. You wouldn’t be happy in the states, it’s so hard living there as a foreigner.”

“I’d be happy anywhere as long as I’m with you,” he begged, praying you’d at least try to see the glimmer of hope he was trying to conjure up, “I don’t care where, as long as I’m with you, I’d be happy.”

You bit your lip as you tried to suppress a sob, “You know that’s not true, you know your happiness can’t be dependent on me alone.”

“You don’t want to come back here?”

“I… can’t, Minho. My life isn’t here anymore, it hasn’t been in years.”

Crystal tears fell from Minho’s eyes, his eyes no longer being able to meet yours as the your words crushed his soul, the love he felt for you expelling into his tears as he began to mourn your loss once more, sobbing much like he did all those years ago. Through hiccups, he blubbered “Please, Y/N. Please don’t leave me again.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you sniffled, no longer being able to watch the man you love completely fall apart in front of you, cursing yourself for your cruel words that stabbed over and over again in his bleeding heart. “I’m so sorry, Minho. I don’t want this either, but what choice do we have? You and I both know our lives would never cross paths, we would never be able to come together.”

“We can try-”

“For what? To only cry years later to have this same exact conversation again?” you snapped, your frustrated tears and guilty conscience no longer being able to handle his pleading, it only wounding you more. You’ve already spent the past few weeks trying to scour for a possibility, a fragment of hope that showed you a timeline in which you two would be happy together, but it simply didn’t exist in this life, no matter how many times you flipped and turned the story. This wasn’t a movie, this wasn’t some romance novel where love would triumph it all, this was the bitter and harsh realities of life, and you hated it with all your heart.

You let out a despondent sigh as you lamented over the situation, your hands gingerly reaching out for Minho’s chin, forcing his teary-eyed face to look at yours, “Minho, I’m sorry, baby.”

He sniffled, his nose reddening as hot drops cascaded down his cheeks, “I’m sorry too.”

“I love you with everything in me, Minho, and I always will no matter where life takes us,” you murmured heartbrokenly, “I have known you for thousands of lifetimes, and I don’t regret meeting you in a single one.”

His hands reached out to hold yours, removing them from his face as he grasped them tightly, as if he was fearing you’d fade away if he loosened his grip, “I just wish we worked in this one,” he trembled.

“Me too, but…” you heaved, “Maybe in the next one, right? You’ll find me again?”

He laughed melancholily, “Always. I’d chase you to the very end of the universe if I had to.”

“Kiss me one more time? So I don’t forget?”

He smiled with anguished eyes, not hesitating to tilt his head as his lips captured yours once more, in one last, passionate kiss with all the devotion in the world, leaving the taste of your bittersweet love, one where only the two of you would know and understand.

You were leaving him again, but at least he got to say goodbye this time.

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stuck-writing-sickos · 5 months ago

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In Poor Taste [P7]

(Yandere Reader Insert)

[Series Link]

[Content warning: religious trauma, sexual trauma, explicit language, violence, suggestive contents, addiction]

(Real talk? We are in a tie between Lukas and Yuki in terms of reader favorites ( lukas fans are in anonymous asks and they are freaaaaky.) First- sorry for the angst. Second, maybe this will warm some of us up to Lukas? But tbh? I wanna kick his ass all the time. So idk. Like i would NOT let myself near that man but i am an impartial creator. Im curious thooo lmk how we feel abt lukas so far 🫶 aside from wanting to sleep w him.

@perhapstheyregone)

Between interlaced fingers, the gaps seemed forevermore.

[Recap last chapter:

Lukas' POV: Lukas followed you and Yuki out, but his attempt to interrupt the moment was foiled by a very angry and drunk Hanao who argued with Yuki. Lukas could not understand what the argument was about except that it concerned a woman in the foreign dept named Sasaki. Hanao attempted to hit Yuki, but you took the punch instead. In the process, you threw Lukas out of the way and made him hit a wall, which excited him. Yuki noticed Lukas' strange reaction to the pain but did not say anything about it.

Your POV: after the fight, Yuki offered to take you home and asked Lukas to watch over Sasaki for the rest of the party. You and Yuki took a cab to your home. During the ride, you were too shaken up by a text your mother had sent, and it was revealed that your brother (who suffered from addiction) had relapsed. By the time you reached your apartment, it was clearly late for Yuki to take the last train home, but he still offered to walk you up to your door, seeing that you were unwell.

