#and he was like well they’re her favorite

[nemo-writes]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖿 141 𝗆𝖾𝗇 ── .✦

── .✦ 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍

the couch is comfy, the lights are low, and you've just started this week's episode of the great british bake off. simon sits beside you, eyes half-focused on his phone, thumb scrolling. your feet rest on his lap, his free hand absently tracing circles on your ankle. he seems entirely uninterested, barely looking up at the screen as you comment on the contestants’ desserts.

for the first twenty minutes, he’s quiet, only glancing up occasionally, but then someone messes up their cake, and he lets out a low snort. he mutters, "did they not put it in long enough or what?"

it’s a small crack, but it’s enough to make you smile. "guess they didn't. timing is everything, right?" you tease, knowing full well he’s starting to pay attention.

in the next challenge, a contestant fumbles with a piping bag, and simon lets out an unimpressed tsk, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “how can they not know how to pipe a line straight?” he scoffs. "basic stuff."

you laugh. "i didn’t know you were such an expert."

he grumbles, still keeping his eye on the show, now feigning casual disinterest but failing miserably. as the episode progresses, he starts asking more questions, wanting to know the contestants’ names, who’s been there longest, and who has been star baker.

when the star baker is announced, he nods his head in approval, as if he saw it coming all along. he shifts his gaze to you, smirking at your amused expression.

“see? knew they had it in ‘em,” he murmurs, squeezing your ankle gently.

you raise an eyebrow, playing along. “so you’re an expert now?”

instead of answering, he leans over, his hand still wrapped around your ankle, to presses a kiss to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. you can’t help but laugh as he nuzzles closer, his tone dropping to a playful murmur. “might have to make you something better than all that… if you’re lucky.”

his lips linger, making you laugh again, your fingers brushing his jaw. simon may be a fierce critic, but at this moment, he’s more than content to just savor this quiet time with you.

── .✦ 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉

from the second the episode starts, johnny's practically buzzing beside you. he’s been all in on the great british bake off since day one, and tonight is no exception. every time his favorite contestant, a sweet scottish lady with a knack for old-school recipes, appears on screen, he perks up, practically bouncing on the edge of his seat.

when she starts her bake, he mutters words of encouragement under his breath. "c'mon, hen, show 'em what a real baker looks like." and when one of her rivals stumbles, he grins, clapping his hands together. “ach, my nan could beat the lot of them in her sleep! they’ve got nothin’ on her shortbread.”

as the judging rounds begin, his excitement ramps up. his favorite contestant gets a compliment, and he yells, clapping loud enough to startle you. “there ye go, lass!” he hollers, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the shoulders, shaking you in glee. “did ye see that, luv? she’s bloody brilliant!”

by the time they’re announcing the star baker of the week, johnny is practically holding his breath, eyes glued to the screen. when they call her name, he jumps up with a whoop, fists pumping in the air. “yes! that’s it!”

before you know it, he’s pulling you into a bear hug, lifting you off the couch in his excitement. he plants a big, wet kiss on your lips, grinning so wide it’s infectious. “didn’t I tell ye? she’s got it all—best baker in the lot, no question.”

you laugh as he sets you down, his enthusiasm contagious. johnny love for the show might be loud and over-the-top, but as he flops back onto the couch, arm still around your shoulders, you can’t help but smile at just how much he’s gotten you invested, too.

── .✦ 𝗀𝖺𝗓

at first, kyle watches the program with an easy, relaxed attitude, barely reacting when the contestants present their bakes. he stretches out, arms resting behind you and smoothing down and up your nape, all while nodding along when you explain the technical challenge, giving little more than a shrug in response.

but as the episode goes on, his interest starts to show. he sits up a bit, leaning in every time the camera shows off a new dessert. when a contestant presents a towering lemon drizzle cake, his eyes light up. “could you make that?” he asks, an excited glimmer sneaking into his voice. “i’ll buy the ingredients and clean everything up, promise.”

you snort, but he’s already pointing at the screen, his tone downright eager. “what about those cinnamon rolls? look at the icing on those.” he’s watching you now with a hopeful smile, like he’s a kid at a bakery window. “come on, love, just think of the smell. i’ll even be your sous chef—whatever you need.”

by the time they’re onto the show-stopper, kyle is all in, leaning forward as contestants knead and roll their creations. every new bake has him asking if it’s something you can try: sourdough, brioche, even the elaborate pastries. “we could have a whole buffet,” he says, only half-joking. “imagine—warm, fresh pastries every day. i’d never go back to store-bought again.”

when the episode finally ends, he’s scrolling through a recipe app on his phone, jotting down a list of things he’s ready to buy. “alright, love,” he says, grinning as he gives you a playful nudge, “you bring the talent, I’ll bring the supplies. deal?”

with his enthusiasm—and his promises to handle cleanup—there’s no way you can resist, especially when he’s looking at you like you’re the star baker of the night.

── .✦ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖾

you’ve just settled into a new episode of the great british bake off when john wanders into the room, curious but clearly trying not to look too invested. he stands right in front of the tv, thick arms folded across his chest, watching with a thoughtful frown as contestants start their signature bakes.

you chuckle, leaning forward to get his attention. “love, if you’re gonna watch, at least come sit down. i can’t see a thing.”

he raises a brow, glancing over his shoulder with a little smirk, but he doesn’t move. so, grinning, you reach over and give him a playful smack on the butt with one of the pillows, laughing as he finally grumbles and takes a seat next to you. he watches intently, nodding every so often and making small, approving sounds whenever someone does a particularly good job.

it’s not long before he’s making comments that surprise you with their accuracy. “you know, the rise on that dough’s spot-on. smart move not to rush the proofing,” he says, as if he were one of the judges himself. when a contestant uses too much sugar in a caramel glaze, he clicks his tongue in mild disapproval. “that’ll be sickly. just needs a touch less.”

you blink, impressed, and maybe just a little bit...turned on. “you know a lot about baking, captain.”

he shrugs, scratching his beard with a faint smile on his lips. “just some bits i've picked up,” he says, casual as ever, though you can tell he’s enjoying himself. then, after another thoughtful hum as he watches a contestant start their showstopper, he glances at you. “could give it a go myself, if you want. just say the word.”

you beam, practically bouncing as you loop your arms around his neck “yes! let’s do it!”

he chuckles at your enthusiasm, his hand squeezing your hip gently. “alright then,” he says, a bit amused, a bit serious, “but you’ll have to help out, and no slapping my cake when i’m concentrating.”

banner credit

[sinnabarmoth]

The Lads Vs No Nut November

MC: Alright boys, the time is upon us. Who do you think is gonna pass no nut November?

Sylus: Damn it, not this again.

Xavier: No nut November? What is that? We can't eat peanuts for an entire month?

MC: No, Xavier, it means you can't--

Xavier: But I love peanut butter. And does hazelnut coffee count? What are the specifications?

Zayne: This is ridiculous. What is there to gain? What actual person would participate in something like this?

Sylus: Idiots with zero physical appeal I assume.

Rafayel: Sorry MC but I can't risk losing this year. I hope you aren't too disappointed.

Sylus: Case and point.

Rafayel: Hey! Just because I choose to participate doesn't mean anything. If you think about it, I am practicing self control over my baser needs unlike you lot.

Xavier: Wow Rafayel, I didn't realize you liked peanuts that much.

Zayne: Still not what no nut November means.

Sylus: I don't need to practice self control--

MC: Sure you don't.

Sylus: What is that supposed to mean?

Zayne: It means you act like an ill behaved dog any time you are around MC and we all know it.

Rafayel: Maybe the good doctor here can schedule a neutering for you. Then we won't have to worry about prying you off of MC's leg every time we get together.

Sylus: What did you say!

MC: Whoa! Whoa! Break it up! It was just a joke. Please don't take this so seriously.

Sylus: Do you think you all are any better? Rafayel wants to recreate The Bodyguard any time he is in the same room with MC and I’m pretty sure Zayne would change careers to gynecologist just to spend more time between her legs.

