#there's an explanation for that but not here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

harrysfolklore · 1 day ago

Note

hi! can i request a little bitch blurb where oscar walks in on them 😂

FIRST LITTLE BITCH BLURB OF THE YEAR!! honestly i could never get tired of writing for them and requests keep coming so, enjoy!

READ LITTLE BITCH HERE

"You're sure Oscar won't be home for hours?" Carlos murmurs against your neck as he presses you into the kitchen counter, his hands sliding under the oversized shirt you'd stolen from him.

"Mhm," you tilt your head to give him better access. "Simulator day at McLaren. He'll be gone until evening."

"Good," his accent thickens as he nips at your pulse point. "Because seeing you in my shirt all morning has been driving me crazy, mi amor."

You smirk, running your hands down his chest. "Oh? Is that why you've been following me around the apartment like a lost puppy?"

"I have not-" he starts to protest, but you cut him off by pulling his shirt over his head.

"Really?" you trace the muscles of his abdomen. "So you didn't deliberately walk into the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth? Or need help reaching something in the top cabinet that you can definitely reach yourself?"

Carlos growls low in his throat. "You're teasing me."

"Always," you grin, but it turns into a gasp as he lifts you onto the counter.

"Careful, hermosa," he steps between your legs, hands gripping your thighs. "You know what happens when you tease…"

"Maybe I want to find out," you challenge, wrapping your legs around his waist.

His eyes darken. "Dios mío, the things you do to me…"

"Show me," you whisper against his lips.

He crashes his mouth to yours, one hand tangling in your hair while the other slides up your thigh. You moan as he deepens the kiss, tasting of coffee and something uniquely Carlos.

"Mi amor," he breathes between kisses, "you're wearing too many clothes."

"Even your shirt?" you tease, knowing how much he loves seeing you in his clothes.

"Especially my shirt," he tugs at the hem.

The key turns in the lock of your shared apartment with Oscar, but you're far too distracted by Carlos' lips on your neck to notice.

"MY EYES!" Oscar's voice cracks. "IN THE KITCHEN? REALLY?"

You and Carlos spring apart, but it's too late. Oscar is standing there, one hand dramatically covering his eyes, looking like he's contemplating jumping out the window.

"Oscar!" you squeak, hurriedly adjusting Carlos' shirt that you'd borrowed. "You're… home early."

"This is MY HOME!" Oscar protests, still not looking. "Where I EAT! In THIS KITCHEN!"

Carlos has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, though you can see him fighting back a smile. "Lo siento, Oscar…"

"Don't 'lo siento' me, mate," Oscar points blindly in Carlos's general direction. "That's my SISTER!"

"We weren't…" you try to explain.

"NO!" Oscar cuts you off. "No explanations. I don't want to know. I will never be able to unsee this. I'm moving out. I'm quitting F1. I'm becoming a hermit in Tasmania."

"You're being dramatic," you roll your eyes.

"DRAMATIC?" Oscar finally uncovers his eyes, immediately regrets it, and covers them again. "Carlos still doesn't have a shirt on!"

Carlos looks down at his bare chest as if just remembering this fact. "Ah, sorry about that…"

"Sorry about- THIS IS A COMMON AREA!" Oscar's voice keeps rising in pitch. "We have RULES!"

"Rules?" Carlos raises an eyebrow at you.

"Rule number one," Oscar recites, "no funny business in common areas. Rule number two, no walking around without clothes. Rule number three…"

"Okay, okay," you interrupt, feeling your face heat up. "We get it. We're sorry."

"I'm telling Lando," Oscar threatens.

"Don't you dare!"

"Oh, I'm daring. I'm traumatized. I need emotional support."

Carlos finally breaks, letting out a laugh. "Come on, Oscar. It's not that bad."

"Not that- mate, you're practically my brother-in-law. I do NOT need to see you trying to devour my sister in our kitchen!"

"Brother-in-law?" you and Carlos say simultaneously, though with very different tones.

Oscar groans. "Oh god, now I've given him ideas. Perfect. This is perfect. I'm calling Mum."

"You will NOT call Mum!" you lunge for his phone.

"Watch me!" he dodges, still keeping one hand over his eyes, which results in him walking straight into the wall.

"Dios mío," Carlos mutters, finally grabbing his shirt from where it had been discarded. "Oscar, I'm dressed now. You can look."

Oscar cautiously peeks through his fingers. "This is going on my therapy bill."

"Add it to the collection," you sigh.

"I will! Right next to 'sending nudes to Carlos' and 'that time in the motorhome when I thought you were going over strategy.'"

"That WAS strategy!" you protest.

"Strategy doesn't involve THAT MUCH SPANISH!"

Carlos is fully laughing now, watching the siblings' exchange with obvious amusement.

"This isn't funny!" Oscar points at him. "You! You're supposed to be the responsible one!"

"Me?" Carlos tries to look innocent. "I'm very responsible."

"Responsible people don't seduce my sister in shared kitchens!"

"To be fair," Carlos grins, "she seduced me."

"NOPE!" Oscar practically runs from the room. "NOPE NOPE NOPE. I'm going to Lando's. Forever. Don't call me. I'll be in therapy."

The door slams behind him, and you can hear him muttering all the way down the hall.

Carlos turns to you, eyes dancing with mischief. "So… brother-in-law, huh?"

"Don't," you warn, but you're fighting a smile.

"Because you know," he steps closer, "that could be arranged…"

"Carlos!"

"I'm just saying," he pulls you back against him, "maybe we should give Oscar a real reason to need therapy…"

From down the hall, Oscar's voice carries: "I FORGOT MY PHONE AND I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!"