Yuki's POV: on the way upstairs, you cried. He was unsure what happened, but he tried his best to take you to your door, being as gentle as possible. You offered for him to stay the night, given that he was way late for the train. It was revealed here that Yuki was sexually abused by a family friend when he was a teenager, which resulted in his fear of any attempts at flirting coming from women. However, seeing as you did not have any ulterior motives except for trying to make up for the "troubles", he agreed, feeling more compassionate toward you. Here, he noticed that it was his first time willingly saying "yes" to staying the night at any woman's house.)

Lukas didn't like how teritorial he felt anymore. He didn't want to prove himself by sleeping with another person when you slipped away in Sakamoto's arms - even the mere idea made his skin crawl. He liked to tell himself that he was no longer burdened by feeling small and unspecial ever since he stopped going to church and started going to house parties where he would kiss and tell, but the feeling came back from time to time. He felt eyes from above watching him when he messed up women's bedsheet, his pleasure poisoned. "I'm not going back", he would think, "fuck all that", but when the show was over and the girl looked at him with doe eyes to search for aftercare he wanted to smother her with a pillow. But that wouldn't undo what he did.

Sometimes back in college when he would go back home for the summer, Lukas wanted to cry and beg to be let back into the safety of the church. "I was wrong", in that fantasy he would shout with his knees on the ground, "take me back". The neat front lawn and the rose gardens stayed the same, as did the trickling fountain with the chubby cherub, as did the blooming magnolia and cedar elm, as did the sounds of mourning doves. Still, he felt bare and naked under the blue summer sky with no clouds to shield him from the sun. He wondered if his parents would take him back in were he to come back this time donning the cloth of the progidal son, or if he had to wait for the heaven's gate to be sure of the feast. So he held back, coming back into the air-conditioned living room loud and obnoxious, hugging and kissing his family. Nothing changed. He would go into his childhood bedroom - it would be wiped clean of any dust or spiderweb, his stacks of old videogames laid in the corner, his movie posters on the wall. The blinds would be left ajar, letting sunlight filter through and hit the freshly made bed where he would lie in and notice how small the pillow had gotten. He would wait until dinner was served, and at the table everyone would sidestep his absence from the church. Sometimes, his father would ask for his Sunday plans, to which he would say "I'll meet you guys for lunch". His mother would nod, and the awkward silence would soon be broken by his sister's stories about what happened at school. Lukas couldn't even try to pity their faith - it was cemented into them, sturdy and unchanging. It was so strong, he suspected, that they still held out for him to come back one day and attend mass again. Though, summer would pass and he would pack his back and leave again with a couple of weekends plans in his pocket, missing the haze of liquors and perfume. Next time, maybe.

This summer there weren't any plane flights back to Texas. Instead, he lied in the hard, narrow bed, his leg hanging out of the thin blanket as he stared at the ceiling. Outside, he saw electric wires and concrete apartments spreading until the horizon. It was a different quiet - no cricket, no winds going through the trees, no tinkerings of subtle magic when he would hear an owl hooting over the rooftop. Plain silence, as if the city outskirt was holding its breath to wait for something else to happen.

He wondered about what Sakamoto and you were doing, and a pit opened in his stomach. Lukas thought about what he would do if he were there with you instead. Sex? The idea was hollow and laborious - that wouldn't do. He had come to the realization that he didn't want to do to you what he had done to others - to undress, to use, to fantasize about smothering. Instead, he wanted to get on his knees and listen to you with his head on your laps and his arms wrapping around your legs. He wanted to look up into your eyes to see them unreadable to the point of emptiness and your lips harsh and stern, the same way you looked at the pest who had harrassed you that night at the concert. He wanted you to raise your iron fist and beat him senseless for his beating heart and his unwitting erection. You would disregard the excuse of "I can't help it", refusing the wired-in biological plea of his body. None mattered but the stark difference between sinful and sinless - and he was sinful.