MC: Oh for fucks sake…

Zayne: That is wildly inappropriate!

Sylus: So is dating your patient but that hasn’t stopped you.

Xavier: I’m starting to think we aren’t talking about peanuts.

MC: And that’s why you’re my favorite right now, Xavier.

Xavier *looking directly into camera*: I do know what no nut November means, I’m not naive. It just doesn’t matter cause I lost the first day. My…"Halloween plans” with MC ended up stretching well past midnight.

Xavier: But I find it amusing watching the others get worked up. And if they’re squabbling it means I get MC all to myself for the month.

[yandecifi]

sex isn't about have to's

aizawa/reader

~4500 words

mild smut, angst, hurt/comfort

cw; implied rape/noncon, implied incest, implied child abuse

You've managed to avoid nights at the house by running the door at a local strip club. The bouncer you usually work with, Aizawa, is a sarcastic, unusually tall smoker. He's sweet, sweet enough to drive you home most nights — and to pick up on your subtleties.

“Hope all the girls are as hot as you.”

It’s twelve in the morning and your dress is short enough that you’ll flash everybody if you bend over. You don’t mind, though, because that’s kind of the idea; the all black, skin tight nature of your chosen work uniform is meant to draw attention to… well, the parts that matter.

You laugh sweetly as you scan the young man’s ID. Your coworker, Aizawa, looms behind you, eyeing up the crowd in front of the club and rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He’s one of the better bouncers you work with, if not your favorite — not only does he actually do his job when things get rowdy, but he doesn’t snitch on your rather immoral side hustle.

“Oh, trust me, they’re even better,” you say, passing the ID back with a flick of your fingers. You shift your weight so that your breasts squish together a little more. “Wanna come and tell me about it after?”

You flutter your lashes. Distant club music swims through your body. The guy grins and nods.

That’s gotta be at least forty bucks. Score.

You turn to flash Aizawa a little shit eating grin. He just shakes his head and takes a puff of his cigarette.

You don’t bother wearing perfume. Why would you when Aizawa’s always got smoke curling up from his lips and fingers? A year into this job and you can’t even scrub the scent out of your hair anymore. When you grumbled that you stink thanks to him, he just said you’re welcome and held out a cigarette, half-lidded eyes full of mirth.

He takes that dry approach to just about everything. Maybe it’s because he’s so much older than you, what with his inky, messily tied hair and rough stubble adorning his chin, but he doesn’t care about much aside from his paycheck and getting home. You’ve seen him take a punch to the face and just sigh with annoyance.

Still smiling up at your coworker, you ring up the next guy in line.

“Y’know, I think this is gonna be a good night, ‘Zawa.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You stay ‘till close?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nice — oh, yeah, you’re good to go in — I’m here ‘till close, too. Think you could drive me home?”

“Uh-huh. Focus on the customers.”

“Oops.” You whip around to see an older man holding out his credit. You take it with a laugh. “Sorry, sir. I’d make it up to you with a kiss, but you’ll get plenty of that inside.”

“Ha! Didn’t expect the service to start out here. I’m paying for all five of us, by the way.”

“Of course.”

You blow a kiss at the men as they pass you, their loud laughter ensuing. Aizawa blows smoke into your face. You cough and smack his arm.

The monotony of greeting and ringing up, of flirting and scanning, continues. This is how most of your weekend nights go; clock in at nine, run the door with Aizawa (usually) and dick around with him until three, and then give a blowjob or two before heading back to your apartment. It’s a pretty good gig for somebody like you — it doesn’t clash with your other jobs while still making enough cash.

The line dwindles as the night goes on. Eventually, ten minutes go by without a group, and you’re squatting and fixing the straps of the stilettos you’re wearing. An unlit cigarette hangs between your teeth. Goosebumps run up your arms from the night air as you chat about everything and nothing.

“No, yeah, I haven’t seen her since. Do you think she got fired?”

“Probably.” Aizawa’s leaning against the wall, lighter in hand. “People show up high all the time, but not that high.”

“Yeah. I swear to God she was turning blue.” The strap you’re fiddling with slips from your fingers for the — what, fifth time? You groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Aizawa scoffs. “What’d I say? You’ve gotta —“

“You’ve gotta stop wearing the fucking heels, I know, I know!”

You’re kneeling now, knees scraping the concrete. Every time you jam the strap into the buckle it comes right out, no matter how much your nails wedge it in tight. You sigh and resign yourself to the floor.

“This is what I get for thrifting shitty shoes.”

Aizawa hums in agreement and yet squats next to you. He squints at your bratty straps. Then, he hands you his lighter.

“Try putting your leg out straight.”

“Okay,” you murmur, butt hitting the ground as you lean back on your hands and straighten your legs. “I’ll literally love you forever if you fix this.”

“Uh-huh.”

He fiddles with the strap, one hand wrapped around your calf to hold you still. Now that he’s this close, you realize you’ve never been this equal in height to him. Like, the guy is built like a damn tree. His jawline is pretty nice, too, and his hands are warm —

“Lighter.”

“Oh, yeah, here.”

Aizawa brings the lighter to your strap and fiddles some more with the flame. Then, he stands up, already reaching into his pocket for another cigarette, though he manages to catch himself.

“Oh my God,” you say, rolling your ankle around and around. “You actually fixed it. What the hell. And with the lighter, too.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunts, holding out his free hand. You take it with a grin.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

He huffs. “Watch it.”

You laugh and the two of you separate, only to come together again — you lean towards him so that he can light the cigarette in your mouth.

“Thank you,” you say, breathing the smoke out.

“For making you stink,” he responds, breathing the smoke in.

The two of you loiter around the doors. They open occasionally, drunk men stumbling out to catch their Ubers. One guy vomits across the street. You look away with a grimace.

“Ew.”

“You should be used to this by now.”

“It’s still ew.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long have you worked here that you don’t care about that sorta stuff?”

Aizawa rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck and all the joints there. “I’ve been here three years. Had other places before, though.”

“Haha. Old.”

“I’m thirty-nine. I’ve seen you hook up with guys in their fifties.”

You shrug, pass your cigarette to Aizawa. “They pay better.”

“Mhm,” he hums, breathing the nicotine in. He’s kinda pretty when he smokes. It’s something about the veins in his hands. “Your parents don’t care that you’re doing this?”

Your face scrunches up. “My parents?”

“Yeah?”

“How old do you think I am, dude?”

“I don’t know. Eighteen?”

“Excuse you, I’m nineteen.”

He lets out a laugh. Like, an actual laugh, sticking the cigarette back out at you. You take it and smoke, face hot.

“That’s basically the same thing,” he says, laughter dead.

“Yeah, whatever, jeez. They don’t care.”

Aizawa nods slowly. You watch your smoke dissolve in the air.

“Just be careful with it,” he says.

You sneak a glance at your coworker. He’s leaning against the wall of the strip club the both of you work at, arms crossed, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.

You cough and look down at your stilettos. “Thanks.”

“Your dress is riding.”

“Fuck.” You bite on the cig and yank your dress down. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t, uh, mean to,” you mutter.

“I know.” He clears his throat and nods towards the door. “Your guy.”

Just like Aizawa says, the young guy from earlier is coming out the doors with his group of friends. They’re snickering as he says bye and splits off towards you. You’ve always been kind of a joke to everybody else, but Aizawa’s never laughed at you.

You get up with a stumble, adjust yourself. The guy reaches you and you snatch up his hand, snuff your cigarette out on your thigh with a sizzle. You can feel Aizawa’s eyes on you as you drag him around back.

Maybe it’s because you’ve done this since you were a kid, but sucking off guys like the one you’re kneeled in front of doesn’t make you feel or think as much as it probably should. It goes by fast, actually, which you don’t mention (you’ve learned that ruins the mood), a blur of motions and groaning and zippers. He gives you some cash and you’re alone, standing behind your workplace, wiping cum off of your face. It’s quiet except for the muffled music.

You pass Aizawa on your way to the breakroom. He’s checking the IDs of some guys — your responsibility, fuck — and spots you as you try to rush past. You’re wiping off the mess that’s your lip gloss, manicured fingertips running circles around your mouth. He gives you a once over, like he always does, but this time he lingers on your fingers.

The guy called you some names during it. They ring in your ears as you brush your teeth in the employee bathroom. Slut. Whore. Slut. Whore. Slut, slut, slut.

You spit into the sink. You wash your face. You don’t recognize yourself without your makeup. You rummage through your ziploc baggie of product, reapply everything. You fix your hair. Your mouth never does feel clean.

Your lip wobbles. You keep running your fingers through your hair and staring at yourself in the mirror.

When you make it back to your post, the night air biting your calves, your coworker is alone at his usual spot on the wall. You stand next to him with your arms crossed. His voice comes out startlingly even compared to the voices in your head.

“You were in there a while.”

You nibble on your lip. “It got in my hair.”

He hums.

“Sorry for making you do my job,” you whisper.

“It’s boring out here. I don’t mind.” A car drives by. Somebody laughs loudly from inside the club.

“Okay.” You want to swallow but you spit instead. “Thanks.”

Slut. Whore. Slut, slut, slut.

It hits three in the morning and you’re giggling with Aizawa in his beat-up car. A cheap air freshener hangs from his mirror, twirling about as he drives you home, an empty energy drink rattling in one of his cupholders.

“Okay, um, would you kill your cat to end traffic?” You ask, smiling, watching him as he rolls his eyes from the driver's seat.

“You’ve asked me this already.”

“Just answer!”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He taps his cigarette ash out the window, his other hand guiding the steering wheel. “Anybody who says otherwise is a psychopath.”

“Okay, yeah, I agree. What if it was a dog?”

“Still no.”

“A fish?”

“Maybe.” He narrows his eyes. “Actually, yes.”

“Why?”

“You ask the weirdest questions.” He cracks a smile as he says that, shaking his head. “I guess I feel like the fish wouldn’t care as much.”

“Okay. Yeah.” He’s taking you into your neighborhood, now. It’s the kind of place that’s pretty obviously subsidized — it’s all one-story apartments, lawns that are either dead or severely overgrown, and potholes or cracked asphalt. Aizawa slows to a stop in front of your parents’ apartment, puts his hazards on. You should unbuckle your seatbelt and say goodnight with a giggle but you’re stuck.

The lights are still on. Your windows are glowing like eyes.

“Um.” You glance at Aizawa and he’s looking at you funny, fuck. Your fingers fumble with the seatbelt and undo it with a clack. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” he says slowly. You need to get out of the car, you’re gripping the door handle, all you need to do is open it.

Your father is awake and he shouldn’t be.

You’ve done this hundreds of times, thousands, even. It’s not even the act that’s the worst part anymore. It's looking at your apartment, knowing what’s going to happen, and knowing you can’t do anything about it. No, no, not even — it isn’t even that, it’s that you won’t do anything about it. You will do nothing. You will walk in and let it happen.

Slut, whore. Slut, slut, slut.

You open your mouth to say something more — another apology, maybe — but you just let out something like a whimper. Your back hits the car seat, you smile, you frown, you shake your head and take a sharp breath. Open the fucking door.

Aizawa turns off his hazards and you’re rolling past your apartment. On and on the two of you go, further into your neighborhood, until you can’t see your windows anymore.

“Anywhere else you want me to drop you off?”

“Uh.” You can’t catch up to all your thoughts. You’ve always been slow; the hot, dumb bitch, the whore, the slut. “What?”

“Do you have a friend you can stay with or something?”

Friends? You? You dropped out of school over a year ago. All you ever do is work.

“I mean, no.”

He takes a moment to look at you instead of the road. His jaw clenches. He passes you his nearly done cigarette as he loops the roundabout at the end of your street.

“I have a couch.”

You look at him with wide eyes. You’re speechless for a second because nobody has ever, ever said to you what he’s saying.

“Uh, no, no. It’s okay. I can go home.”

He grips the steering wheel with both hands, squinting at the road. He seems to be rolling your words around on his tongue, considering, analyzing.

“You can,” he offers, “but you don’t have to.”

Your brows raise as you stare at the dash. Your lips pull into a frown. You know that, you’ve thought it every single time, but it’s so different hearing it out loud.

“Okay. I — yeah. Yeah.”

And he’s pulling out of your neighborhood. You smoke until you’re burning your fingertips. He merges onto the freeway.

Aizawa lives in a concrete apartment complex the next town over. He’s on the third floor, number three-hundred-fifty-three. You stand behind him, your backpack slung over your shoulder. Your hands wring behind your back. His keys jingle and jangle as he unlocks his front door. He’s got a chibi cat keychain.

The door swings open and bounces off a wall with a thud. The first thing you notice is that it smells like citrus air freshener mixed with weed and cigarettes. Aizawa closes the door behind you, toeing his shoes off.

“You can put your shoes over here.” He gestures to the little closet by his front door. It’s empty aside from a coat or two and a few pairs of shoes. You nod, unbuckle your stilettos. Aizawa grows in height as you step out of them.

You smile a little. “How’s the weather up there?”

He sighs. “Very funny.”

His vinyl floor is cold on your feet as you follow him further into the apartment. It’s simple: a kitchen, a living room with the couch you suppose you’ll be sleeping in, and then two doors that lead to his bathroom and bedroom, respectively.

It’s not as dirty as your place. His kitchen is kept tidy, the sink empty and dry, the counters littered with spices and cooking instruments but well taken care of. He doesn’t have trash piling up or mold lining the backsplash. He doesn’t have empty beer bottles sitting on his coffee table, just an ashtray. A weighted blanket is folded neatly on his couch.

“You have a nice place.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

“No, seriously.” You set your bag on his coffee table while he hunts through the fridge. “I’ve got black mold, like, all over my bathroom ceiling.”

“That’s disgusting.”

You laugh, sit on the couch. “I know.”

Aizawa brings you a tall glass of water. You sip at it, tug down your dress. He averts his eyes.

“I’m going to go shower.” He undoes his hair as he speaks. It falls down to his shoulders, all fluffy and rather tangled. He rakes a hand through the blackest of it. “I have some leftovers in the fridge, help yourself. I have extra towels if you’d like to shower, too.” Then, he pauses, opens and shuts his mouth, his head cocked at you. You can’t help but lean back and giggle.

“What?”

“Are you fine with sleeping in that?”

You look down. He’s referring to your dress that, even now, you can’t help but fidget with.

“I can give you some of my pajamas.” Aizawa blinks tiredly at you. “If you want.”

Your face warms. “Uh, yeah. That’d be great. Thank you.”

Aizawa disappears into his bedroom and then returns a couple moments later with a large black t-shirt and some sweats. He hands them to you, all folded neatly on top of one another.

“Thank you,” you say again. “You’re really sweet.”

He heads towards the bathroom. “Just knock if you need anything.”

It feels weird to change in the middle of his living room so you go into his bedroom. You close the door, lock it just in case, and then lay his pajamas on the bed. It isn’t made, the comforter folded back like he just rolled out of it. He’s got shelves with a variety of books and knick-knacks on one wall, a desk with similar items against another. His closet is open, his wardrobe basically all black. How emo.

The pajamas are comically large on you. The t-shirt ends at your midthigh, the sleeves at your elbows. The collar goes off your shoulder. You had to tie the sweats’ drawstring tight around your hips so that they wouldn’t slip.

You slap your hands against your face. It’s definitely better than flashing him every five seconds, but why the fuck did you have to end up in his clothes?

You fold your dress up and exit the bedroom, the sound of the shower running filling the apartment. Sitting back down on the couch, you stuff your dress in your bag. You don’t have any makeup remover with you, but a wet paper towel or two from the kitchen works well enough at removing your makeup.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The shower runs and runs. You don’t have much else to do aside from sit on the couch and sip at your water.