Yuki didn't know how it happened. You were on the couch with your quilt wrapped around you, freshly showered with your hair still wet, and he was at the sink making a ginger tea from what ingredients he had procured in your barren pantries and depressing fridge. Then he was seated next to you whose breaths were still short and nervous. He wasn't sure what to say, so he presented the tea to you nervously. You feigned a smile. He didn't. He closed the distance, unable to find anything to say to ease your mind. He asked what happened. You talked. He recognized the people in your stories from all the other conversations, but they used to be just names and surface-level anecdotes. Now he understood, he said. You looked the other way, your quilt slipping off, your neck bare. The water droplets glistened on your skin. He wanted to do something selfish now, but he didn't. In shame he looked down on his laps, feeling heat spreading through his body like a wildfire. He stuttered when he said that he was sorry, and that addictions wasn't something one could control. You said something about you being a coward, but your exact words escaped his spinning head. He said it was hard to be strong all the time, and that he hoped something could happen for you to let your guard down because you didn't deserve to be in survival mode all your life. At that, he glanced over, flinching a little to see you turning to him again, wide-eyed like a deer in headlight. The heat from his body was messing with his ears - he could not hear you correctly when you opened your mouth to speak, but he could make out that you had tripped on your words as well. His breath got caught in his throat. Reasons fled. He brought himself closer quickly, afraid to lose the moment.

But he didn't know how it happened.

No turning off the lights, no getting ready, neither lipstick nor perfume, he had you as you were. He felt heat within him, yet you were even warmer to the touch. You held onto him anxiously, nodding when he asked for your approval, and smiling at him when he was where he needed to be. He didn't notice the time, but it didn't matter - it was a Friday night, and he wasn't supposed to be anywhere else but the cat cafe he had promised to take you tomorrow's morning. This felt right, he thought, and from the look on your face when he leaned in to kiss your again after it was over, you agreed.

In the next morning when you saw Sakamoto hestitated before shyly picking up the condom wrapper you both had forgotten on the night stand, you knew he would have questions you didn't want to answer. You didn't say anything as you poured water atop the coffee filter and closed the lid.

"Is it from your last boyfriend?"

You felt his self-consciousness. His bare back was on you, the lines of muscles pressing against one another showing the tension vividly. The dress pants he had put on weren't so defined without the belt, leaving him dishelved. You looked down, feeling anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

"No... just someone I was getting to know."

You always hated this part. This usually would be time for the man to ask how many you'd gone through, what were they like, if they were better in bed. Then, when you refused to answer, they would scoff scornfully to say that you were indeed "openminded". You did not sleep with many people, but you knew any numbers above zero could put a dent in their ego. Nervous now, you swallowed, trying to fix your dry throat.

"It's not too old, is it?"

"3 months ago."

"I never heard about him, but sounds like he wasn't very nice."

At this he turned around. You didn't expect the smile on his face - it wasn't wry and disdainful. You thought it was a little smug, with his nose scrunched and the corner of his lips etching upward to show his teeth. Bashfully laughing, you covered your mouth with your palm, your other hands wrapped around your torso, clutching your shirt.

The playful look on his face dropped at that. You tried not to look at him as he walked over.

"I'm sorry. I was an asshole for that."

"No...", you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut now.

The air hung heavy. You felt his breath over your shoulders.

"Are you trying to hide from me?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just overwhelmed."

He didn't say anything yet. You felt his arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest. His cool skin soothed your nerves.

"Do you regret it?"

"I was worried you might be."

That wasn't a "no" and you knew he noticed. You had violated your golden rule: no coworkers. Still, you would be a liar to claim that you never thought about him in this way. Those were fleeting thoughts, ones which you brushed off and treated as intrusive fantasies.

Last night proved you wrong.

You worried because outside of this apartment you were somebody else. You had a mother waiting for you to come home and inherit her fortune, a father who sat silently in his study mourning over the only masterpiece he ever wrote, and a brother who had just returned to rehab after three seemingly clean years. Under the sleepy, monotone current of Tokyo you brewed an urgency to come to their aids, to wait for their calls and texts. Every week, your mother's grievances about your father's lovers sat on your screen like a sour reminders. Any other, your brother would ask for money, and were you to see it fit you would monitor all the pictures he sent for signs of relaspe before wiring him what he asked, little by little, making sure to let your parents know behind his back. Sooner or later, a part of you knew the house of card you had built in Tokyo would topple under their breaths. You remembered the ultimatum they had given - if something serious happened to your brother, you were to go home.

Last night was a close call.

"It would be difficult at first, yes... but I think it will be okay eventually. I think my family will like you."

Your heart dropped. Your voice had no weight as you choked out "what?", stunned. Readjusting your body so you could face him, you saw his earnest eyes gazing at you.

"What?" - he asked back, puzzled.

"What do you mean your family?"

"I thought we were- I thought you-

He stumbled over his words, the light in his eyes dimming. His mouth was left hung open. He left his thoughts dormant at the tip of his tounge for way too long before painfully whispering "I thought this meant something."