And think.

Slut, whore. Slut, slut, slut.

But what is sex, anyway? It’s the same as everything else if you think about it. You rub each other like you’re petting a dog, get close like you’re hugging, and kissing is kind of like eating. Nobody cares about holding hands or bumping into one another, so why isn’t it the same with sex? It’s just touching. It’s just touching until it’s over.

Aizawa emerges from the bathroom an unknowable amount of time later. He’s dressed similarly to you, though his pants are plaid and it all fits better. His hair is damp.

“Did you eat?” He asks, eyeing the unchanged kitchen counters.

“I’m not really hungry.”

He trudges over to sit on the other side of the couch, picking up his pack of cigarettes on the way. “You should still eat.”

“You say that while grabbing your lighter?”

He lights up with a snort. “Don’t use me for reference.”

You roll your eyes. You outstretch a hand and make a grabby motion towards him.

“No.” The smoke seeps out of his mouth and nose as he speaks. “You’ve smoked enough for a day.”

You groan. “Literally every time I see you you’re smoking.”

“What did I just say?”

You cross your arms, look away. Aizawa leans back into the couch cushions and continues blowing smoke. You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He’s doing the same thing.

He sits up. “Are you feeling better? Oh.” He blinks a little, gets up and goes to the bathroom. He comes back and stands in front of you, holding out some bandaids and a disinfectant spray. You just stare at them.

“For what?” You glance between the items and his heavily lidded eyes.

“You put out a cigarette on your leg earlier and your knees got scraped when you went with the guy.”

You take the bandaids and spray. You lay them in your lap, stare at them. He just continues to smoke, peering down at you, unmoving. Then, you let out a little laugh, your face crumpled despite your smile.

“Y’know, if you want a blow job, you can just ask.”

“I do not,” Aizawa blurts loudly, “want a fucking blow job.”

He drops to a crouch in front of you. He sticks his cigarette in the ashtray, pushes the legs of your sweats up to your knees, grabs the disinfectant off your thighs.

You sit and watch stupidly. Of course you do, you’re stupid. You’re stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would he want something like that from somebody like you? What’s wrong with you? You’re not a hot bitch, just a dumb one. Nobody wants somebody that’s been with their own dad. You’re disgusting.

Your face is hot, head hanging while Aizawa sprays your knees. The scrapes tingle and burn. He peels the bandaids free and tears are dripping onto the sweats he gave you.

His head jerks up. You turn away in response, wipe roughly at your eyes.

You’re stupid. You’re stupid. You’re stupid.

Slut. Whore.

“It’s not that I—” He sighs, sticking the bandaid onto one of your knees. “It’s—” He sighs again, louder this time. He rakes a hand through his hair, turns around to take a drag from whatever’s left in his discarded cig.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t do those sorts of things with you,” he settles with. His hands come up to balance himself on your knees. He blows smoke. You sniffle.

“You would?”

Aizawa gazes up at you with hard eyes.

“Yeah, I would.”

Warmth blooms in your face. Aizawa searches your face for something, you don’t know, before sighing even louder and resting his head on his elbow.

“What?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Your brow wrinkles. “You shouldn’t.”

He raises his head. “Why?”

“I sucked off that guy earlier and — just — I’m dirty.”

“And I’m a deadbeat. The only person who should be worried here is me.”

“You don’t get it.” The tears start to well up again. “You don’t know the disgusting shit I’ve done.”

“Great, then we’re on the same level.”

Your fingers twitch in your lap. Before you know it, you’re leaning down and kissing him on the lips.

He tastes like cigarettes. Your hands come up to hold his face that’s all dry and scratchy with stubble. He starts to rise; he leans over, over, over, until your head hits the cushions and you’re making out with him on the couch you were supposed to be sleeping in.

He pulls aside the collar of your shirt and starts kissing along your collarbone. Your legs are tangled together, bandaged knees knocking unscathed ones. Aizawa has one hand attached to your hip, the thumb there rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your sweats.

Buried in his mess of hair, your lip wobbles. People don’t just do things like that. He’s acting like he’s into this not just because you’re willing to fuck him, but because it’s you.

You wrap your arms around his neck and hold him close. You grind against his thigh, make breathy, little noises the closer his kisses get to your chest. His other hand slides under your shirt and starts to creep up your midriff, wrapping around your back —

Aizawa pauses, lifts his head. He tugs up your shirt slightly to reveal the start of a patchwork of little circular scars and divots. They climb up the sides of your torso, cigarette burns, trailing from your hip to your chest. Some are faded while others are yellow with pus.

He pulls your shirt back down, holds it there. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” You squirm beneath him, chest tight. His hands are more hesitant now. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to take my shirt off.”

Aizawa’s still so close as he speaks, hovering over you. He brushes some of your hair out of your face. “Do you want me to?”

“I mean,” you stutter. “It’s kind of weird to look at.”

“I have them on my legs.”

“What?”

“My foster mom put them out there.” He swallows. “A long time ago.”

Your face crumples. You wrap your arms around him again, pull him into the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. They’re almost all gone now.” He slowly hugs you back. “Yours will go away eventually, too.”

“Yeah?” Your fingers comb through his hair, snagging on the knots.

“Yeah.” Aizawa lifts himself off of you.

You smile, sit up, and pull your shirt off. You push Aizawa into sitting against the couch before straddling him. His hands come up to rest on your hips. It’s just your bra and sweats on now, your discarded shirt on the floor.

“Your scars are like leopard spots.” Aizawa’s fingers trail up and down some of the older ones. “You’re pretty.”

You’ve been called hot, sexy, cute, but not often pretty.

“Thank you.” You wipe at your face again. “You really are sweet.”

The two of you start making out again, hands cupping each other's cheeks or pulling the other closer. Aizawa ends up taking his shirt off soon after.

“These pants are ridiculous.” Aizawa laughs a little, kissing your shoulder. You’re leaning against him while he helps you shimmy out of the sweats he gave you, chest to chest. It’s different when there’s nothing but your bra keeping the two of you apart; he’s so warm, hot like a furnace, cozy.

The sweats finally join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. You plop back down on him and immediately feel it — he’s hard. You rub yourself against him. Aizawa takes a sharp breath and grabs your hips in response.

“Cheeky,” he mutters, eyeing your grin before starting to kiss you again. One of his hands drags from your hip, down your stomach, and into your underwear.

He starts rubbing featherlight circles around your clit. Soon enough, you’re grinding into his hand, sweating, leaning into his shoulder. Aizawa grips your hip harder with his other hand.

“Stop moving so much.”

You nose his ear, out of breath. “Please?”

He shudders, releases his grip on you. Instead, that hand trails up your back to fumble with the clasp of your bra. You let him slide it off of you, let him kiss and nibble at your chest, let him do anything so long he keeps letting you come undone in his lap like this.

He holds you, arm around your torso, when he dips his fingers into you. He thrusts them upwards sluggishly, brows furrowed, until he’s up to his knuckles. You chew on your lip.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you murmur. Aizawa curls his fingers and your thighs clench around him.

“Sex isn’t about have to’s.”

You close your eyes and focus on his hands, on the warmth of him, instead of what that means.

[sturnstars5]

i’ll show you how to be quiet- chris sturniolo

when chris won’t shut up for 2 seconds, you force him to be quiet and let you take control.

bf!chris x dom!fem!reader

warnings(mdni): oral (m recieving), swearing, suggestive terms, orgasm denial

enjoy!!

“so then, i looked at that bitch and told her how much of a bitch she was!” nick says, talking about some girl from his brand meeting.

“nick!” matt and you say in disbelief.

“i mean, someone had to say what we were all fucking thinking! she told me that-“

“do you guys want pizza for dinner?” chris interrupts.

“chris shut your mouth i wasn’t done.” nick replies.

“sorry, i’m just hungry. i saw this ad for pizza and then i got to thinking about places that have good pizza, then i thought about mini pizzas, then i realized how hungry i was-“

“chris, shut the fuck up! can you not go two fucking seconds without yapping about fucking nonsense?” nick says.

“whatever, but seriously, can somebody go pick up some pizza?” chris says, making everyone giggle.

“fine, matt and i will go pick up pizza for dinner. are you happy?” nick says.

“yep!”

“alright, see you in a little bit. don’t drive y/n crazy, either.” nick says, walking out the door with matt.

“while they’re gone, do you wanna watch a movie?” chris asks, cuddling beside you on the couch.

“sure!”

chris puts on you guys’ favorite movie, scream.

“have you seen that one video of that dog and that bird?” chris asks.

“mhm.” you reply, focusing on the movie.

about 2 minutes later, chris asks you another question.

“do i snore really bad when i sleep? because matt says i do but i sleep with you more, so i figured you would know-“

“nick was right, wasn’t he.” you interrupt.

“what do you mean?” chris says.

“you really like to talk a lot don’t you?” you ask.

“yeah, i guess so.”

“come with me.”

you lead chris back to your shared bedroom.

“lay on the bed, i’ll show you how to be quiet .” you instruct.

chris does what he’s told, laying on the bed while staring up at you. you’ve barely done anything, and you can see the tent growing in his sweatpants.

you reach over on you nightstand, grabbing a roll of tape that’s laying in the junk drawer. you rip off a piece, taping chris’ mouth shut.

“you stay quiet for me, alright?” you say. he nods in response.

you grab the waistband of his sweatpants, and you slowly pull them down, throwing them off of the bed once they’re off. his underwear go next, and now his lower half is completely exposed.

you straddle chris’ bare lower half, and you start to slowly stroke his length, teasing the tip as you run your hand down him.

you can hear his muffled needy moans through the tape, begging you to go faster so he can release.

“you wanna come, chris?”

“mhmm!” he desperately moans out.

you go faster, finding a good pace that pleasures chris, but leaves him needing more. he cries out into the tape, desperately begging for you to let him come.

“wow, so desperate, aren’t you? you really wanna come, don’t you?” you say.

“mhm! mhm!” he muffles out.

“well, you haven’t been very quiet, so i’m gonna make you wait a little longer.”

chris groans in response, desperate to release.

you graze his tip again, your finger dampening as he leaks precum onto it. chris whimpers with need.

you take pity on him, so you lower mouth onto his tip, swirling your tongue around and gathering his precum.

you run your mouth down his length, hollowing your cheeks and tightening your lips around his dick. you place your hand at the base, stroking up and down.

you go faster, and in response chris moans against the tape.

you keep going until you see his stomach flex, and you feel his warm cum coating your throat.

you rip off the tape, chris still speechless and breathless.

“have you learned your lesson?” you ask.

“i’m gonna talk more often so we can do this more.”

“christopher!” you giggle.

“pizzas here!” you hear nick and matt yell from the kitchen.

“good timing.” you and chris say, walking into the kitchen.

thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed!

[toooster]

Hello! I’m new to your account, can I possibly get a run down of everything?

Hi love!! Welcome to my account! Ofc you can!

(Everything below the cut)

About me: I’m patch, I’m a minor! I’m on this app more than anything, I love music, coloring, and movies! More than anything I love Christmas! I’m a writer (who I write for/masterlist in intro along with all my other information!) 

About my amazing moots!

@elysianwayy77 was my first ever mutual and (I believe) one of the first people I interacted with! She is really kind and extremely welcoming! If you’re interested in Grayson Hawthorne (not to sure what he exactly is apart of😭🫶) her blog is a great place to look.

@sparklyjellyfishheartz is also extremely kind and welcoming! She has one of the cutest blogs I think I’ve ever seen, if you’re interested in just girl blogging then she’s definitely a good one!

@333sturns is such an amazing writer, like one of the best I’ve come across!! She is such a kind person as well, if you like the sturniolo’s and want to read fics about them I’d definitely recommend the lovely Alexa!

@your-average-toast-enjoyer has such a welcoming vibe, I initially stumbled onto her blog because of frogs (wether or not they were a fandom lmao) and she’s welcomed me ever since. If you like x-men, Taylor swift, frogs of course, or relatable repost then her blog is the best to follow!

@feynightlight truly is the best blog to go to to find amazing fics. Her blog is where you’ll find the absolute best Bucky Barnes fics!

@soft-likethesunset is the most welcoming blog ever! It doesn’t matter who you are or what you like she’ll welcome you, she is such a kind and amazing human being! She post anything and everything, her blog is basically a party 24/7!

@theodditylacey is my favorite blog. I could sit here and scroll through her blog for HOURS. She has the cutest outfits, the best music taste, she’s an amazing writer, and her market is adorable and so well done! Lacey is someone you could sit there and talk to hours with, she’s well educated and so so so kind. Absolutely one of my favorite blogs.

@iloveyapping they are literally so funny! They’re blog post about so much, like pjo, the marauders, and VLD (even tho they don’t post about it much!) They are so kind and have the warmest heart.

@cassioxpeiaxmgg oml don’t even get me started on her, anything she post I’m guaranteed to laugh my ass off at it. If you like criminal minds AND Matthew gray gubler go check out her account! She’s also hilarious and super kind!

@dazedanddainty I adore Daisy so much, such a kind soul and person. There’s been countless times where I’ve just gone on her blog to rant about stupid things but she always listens! Her blog is so relatable!

@naturalbornluvr literally the most relatable blog you’ll ever come across. I have no other words to explain adoria except relatable 😭🫶

@justafanbutcurious also has insanely good music taste! We don’t interact much but from what I can tell they are super sweet!!

@hxress23 is the sweetest person ever, such a kind soul and so welcoming. Her, lacey, Liz, and Daisy have the most welcoming personalities and are such genuine people.

@loveinalocket is currently partially active but she is so sweet and has the cutest themes ever!

@starlightt-love and k don’t interact often but she seems like such a sweetie from what I’ve seen on other peoples blogs!!

@forestgromlin is so sweet! They are extremely kind and welcoming (I know I’ve said it about everyone but it’s true!!)

@whispered-winds is so sweet and kind, her vibe is just so good and perfect. Like there are not better words to describe her!!

@myhyperfixationisbooks is also so sweet, ever since we’ve been mutuals she’s been so incredibly kind and welcoming!

@stars-over-ice-cream is super sweet as well! She post about Sabrina Carpenter, and she reblogs amazing things!

@auntiejohn is so so kind and her blog is such a safe space!

@wish-i-were-heather and I haven’t interacted much if at all but they seem so so kind and welcoming!

@glxsyymads I saved the best one for last! Maddie is so kind and sweet, she goes out of her way to make you feel welcomed. She has such a sweet vibe and is really funny. It makes my day a little brighter when I see she’s interacted with me or my post, or she’s answered my asks!

That’s most of my moots I believe! My blog is welcomed to anyone and everyone! I believe everyone deserves a place to be themselves so welcome to my corner of the internet.

[trippinsorrows]

Wait someone mentioned another roman x leya short i kinda wanna see roman and lina his little twin oh my god i just know they’re rowdy together

"daddy."

"hmmm."

"can i quit school and come work with you?"

roman can't sit here and act like this is the first time his daughter has asked him an out of pocket question. no, of the twins, lina is always the inquisitive one. leya is too. lina, however, is the one to allow her many questions to leave her head. the latest causing the tribal chief to look down at his mini me as the two share a bowl of cookie dough ice cream. his favorite. hers too.

"why do you wanna quit school?"

"cause it's stupid, and boys are stupid."

she's right about one part. "you're right. boys are stupid. you hate them all. never forget that." he makes a mental note to ask about the backstory there. it's about that time he has to show up at her school and remind them just why catalina reigns is never the one to fuck with. "what makes it stupid?"

lina pouts, and he has to hold back a chuckle. she reminds him a lot of himself in this moment. "cause daddy, it's boring. i don't wanna study. i wanna fight." and fight she does. girl is only seven and on track to become a black belt before even hitting double digits. "i wanna be like you."

this is the part he always struggles with. she says it all the time. her desire to be like him. to one day be the tribal chief. such a heavy, complicated thing for a young child.