You were frozen in his arms like a statue. He held you, his arms dropping down to your side, fingers lacing tighter than before. You wanted to say something, afraid that he would leave.

"It does."

"Then... the next step is to get to know each other, right?"

"Yes, but... what do you mean your family would like me?"

Was he thinking marriage because he felt he had used your body improperly? Or was he playing the same, disappointing game of overcommitment to string you along?

"It's..."

He went red to the tip of his ears.

"I was hoping we would get somewhere serious... but my family is complicated."

You didn't squirm away from him like you had planned to yet. Instead, you let your head fall to his chest, weary.

"Mine too."

The soft sunlight had turned into a glare through your curtain. You felt your skin dampen under the heat of his body when you asked - "so then... what do we do?"

He didn't say anything as he held you tighter.

"I can get through it with my family... but I-

You had mistaken his fear for indecision. Pulling yourself away, you had your eyes cast down and let the sinking feeling wash over. Whatever, you thought, the moment was real, but perhaps it ought to stay that way. It was for the best - after all, nobody made any promises. Swallowing all the tenderness you had felt and all the moments you had watched his kindness shine, you felt the weight of your family leaning against you.

He helplessly watched, unable to say that he didn't want you to suffer what was in store.

#yandere oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere reader insert #yandere x reader #male yandere

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boymanmaletheshequel · 18 days ago

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An altar for Aether 🛐

🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️

Thinking of setting up an altar or devotional space for the all seeing god of light and sky, the ancient god Aether? Cool! Working with a primordial deity can be an enlightening and rewarding experience for sure! And aether is certainly one of the less intimidating to do so with, and a great way to start exploring primordial deity devotion! You’ll need an altar of course, so why don’t we look at some ways to get started?

• STEP ONE: Colors and Cloth 🌈🧶

In order to start your altar, wether that be upon a tabletop, a floor corner, a shelf, or a drawer, it’s a good idea to lay down a cloth or fabric of the color associated with the god you intent to make it for! Aether, being the god of light and the sky, has 2 colors historically that are associated with him. Yellow, Lavender, and light blue! These colors can be a common theme on his altar space, and a cloth or fabric in one or both of these colors is the place to start! Used fabrics can be found for fairly cheap at most thrift shops, or at textiles shops, such as for example: Value Village, Johanne’s, or local sewing shops. Bonus points if you can find a piece of fabric scrap with related iconography on it as well! Such as the sun, or beams of light, in Aether’s case.

• STEP TWO: dishes, vessels, utilities. 🏺🕯️

The next thing you’ll want to add to your altar are some of the larger, more utilitarian pieces you wish to decorate with, these can include things like tarot decks, teacups or plates to hold offerings, offering bowls, candles, or books. It is also a good idea to select bowls, dishes, and teacups that line up with the iconography and sacred symbolism of the god the altar is dedicated to. For example, where an altar to say, Demeter, may have these objects decorated with symbols of farming, Lily of the valley, wheat, or autumnal imagery, an altar to Aether might have these same objects decorated with symbolism of things like clouds, the sun, birds, or angels/cherubs!

• STEP THREE: Idols and Tributes 🪆♟️

Another important way to respect your altar and it’s god is to decorate it with Idols of them, like statues, sketches, or other artworks depicting them! You can also donate tributary items to the altar, such as little figurines or charms of things associated with them, for example, my Artemis altar has a small porcelain cat figurine, and my Freya altar has a guilloche heart trinket. Perhaps an altar to Aether could have a song bird figurine, or a statuette of an angel or cherub!

• STEP FOUR: traditional offerings 🍷💎🫚

Some traditional offerings like food, drink, crystals, herbs, flowers, etc. are an important, and very easy offer to make to your altars, and can easily be placed in the vessels and dishes you keep on the altar space. These offers vary on the god associated, but I’ll list some good ones for Aether below!

- 🌸: Lavender, Violets, Wisteria.

- 🫚: Saffron, Coffee beans, Chamomile

- 💎: Celestite, Angelite, Amethyst.

- 🍗: Blueberries

- 🍷: coffee, tea, honey

• STEP FIVE: Iconography

The final step to creating your altar is the use of divine iconography. These symbols, emblems, and motifs celebrate your gods lore, history, and sacred things. You can honor this by finding things donning the iconography associated with your god! For example, almost all of my altars utilize antique painted porcelain or ceramics in some way, I have a porcelain sugar dish painted with strawberries for Aphrodite, a tea plate with wheat sheathes for Demeter, and an antique English teacup with Lilacs painted on it for Pan! Some of the sacred icons of Aether may include: Lavender, Saffron, Eagles, Griffins, and clouds.

☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️☀️🕯️

Now that you’re altar to the great god of Aether has been set up, you now have a proper dedicated space to devote yourself to him with! Pray to him for luck with the weather, ask him to guide to the light, and tell him your stories, and enquire for his wisdom. May Aether bless you and your brand new altar! 💙🏛️💙

If you like this post, and wish to learn more about the gods of Hellen, Hellenism, paganism, and much more, please consider giving me a follow! I post every single day :) have a blessed day. 💙🏛️

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don-dake · 8 months ago

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R I P L E Y (2024)

***Contains SPOILERS***

A review (of sorts, but more a rambling opinion piece that veers off the main subject occasionally).

So I've watched R I P L E Y (2024), all eight episodes of it. One word: Bravissimo!

As someone who loves the Ripliad series of novels by Patricia Highsmith immensely, and having watched all the Ripley film adaptations there are thus far — Plein Soleil aka Purple Noon (1960), The American Friend aka Der Amerikanische Freund (1977), The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999), Ripley's Game (2002), and Ripley Under Ground (2005) — I went into this new series (released on Netflix on April 4th) with expectations…

Not high, for I've learned it's never good to have high expectations or you'll more than likely just be setting yourself up for disappointment…but with expectations all the same!

Thus far, my favourite Ripley film adaptation had been 2002's Ripley's Game starring John Malkovich as an older Ripley. Had been. Until this series that is! I still love Ripley's Game a lot of course! (heh!) And there really should be no comparison given it's two different mediums and the two Ripleys are portrayed from different times of the character's life.

So saying, this new series definitely sets a new standard for a Ripley adaptation! And as someone who love the books a lot, I'm glad this series is very closely adapted from the first book!

The decision to go for a black and white cinematography, I was skeptical about that at first but after looking at the trailers and reading on the director's reasoning for going B & W with this, I can understand why, and generally agree with his decision.

Though at times, especially when looking at the wonderful interior sets, I'll be wishing I could see it in all its colour glory and thinking what a waste it was not to have it in colour, but that is but a minor hitch, for the B & W cinematography is done with superb mastery and skill, and it's hard to find fault with going this route. And it does contribute to getting into the film noir feel from films of yesteryear.

On the actors, I was skeptical on Andrew Scott as Ripley at first, but I'm happy to say he has proven me wrong and his Ripley, while not as young as Ripley should be at the start of the novel series, is one that is characterised the closest, and if Showtime/Netflix has any plans to adapt the rest of the novels, Scott will be perfect as an older Ripley, I think!

Maybe that was/is the plan…that's why Scott was chosen even though age wise, he doesn't quite fit in the beginning…one can hope! (heh!)

Moving on, just a brief rambling on the other main actors/characters because I'm getting tired:

Love Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood, she was exactly how I imagined Marge to be as I read the (first) book. A superb performance by Fanning I'd say!

Johnny Flynn as Dickie Greenleaf was underwhelming for me partly because in my eyes, Jude Law was/is the perfect Dickie (even if his — Law's — American accent was/is questionable), but partly also because I find Flynn is lacking charisma (sorry, Flynn fans!), I didn't get the sense of what was so fascinating about this Dickie that Ripley would be so enamoured with him or his lifestyle, enough to kill for it.

Perhaps the fault lies partly with the script too for I felt we the audience didn't get to see more of what drew Ripley to Dickie, besides his obvious wealth and status.

Eliot Sumner as Freddie Miles. Now this was the character that underwent the most drastic change as compared to the book and the 1999 The Talented Mr. Ripley film adaptation. In both the book and the 1999 film, Freddie was described (and portrayed to perfection by Philip Seymour Hoffman in my opinion) as an American with carrot-red hair, stocky, loud and all round obnoxious from miles away sort.

2024 Freddie is slim-built, androgynous looking, with a cherub face and British…he's practically a whole different character except in name.

As such, it's unfair to compare I guess, but having envisioned Freddie as described in the book for so long, helped along by PSH's award-worthy performance, I'll just say this is not the Freddie for me.

But, that doesn't mean Sumner's Freddie was bad. In terms of being almost a foil to Ripley, Sumner's Freddie is still quite effectively annoying.

Special mentions to Maurizio Lombardi and Margherita Buy as Inspector Ravini and Signor(in)a Buffi (Ripley's landlady) respectively! I enjoyed watching these two characters.