"you know i had to go to school, too."

she frowns, her dark eyebrows caving together as she scoops some ice cream onto her little spoon. "but, that was a long long long time ago."

"watch it, kid." lina's giggle evokes a small chuckle from him. "baby, you like school."

she finishes chewing her ice cream, caving, "sometimes."

"oh, sometimes." he mocks her a bit, also taking some ice cream into his mouth with his much larger spoon. roman swallows before asking, "what about your sister? you just gonna leave her?"

lina's eyes widen in horror. one would think she was just told santa isn't real. "i can never leave sissy, daddy! she's my best friend!"

his heart swells at that. one of the many things he loves about his family is the closeness of the girls. such a stark contrast to his and solana's relationship with their siblings. "well, if you quit school and come work with me, leya will be all by herself...."

"noooo" lina whines, frowning as she clearly rethinks this horrible plan of hers. "i gotta protect sissy."

roman suddenly asks, prompted by her bringing up protection. "that little bitch tracy still messing with her?" he didn't mean for the 'bitch' part to come out. he definitely feels that way, but saying it in front of his already aggressive little girl probably isn't the best move.

lina nods and glares, angrily scooping her ice cream. "i'm gonna punch her in her stupid face."

roman should discourage that. should try to use some of that conflict resolution shit solana has been trying to get him to get on board with. however, that would be too much like right.

instead, he welcomes lina as she scoots closer into his side, advising, "just make sure to keep your thumb over your fingers. punch her good, and i'll get you some ice cream afterwards."

[rinininamiluv]

I can’t stop thinking about how Ian was frank’s least favorite child meanwhile he was Monica’s favorite child and honestly that’s one of the only qualities about her that I like. Now don’t get me wrong I will never condone parents having favorites among their children but having a favorite child is the least fucked up thing Monica could have and have done to those kids.

And I can’t stop thinking about one little detail in Episode 9 of season 1 that proves this. The scene where Monica and Roberta told them that they want to take Liam with them and get custody for him and Fiona started going on about how unfair and down right wrong that was after Monica abandoned them and after how much blood sweat and tears Fiona put into raising each one of them and now she suddenly wants to come back and take one of them away from them and they one they care for and love the most at that? And then she started calling out the kids names and stating how well they’re doing in school all thanks to her (Fiona) and not Monica.

But the detail I noticed is that as she called each one of their names and their success in school we saw no reaction from Monica until Fiona got to Ian and mentioned that he was promoted into ROTC and tested out of English. You can see that Ian being able to live his dream affected her and how proud she was to hear she literally gasped and her mouth was trembling from the new set of tears and emotions she was feeling. And everytime I see that scene and I notice this it hits me so hard.

Maybe it’s because I love Ian so much and he along with Mickey are my favorite characters makes everything about Ian a big deal for me. And I’ve never really seen anyone mention this little detail before and I feel like it should be and it’s an important piece of evidence of why I think Ian is Monica’s favorite. And it just justifies Ian’s soft spot for his mother and why he found it the hardest to let go of her and move on from her death the hardest (except for frank ofc or idk maybe more than frank) and why he cared for her so much. And ofc we can’t run from the fact that the two of them understand each other more than the others in the family did. They both are part of the lgbtq+ community and they both struggle with the same mental illness (although I still think it was wrong of Monica to make Ian believe he should break up with Mickey because Mickey wouldn’t understand him).

And I really have no one to talk about this to because none of my friends have watched this show so none of them would understand what I’m rambling about right now and this is the best place to ramble about this on.

Also one of my favorite scenes has to be when Monica got Ian out of jail after that mfer Sammy called the cops on him and they went to get something to eat and Ian noticed Monica staring at him and he asks her “what?” And she replies with the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on her “you’re a so beautiful. You’re and beautiful, beautiful man. I did great making you.” And I couldn’t agree with her more.

But that’s me rambling about what’s been on my mind for hours now :)

[bitethedevil]

If you’re taking writing prompts consider-

Raphael reacting to Tav/Durge confessing they’re in love with him

I made it a Durge because I haven't written a lot of Durge stuff (fun fact: the first longer fic I ever wrote was with a Durge warlock that had Raph as a patron, but I never released it). Raph is being a bit of a manipulative dick in this one, but what's new. Also, I'm slow as fuck at replying to my asks (especially prompts)

Love

Clack clack clack clack…clack clack clack clack…clack clack clack clack.

His office was deadly quiet except for the sound of his claws tapping on the hard mahogany of his desk, a dangerous rhythm that she knew immediately what meant the second she heard it. The rhythm echoed her heartbeat as she waited for her patron to say something. She was in trouble.

He was leaning against his desk, looking at her and keeping her in suspense. A cruel smile stretched over his face, as he saw how she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She had defeated monsters, mindflayers, gods…even the biggest monster of them all, her father. Still, nothing made her stomach churn more than the thought of Raphael’s wrath.

The feeling humiliated her as much as it thrilled her and drew her closer to him. She had been a god in her own right with all the lives she took under Bhaal and the cult she had led in his name, but this mere cambion brought her to her knees.

She was like a moth to his fiery flames. Everything about him excited her: his cruelness, his gracious mercy at times, his power plays. He felt like home. There was something safe and known in that cruelty that drew her closer. It was something she understood the rules of.

Click clack…

“I have always questioned your loyalty,” he finally said and moved his claws up to his face to look at them as he spoke. “It is no secret that I am prone to play favorites, but perhaps I made a mistake when I took you in…”

His yellow eyes looked up at her. His comment hit her like a punch to the gut and she knew as well as him that that was the intended effect. She hated the feeling of disappointing him. She hated that she felt that way about it even more. She cleared her throat.

“What is this about?” she asked quietly.

That was the wrong question. She could see it from the way his tail flicked in irritation. She had taught herself every one of his physical cues. They were subtle sometimes, but easier to read in this form. The man had total control over his body, but the devil was just a tad less composed.

“What is this about?” he repeated his question in a smooth, even tone. “Many things, my dear.”

That was another thing she had learned: it was never just one thing. Raphael held grudges. He archived every little mistake in his head in neat files, so he could throw them in your face when you stepped out of line.

“You came crawling to me after your father spat you out, after defying me at every turn and without a crown for me. You begged me to take you in, and yet I question your devotion to my cause. You owe me a grand debt when it comes to loyalty. A debt you have not yet paid back with your services, and one that I now question if you will ever pay back if you keep associating yourself with the wrong people.”

She had wanted to give him the Crown of Karsus. She had liked him even back then. Her companions had fought her every step of the way, and with her dealing with Bhaal, she had too much on her plate to fight them on it.

“It wasn’t my choice, Raphael,” she pleaded. “You know—”

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off impatiently with a wave of his clawed hand. “I have heard all your endless excuses…and I graciously forgave you, didn’t I? You would have been a bloody stain on my carpet long ago if I had not. What I cannot forgive is disloyalty.”

“Raphael, please,” she pleaded quietly. “Just tell me what I have done. I’ll make it right.”

Another flick of his tail. His nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed, but he quickly schooled his features back into one of indifference.

“What were you doing in Waterdeep?” he asked slowly, each word as heavy as a brick.

That was what all of this was about. She had visited Gale. Gale who had been the very reason that the Crown of Karsus did not go to Raphael. Gale and her had started out as friends, but it evolved to something more along the way. It did not work out. Gale was too perfect, too functional for her. She broke his heart, and she would be lying if she said that this fact wasn’t taken into consideration when she gave up on trying to give to the Crown of Karsus to Raphael.

“I was just visiting,” she admitted. “Nothing more.”