Also a special mention to Lucio (Signor(in)a Buffi's cat), who, had it been able to speak, Ripley would certainly have silenced! (heh!)

Last but not least, a special mention to John Malkovich as Reeves Minot.

I was so excited when I first saw Malkovich in the trailer because not only is his casting a nice tribute to his turn as Tom Ripley in Ripley's Game (2002), I thought he would be playing Herbert Greenleaf at first, but he turned out to be playing Reeves Minot! Even better! Gives more hope that new seasons of R I P L E Y (2024) may happen!

Those who have read the books will know that Reeves Minot is a recurring character in the later books — I can't really remember how many exactly, it's been some time since I last read them (and I should again!).

To sum up, I did enjoy this series tremendously and will definitely rewatch many times to come, and I hope we'll get further adaptations of the other books with the same standards as set for this one!

P.S.: I've seen a few people mention “this (R I P L E Y) is like Saltburn!”. I never heard of the film Saltburn before looking at some opinion pieces, but after looking it up, dare I say, Saltburn ripped off the Ripliad stories and its characters (the Ripliad books first came out in the 1950s) and I think it's more appropriate to say “Saltburn is like Ripley”!

#Dake Rambles #Ripley 2024 #Ripley Netflix #Andrew Scott #John Malkovich #Ripley's Game #The Talented Mr Ripley

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bloodyknucklesforme · 6 months ago

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The Night We Met | Guest Check

A chance encounter with his superior's wife at a local pub sends a young John Price down a path of heartbreak

cw: angst, abusive relationships, cheating

He still remembers how she looked that night, almost twenty seven years later. She was only twenty four, curled up in a corner, book in one hand, pint in the other. Her dirty blonde hair framed her cherub face. He was twenty one, barely a man, not yet grown into his bones.

An August night, English summer in full swing. A cold pint was all he wanted that evening, gathering around a table with his mates, talking about football scores. There she was on the other side of the room.

He was drunk but not sloppily. He kept having to tear his gaze away. He'd always thought she was pretty. Slapped some sense into himself plenty of times about her.

He'd looked before. Captain Irons' wife was hard to miss. They lived on base, she didn't work so she used any excuse to get out of the house. He'd seen her at the commissary and around town on his off days or helping one of the other wives with their babies.

There was the usual gossip. She was ten years his junior and they'd already been married for several years. It hadn't gone unnoticed, a May-December marriage. Irons was from a wealthy family so he understood. A recruit had recently been made to run 10 klicks for accidentally calling him Captain December (A name John had actually come up with one drunken night). Irons was a great solider but a pretty shite man once you got to know him.

"How's your book?" He found himself standing awkwardly in front of her table, a boyish smile on his face.

"It's okay," she shrugged, setting it down open face on the table. "Got it from a charity shop. Some cheesy mystery."

"Sorry to pull you away. John Price." He offered his hand. He cursed himself on the inside. They'd met before. She knew who he was.

"Poppy Irons." She shook his hand, chuckling. He didn't like her last name, too cold compared to her first. Though it was fitting for a Poppy to marry a solider he supposed. "Do you want to sit?"

Yes

"No, it's alright. I've already bothered you enough." He was so stupid. "Have a nice night, Poppy."

"Thank you, John. You too."

He gave her a nod and returned to his table.

"The fuck was that?" His mate, Michael Garrick asked. "You taking the piss? That's the captain's wife."

"I was just saying hello." He defended. Michael shook his head and took another sip of beer.

He saw her again a couple weeks later. Michael had bailed last minute so he was alone at the bar. She was in the same corner with a new book. This Charming Man played on the shitty old speakers. He was never a huge The Smiths fan. He could see her mouth the words to herself.

"Hope you're enjoying this one more." He said, standing again at the edge of her table.

"Barely." She smiled, dropping it haphazardly on the table. She nodded her head towards the empty seat. He sat down this time. "Do you read at all?"

"Haven't had time recently but I always liked Lord of the Rings." He felt embarrassed. He should have lied. Said something like Philip Roth or Hemingway. Something mature

"I love those books," she said, eyes bright. "I read in some magazine that they're trying to make new films based on them."

"That'd be wicked."

They spent the evening talking. He offered to walk her home.

"I appreciate it but William can be a bit weird about other men and I don't to get you in trouble." She laid a hand on his chest. "Thank you, though."

He made sure she got into a cab and when he got on base, he took the long way back to his barracks, passing the Irons' house, hoping to get a glimpse of her inside. The curtains were drawn close

It continued on like this. He'd see her in that same corner with a book, he'd interrupt and they'd talk and drink. She was an artist, grew up in a small town in the midlands. She did watercolors. Went to school for it, fancy scholarship. Irons had met her at some art gallery and they were married within the year. She didn't like talking about him.

"I fear you might never finish another book again." John chuckled.

"Believe me. I have time. I like talking to you." Her cheeks were flushed pink. It was becoming his favorite color.

They'd stay till close, end up in his car, still talking. He could recreate the first night she cried to him so perfectly in his head.

"I feel like I made a mistake. William wants kids and I...I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"He can't force you." He said, laying a hand over her's. She nodded but it wasn't believable to either of them.

She kissed him a week later. Too many drinks, tucked away some dark side street. Her lips on his, tasting like cherries. She could take him into her mouth and tie him into a knot with a mouth like that.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry, John." She took off before he could say anything else. When he walked past her house later that night she was looking down from the upstairs window.

It didn't stop them from meeting again, the same dark side street. He hid her from any curious gaze, caught between him the brick. She tasted sweet.

The next time, her husband out of town, he drove them down a near abandoned country road, turned all the lights out and flipped over the back seats.

They were like teenagers, sneaking about. She cried a lot once they finished. He'd hold her against his chest.

"Does he hurt you, Poppy?"

"No. Never... I just made a really big mistake."

"We can stop whenever you want."

"It's not you."

She wasn't happy in her marriage. It was obvious to anyone now. Any event she trailed along behind her husband like a kicked dog. He kept talking about having a son soon, maybe by the end of next year. John watched her pick at the skin around her nails whenever the topic came up.

They kept meeting in dark parking lots, driving down dark roads. They'd fuck, she'd cry.

"You should leave him."

"I can't."

"You're not happy, Pip. It kills me to see you like this." He cupped her cheek, thumb rubbing away tears.

"I don't have any savings. I don't have a job. I don't have money or even family to fall back on. John, I'm alone."

"You got me. I'll pay for your solicitor."

"If they find out... you could lose everything too."

"I love you, Pip. You're worth it to me."

He'd break his back to support her. Get her out of this marriage that dragged her down like this. Cut the chain, maybe put a ring of his own on her finger.

Michael got married that Spring. Her name was Ella. John was his best man. The captain and Poppy attended of course. Ella and Poppy seemed to hit it off. John fantasied about raising their kids together in a couple years.

Poppy bumped into him during the reception. A sly smile on her face. Her voice was low and excited.

"I'm going to leave him this Summer. I'm going to sell some paintings to pay for a solicitor. Do you promise you'll wait for me?" Her eyes were hopeful, brimming with joyful tears.

"I'll wait twenty years if I have to." He assured.

They started talking about the future. Their future.

"Do you want kids?" She asked.

"One day. Whenever we're ready."

"I want a daughter. I know you're not supposed to say that but that's what I want. A little girl."

"You have a name picked out?"

"Nina. It's simple but pretty. I read it in a book years ago and i just fell in love with it."

"I like Nina."

"Do you like any names?"

"Grace. My grandma's name. Both my parents worked and I spent most of my time with her. Good woman, kind woman."

"Nina Grace. I like it."

"Me too."

It was June. If he was lucky they could spend their one year anniversary together. Seemed wrong to celebrate an affair but he'd long gotten over the guilt of infidelity. He was putting away any cash he could. A deposit on a flat, court fees, money to tide them over till they both got new jobs, anything they needed. He'd do it all.

The night was cool. Summer was brimming at the edge of the month. He liked June. It felt like change and freedom.

She got into his car, eyes red.

"Pip, what's wrong?" Had Irons found out? He'd take her away right now. He'd give it all up right now. She shuddered, a fresh wave of tears dripping from those big brown eyes he loved so much.

"We have to stop."

"Pip... what happened?" If he hurt her, he'd kill him. Fuck it all to hell.

"Nothing happened, John. We just can't do this anymore. We never should have done this."

"You're not staying with him. Pip, tell me you're not. Baby, he makes you miserable. You can leave me but fuck leave him too. Don't do this to yourself." He took one of her hands between his two, squeezing it. "I just want to see you happy."

She sighed and cried into her other hand.

"I'm pregnant..."

He leaned back in his chair.