“Just visiting,” he repeated with a hint of venom in his voice. “Just visiting an old flame that snubbed your patron of what was rightfully his, is that right? Is he well, our dear Gale? Does his new unburdened life suit him?”

“We are friends—”

“Friends,” Raphael said with a cruel laugh. “How awfully sentimental of you, dear. How soft you have become. I remember a ruthless woman who murdered her way through Baldur’s Gate. That woman, I could have used. It seems that your father has stripped you of everything that once made you interesting.”

That comment made her furious. It made her blood boil, but then why was she on the verge of crying instead? Why did she find herself pleading instead of yelling?

“Gale and I have been through hell and back,” she said. “It doesn’t change my loyalties for you. Please, Raphael.”

“I will NOT be made to look a fool!!” he roared with a sudden fire in his eyes.

The sound boomed through his office. She flinched. His tail flicked from side to side now. He looked her up and down. It seemed to please him how she was turning pale at his words and tearing up. He returned to his calm and collected demeanor as quickly as he got angry.

“Why are you crying?” he asked without a shred of sympathy in the question.

She tried to stop, but she couldn’t. She just wanted him to understand that she was devoted to him, and that this was all a mistake. She had not meant to cross him or make him angry, but merely to visit an old friend. His nails started tapping on the table again as he waited for her to speak.

“Can’t you— can’t you see that I’m only loyal to you?” she sobbed. Clack, clack… “I made a contract with you because I wanted to work for you. I’m yours, and only yours.” Clack, clack, clack. “Can’t you see how I only want to please you? How much I love you?”

Clack.

He froze for a moment at the oddly heartfelt confession that escaped her lips. She had not meant for that to come out, but he was great at pressuring her into saying things she didn’t want to admit. It was a humiliating confession. She hated being so vulnerable and weak. She wished that she could stuff the words right back down her throat. He wasn’t supposed to know.

A smile spread over his otherwise frozen face. He looked her up and down and let out a small huff of laughter. He looked like a man who had just been handed the perfect weapon. His hand left the table and beckoned her closer with a finger.

She walked over to him, unable to look him in the eye. He tilted her head up with a claw under her chin. He towered over her in that form.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She looked into his yellow eyes. He was smiling at her.

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” she repeated.

The humiliation in the confession was more apparent this time, and he was eating it up like it was the best meal he had had in centuries. He laughed her straight in the face.

“Oh, dear,” he said with a chuckle. “A creature of habit, aren’t you? You poor girl…”

She swallowed hard. She should have just shut up. His thumb ran over her jaw and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch set her aflame, despite the excruciating embarrassment she was feeling.

“Do I remind you of your dear old papa?” he asked, still smiling like the cat that got the cream. “Is that what this is about? It is always the fathers, isn’t it? Still searching for the approval of a cruel master, even now. Perhaps you haven’t changed at all, my dear…”

She kept quiet. He leaned closer as if sharing a secret. She could smell wine and tobacco on his breath. His thumb rubbed circles on her jaw.

“Tell me,” he whispered to her. “Where did your dear Gale fit into this picture? I’m awfully curious.”

Her eyes flicked to his lips for only a second, but he didn’t miss it by the way his smile widened.

There was only one acceptable answer and she prayed that she would choose the right one. She shrugged.

“He didn’t,” she said quietly.

That was the right answer from the way his smile widened.

“No, I would imagine not,” he said. “Too…boring…wasn’t he? He was not enough of a challenge for you, so you discarded him.”

There was a hint of guilt in her eyes at his words. He tutted gently and caressed her cheek.

“Who could blame you?” he cooed. “People like us won’t concern ourselves with boredom. You were right in choosing to focus on greater things. Gale was easy. Pleasing him was easy. He would not make you fight for it like I will.”

That promise made a shiver go through her. Raphael grabbed her arm and tugged her even closer, until she was standing between his legs with her chest pressed against his. His hand came to rest on her hip. He pressed his forehead against her, his nose touching hers. He was tantalizingly close.

“You are mine then, aren’t you?” he asked. “Only mine.”

She nodded. He gave a dangerous smile.

“You want to please me,” he said. “To make me happy…”

Another nod.

“You love and adore me.”

Another nod. His lips were so close she could almost taste them. His thumb was rubbing circles into her hip. His tail was flicking side to side, but not in rage. It was more like a cat that is ready to pounce on an unsuspecting prey that it had been sneaking up on for a while.

“You will write a letter to Gale Dekarios and say that you are unavailable for any future visits,” he whispered against her lips. “That you have already done plenty for him and that you never want to see him again.”

His lips brushed lightly against hers before he pulled away, stealing her breath. She chased his lips, but he only smiled and pulled away further. She knew she had to earn it.

“Go. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?” he said with a smile and let go of her.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

It’s here!! Not gonna lie I watched the Frontierland episode last night in preparation 😂 And I am so ready to lose myself in Western Dean Winchester. Not to mention ready to rekindle my childhood love of Spirit lol.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

Oh goodness the enemies to lovers is bubbling under the surface and I am already naming Dean and Mila's children.

This chapter really is one of the best scenes in Spirit, not to mention one of my favorite songs in that movie. "Get Off My Back" is legendary.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. "That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.” That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed. “He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

I love her already. I mean I loved her from the moment that I found out she broke that jerk's nose, but a strong defiant woman. Yes ma'am here for Mila 1000000%.

Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

He's already feeling!😏 And I really loved that he fought the smile when she spat in the Colonel's face. Because Dean is already smitten with this woman.

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

I really love this part, when Dean can sympathize with Mila and her people and why they continue to fight. It also really brings together the "realism" in this story. Especially with the "He doesn't always understand their way of doing things..." A lot of people fear what they don't understand and for Dean to have a more "open" outlook even being surrounded by people who don't is refreshing. And now Mila gets to show her all the wonderful things about her and her tribe! He's different and I love him.

I also really liked the background you gave him. His father being in the army and that being the reason why Dean joined, and I can just imagine young Dean and young Sam riding horses and breaking them out on their family farm.

Okay also the fact that Mila calls Dean "Green Eyes" had me literally screaming lol. I was like, "girl I see you and I respect you for noticing how beautiful that man's eyes are."

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Let's go PROTECTIVE DEAN ALERT!

I hope Roman falls off a watchtower and into a giant pile of poop (the size of the ones in Jurassic Park) and then dies. I mean he doesn't... because Dean destroys that man. BUT I hope that they shoveled his body away with the same shovel they use for all the horse poop. It's what the people want lol 😂

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

The descriptions of his hands made me hyperventilate. 😳 I am telling you the trope of a big strong man who has done terrible things with his hands and then is nothing, but gentle with his significant other WIPES ME OUT. Oh stars, I can't take it 😭

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

It's true love and now I'm scared of what's gonna happen to them.

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently. “Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

YOU TURNED BABY INTO A HORSE?! MASTERFUL! GENIUS! Oh my word I was not expecting that, but it made me so happy you have no idea lol.

Again, so happy Roman is gone. Man is a whole problem and Dean is a problem solver lmao 😂

Oh this chapter was absolutely wonderful and it was everything that I expected and SO SO MUCH MORE friend!❤️ Western Dean is quickly infiltrating my subconscious and someone is gonna have to raise Freud from the dead to work this one out for sure. I mean Freud's already gonna have to talk to me about Spirit, but that horse had an energy, it was voiced by Matt Damon, I was young and impressionable, and I can't be held responsible lmao lol😅 (catching myself in 4k)

I can't wait for the next chapter!!😊

The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn. 

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now. 

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.  

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

COMING 11/10! (New chapters every Sunday.)

Or read Part 2 on Patreon now!

Series Masterlist

Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms

@foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @roseblue373 @this-is-me19

@emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28

@adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka

@chevroletdean @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley

@sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @mimaria420

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @ajjustice

[iinryer]

sorry for bringing stupid shit here but i saw people on twitter talking about how they don’t understand how people could like lena. like, oh you don’t like the abrasive woman? why is that. quickly

[skyward-floored]

Leaves

Another Incredibles au fic... sort of a little character study? I suppose it could be that. I just started writing the other day and this came out, so it’s not much, but I figured it would be a shame not to post it. Maybe someone will like it.