"You don't have to keep it, Pip. I know you don't-"

"I do! He already knows. I have to keep it. I am keeping it."

"Is it mine?" They'd gotten sloppy in recent months, rarely wearing a condom. He never asked if she was on the pill. Didn't matter if she was now.

"It's his. It just has to be his."

He felt a pain in his chest, twisting about down to his stomach.

"Poppy... do you kno-"

"I just need it to be. I need to have this baby. I need them to go to a good school and to not have to worry about their parents keeping the heat on. I need William to be the father because that's what best for him."

"Him?"

"William wants a son."

"What a cunt," he scoffed.

"John!"

"What am I supposed to say Poppy? Congratulations? You're telling me you're taking my child away!"

"He's not yours!" She slammed her hand on the dashboard.

"Four years fucking him and you couldn't pop one out but ten months with me and you're expecting."

"Fuck you!"

"You already have." He snapped. Her lip quivered before breaking down into sobs again.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. If I leave now and its his, I will never see this baby again. I don't have the money to fight for custody. I might get a year." She laid her hands over her stomach protectively. "I'm not ready for this but its my baby. Mine. I can't risk losing them."

"I love you. I love that baby. I know I'm not rich like him. I don't have the family name or an estate. I'll work however much I need to make sure you keep them. Break my fucking back doing it. I'll do it, Pip. I'll do it for you. Don't shake your head. You know I will. I love you."

She cupped his cheek. He let his first tears rolling down to her fingers.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you, John. Don't wait for me. I'm sorry I've fucked this all up."

"You've got your whole life too, Pip."

"And I've fucked it all up already." She kissed him. "I love you and I'm sorry."

She got out of his car and ran off.

He got deployed the next month. Six months extended to eight then ten.

It was February. He and Michael Garrick were sharing a room on base. Room was a kind word for shipping container.

"Ella called today. Captain's wife had her baby."

John quirked an eyebrow. He forced the bile back down.

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl. Nina, I think."

"Good for them."

He wouldn't meet her for almost a year. A Christmas party at the Irons new house off base.

They had her in a little frilly pink dress and she kept taking off her shoes. She walked right up to him and clung to his leg. Poppy gave him a worried look as he picked her up.

"You're lucky, Captain. Two beautiful girls." He forced a smile.

"Suppose I am." William was not as good of an actor as John was. John almost refused to hand her back to them.

He saw Poppy sporadically for the next two decades. He watched Nina grow from a distance, saw that she had the same unhappy expression her mum always had.

He stole a toothbrush from their house once. Sent it off to be tested for DNA. It wasn't a strong sample but he still got the results. He was too much of a coward to look at them. He'd already failed them. He should have fought harder, come back for them. It was too late now.

A test wouldn't change anything. Nina wasn't his, no matter how much he wished she was. He never got to teach her to tie her shoes, how to ride a bike, how to fish, how to drive.

She still grew up with the Garrick's kids. Kyle and Jasmine. She grew up looking so much like her mother. Her and her little brother. On rough nights he lulled himself to sleep at the idea of being their father. Having the Captain's family.

In some cruel twist of fate, he got what he wanted. He sat in the waiting room of a small hospital near the little beach town they always holidayed at.

They were dead. Poppy, Sebastian and Captain Irons. Nina was too far in a state to identify them. It had to be him. Michael offered to go down with him. Poppy was Ella's best friend. He asked him to watch over Nina. Make sure Kyle took good care of her.

"It was quick, if that offers any comfort," the medical examiner said.

The Captain was first. Broken neck when the car rolled. An accident he caused driving too fast on a wet road.

Sebastian was next. Just sixteen, same age he was when he joined the service. Just a baby. John brushed the hair out of his face like his mum always did him. His head hit the window so hard it broke, he didn't even know he was dying. John hoped it felt like sleep.

Poppy was last. He sank to his knees when the sheet was pulled back. He hadn't seen her in years. She looked like Nina. She'd started to grey a little. She was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. If she'd walked into his restaurant just the day before and asked for him to take her back he would have done it. He waited for her.

John kissed her forehead.

"I'll take care of her, Pip. I'll take care of your baby. Your little girl. I'll take care of her. I promise you."

He sorted out the funerals. Let Nina wallow in her grief. He assured her that he would handle it all.

Had a solicitor go through the wills and estates. He gathered up all the papers needed. Among the birth certificates, he found Nina's.

Nina Grace Irons

He clutched that paper to his chest and sank to the floor of the Captain's office. He cried like a child.

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