Set when Sky and Warriors are preteens, and Time is a fairly-young adult. Little warning for implied past character death.

————————————————————

Warriors walked slowly along the path he was following, his scarf trailing behind him as late afternoon light filtered past. It had been a bit of a detour to head here instead of straight home after school, and his legs were growing tired, but he’d been needing to come here for weeks, and finally had the time to today.

Warriors didn’t stop until the path curved, and he found himself at a tree with fan-shaped leaves that had begun to spread themselves across the ground.

There was a stone beneath it’s branches, and Warriors knelt beside it, gently brushing off the yellow leaves that had fallen on top. His hands brushed the letters carved into the stone, and he leaned back, smiling a little.

“Hey, Mom.”

A few moments of silence ticked by, and his smile faded, Warriors folding his hands in his lap as he exhaled.

“Um... I know I haven’t visited in a while, I’m sorry. Things have been kind of crazy lately. Time got in some trouble, and it was... a lot of stuff happened.”

He cleared his throat, and adjusted his scarf, shaking off the little flakes of ice that had begun to form on his fingers.

“We’re all doing okay now, though,” he continued, watching a leaf fall. “Time’s still kinda worried about me and Sky, even though we keep telling him we’re fine. He’s been sort of... clingy. But even though he’s been clingy, we finally convinced him to let us go out with him, so that’s been pretty great. We’ve already stopped some villains.

“Um... oh right, he hasn’t yet, but Time is totally going to propose soon. When he isn’t worrying over me and Sky, he’s acting almost giddy, it’s been so weird. He’s been so weird lately.”

Warriors huffed out a little laugh, then looked at the stone again, his smile slipping away.

“He really loves Malon. And I think you’d love her too Mom. I... wish you could meet her. We all do.”

He breathed out slowly, scratching his arm.

“I guess that’s pretty much it. I’m doing fine, in case you were wondering. Mostly just training with my powers. I figured out I can do really sharp icicle things if I focus really hard, so I’ve been trying to get better at that. I’ve also been working on making little stuff out of ice, but that’s not super useful...”

Warriors trailed off as a few leaves fluttered down around him, a weight much heavier than leaves weighing on his chest.

He closed his eyes.

“I miss you Mom. I... hope you’re proud of me. I’m trying.”

A leaf landed on Warriors’ head then, and he picked it up, running a thumb along it’s veins.

After a moment he raised his head, and let go of the leaf, conjuring some ice in his hands. He focused for several minutes, tongue slightly sticking out as he molded the ice in his hold, and slowly a flower appeared in his hands, made of pure ice. It was a little crude, and lacked the detail that Warriors would have preferred, but it would have to be good enough.

“I’ll come visit again soon,” he promised quietly, setting the flower at the base of the stone. “I have to go now though, or Time and Sky’ll worry. Even though I’ll be fine, and have powers to defend me, but you know. Time especially doesn’t need more stress.”

Warriors leaned back as a gust of wind blew some leaves past the stone in front of him, and he gently thumbed over the words again.

Then he breathed out, and got to his feet, noting that the late afternoon had trickled into evening while he’d been sitting. The leaves of the tree looked more orange now then yellow, and he tucked one in his pocket as it drifted by.

“I love you Mom. I’ll see you later.”

Warriors looked at the stone one more time, then gave a tiny smile, turning away and walking back down the path he’d come up.

A thin dusting of frost trailed behind him on the grass.

[cashweasel]

Blorbo shenanigans

Unfortunately he does things like that all the time and I think kiara should get him back for it every time 💀😂

@night-triumphantt 😘🥰

[coolseabird]

Gale is my favorite guy for her, and Karlach is my favorite girl so I'm happy each is winning out of their respective gender. :] Minthara’s dialogue with both is just so much fun, and I think she has the strongest chemistry with them by far. But ultimately, Galethara is my top choice, especially for an evil run. He’s more easily corruptible and can believably fall into villainy for her, which is perfect for a darker playthrough. Mintharlach, on the other hand, is my favorite for a more good-aligned, knockout recruitment/romance run. It's super sweet. 🥺 @alicelufenia ‘s writeup explains the appeal of them perfectly imo (check the reblogs for that) so I’ll focus on Galethara here.

In the game, Gale as a companion feels conflicted about the grove, but with the right words, you can talk him down, make him see things your way. Meanwhile, Karlach and Wyll hold fast to their principles, and they’ll leave rather than stay with someone who commited such an atrocity, which makes sense for their characters. If you’re playing doing an evil origin and want to stay in character while having a believable moral decline, Galethara just hits different. As an enjoyer of destroying the grove that's why I have to put Galethara as my #1.

It’s like, Yes, this is wrong, but this pretty drow lady might be the only chance we have to survive. I also don't want to die. What’s one grove compared to destroying many more with the orb? Just that initial moral compromise leading to more and more. And later on after learning about the crown, Oh! I’d use the crown differently, for the greater good… we could shape the world in our image, take down the gods themselves. It’s that heady corruption arc that makes them so compelling together. (And it's not like he needed that much of a push to begin with based on how companion Gale acts in Act 3 haha) He is the definition of the road to hell is paved with good intentions and Minthara is more than happy to drive down that road. It’s great stuff!

Gale and Minthara together are like the Macbeths; they're both ambitious nightmares who can make each other worse. But Minthara also grounds Gale emotionally, she's always encouraging him to pursue greatness and to defy the gods and not to kill himself.

You know those memes about creating a character just to give Shadowheart an aneurysm? Like a githyanki cleric of Selune? Gale is that character to Minthy, lol. He’s a non-drow, a wizard, and a man, and yet, to her horror, she develops feelings for him. Then, when he saves her and proves he’s just as ambitious as she is, she falls hard. I think romances between foils are so fun. They’re so different in so many ways, but both were cast aside by the gods and have similar desires: to prove themselves and rise to the top. They’re also the most codependent companions in the game, and putting them together is fascinating. They’d make absolutely terrible villains together, and I love it. Gale's evil Absolute ending with a romanced Minthara is especially fun. You get to crusade with her to destroy the gods. It meshes very well. He's definitely going after Lolth first. And even if you don't do that, becoming God of Ambition Gale and supporting her war in the Underdark is very fun too. She says this out of pocket line in the epilogue:

God Gale: I may no longer be your lover, but I am the god of ambition. If you desire my aid, you've only to ask. Minthara: An intriguing proposition. To harness the powers of the heavens as I once harnessed you...

I adore her. 😭 Having a god wrapped around her finger for once is what she deserves.

Minthara without fail encourages every dark impulse a Gale Origin player might have. When he consumes the Shadow Weave within the Thorm kids (is it cannibalism to eat the Weave in a body?), she’s totally gung ho about it in this is the dialogue you get with her:

"Ah, the wizard. I could not help but notice that you have been exploring new avenues of knowledge recently—I approve. … The pursuit of knowledge and power should always be our goal. … Do not let the laws or scruples of inferior minds stand in your way."

She’s all in for seizing the crown too, and it’s amazing. Also, Gale Origins are the only ones who can hug Minthara in the epilogue romanced or not

Also even if they aren't romanced she admits she has affection for him.

She also thinks his beard is dashing. I rest my case:

[fortune-maiden]

Finally caught up on the novel!!

Stuff is happening!!

[arolesbianism]

Some au antag doodles

[dutybcrne]

Thinking and laughing a bit abt how much of a fucken shock the knights must have had when shy, never-strayed-from-Diluc’s shadow Kaeya up and became the kind of guy who would take a squad of knights to catch a criminal and purposefully set off a mechanism that at best spooked the shit out of everyone involved by the sheer risk it incurred upon the knights and their target at once bc he liked the thrill of seeing their responses to the sudden danger.