You burst out laughing as Carlos quickly steps away again.

"I'm moving out!" Oscar announces as he retrieves his phone. "And YOU," he points at Carlos, "are paying for my therapy!"

"Fair enough," Carlos agrees easily.

Oscar pauses at the door. "And sister?"

"Yes?"

"Next time? Use HIS apartment!"

As the door slams again, Carlos turns to you with a raised eyebrow. "You know… that's not a bad idea…"

"Carlos Sainz!"

"What? I'm being responsible," he grins. "Just like Oscar wanted."

You shake your head, laughing. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly in love," he corrects, then adds more seriously, "though maybe we should get our own place…"

Your heart skips. "Yeah?"

"Sí," he pulls you close again. "Somewhere with a very private kitchen…"

"I heard that!" Oscar's voice comes through the door one final time. "I'm telling Mum!"

This time, you both burst out laughing.

Poor Oscar. Maybe you should start looking at apartments sooner rather than later…

For everyone's sake.

541 notes · View notes

reignpage · 2 days ago

Text

Piercer!Geto

Manx Norton: going over the limit

Contents: 18+ mdni, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, blowjob, deepthroating, throat fucking, swallowing, marks the end of their pre-relationship story

“We need to talk,” you say.

Geto looks up from his journal, slow and steady like he knew you would come here and at this time. He sets his pen down. His hair is tied up completely today and there are dark bags under his eyes that you can’t bear to look at, so you don’t. Instead, you settle into the seat, without being asked, and you cross your legs and your arms.

You mean business.

“Good afternoon, pretty. You look gorgeous.”

Sighing, you ignore that fluttering in your stomach. There’s no point in getting carried away by his charm; it’s his instinct to be sweet, otherwise he wouldn’t have as many clients as he does. But you’re aware, faintly and right at the very back of your mind, that his words have a bite to them — they’re complimentary whilst also accusatory.

“I need an explanation, Geto,” you state firmly.

His left eye twitches. It’s not a flicker or a nervous tick, it’s a flinch. You have the power, just like your sister said, when you were throwing her shoes out of the window, and she was offering advice as a means to fight your murderous intent off. It didn’t work.

There’s always something shifting between you, something unstable, and it’s been difficult to manage — you’re new to relationships, so new to venturing outside your comfort zone that you’ve relied so much on him to guide you. But you’ve also had to step up and make decisions for yourself.

Your friends weren’t very helpful; they insisted you quit or bring a new man to the studio to make him jealous, and as tempting as it is to be petty, you know they wouldn’t solve anything. It’ll just make you feel bad and icky.

So, you’ve chosen the high road, providing him the opportunity to share his side, to explain why he let you down once again and why everything between you had been built on a lie.

Nodding, he opens a drawer and takes out a familiar sheet of paper. Then, in a conversational tone, he asks, “What do you see?”

“It’s my CV,” you answer. Truthfully, you have no clue what game he’s playing; there’s something in particular he’s looking for but all you see is the whites of the paper and the lines of ink.

“Look at it from the perspective of an employer looking to fill a hole in their establishment,” is his reply.

You’ve heard that tone often, every day, in fact. It’s the tone he uses on clients when he needs to go over payment plans, or on suppliers when he needs to negotiate a new contract. But he’s never used it on you. Distant and devoid of attachment, it makes you feel uneasy.

Fiddling with a loose thread on your sweater, you furrow your brows as you read over the paper. Geto is leaning back on the chair, hands folded on his lap, the pinnacle of confidence. That used to be so attractive. Now, you’re just a little peeved off. You were supposed to be the confident one; you came here on your own volition, even prepared a speech you practised with your sister.

You should have known he’d sweep the rug from under you.

Frustrated, you groan and smack the sheet. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to see! I have no time for this.”

Smiling reassuringly, Geto doesn’t bat an eye at your outburst and instead, begins a lecture, “What I saw was a CV lacking in relevant work experience. In fact, you had very little experience. Your most recent job was in high school, when you worked as a librarian’s assistant for a day. The other things on there were debate club and a certificate for being a neighbourhood ‘sweetheart’, and I’m not even sure what that means.”

“Oh.”

To your embarrassment, he laughs. A blush is growing on your face and suddenly you’re very aware of how some strands of hair are sticking to your forehead uncomfortably, how the sweater you’re wearing is a little scratchy and that maybe, just maybe, you’ve overreacted terribly.

Maybe you should have confronted him sooner. Perhaps just as soon as you overheard him tell Miguel that your sister owes him a favour for hiring you. However, in your defence, you were feeling a little hurt from having been left at the restaurant — you waited for an hour, watching people pass by and give you sympathetic looks as you sent text after text to a man too busy with a client to realise time passed by.

A week has gone by since then, and you haven’t come to work at all, you dodged every text and call from Geto and ignored him when he showed up on campus and had the nerve to get upset that you’re hanging out with a classmate. Your sister tried to defend him, and herself, but you weren’t willing to hear her out. On many occasions, you’ve told her to butt out, to leave you to make mistakes and get hurt, because it’s your prerogative.

She can’t protect you from everything and the more she tries, the harder you all learn that lesson.

“Okay, fine. So, my CV sucks a little,” you huff, “but you should have never hired me under the pretence that I was good enough when the real reason was because my sister asked you. It’s unfair on me. I wanted to earn this job on my own and you two went behind my back to manipulate this whole situation!”

The man sighs and leans forward. You smell his cologne and it’s muddling your mind a little, so you lean back, away from him. He notices. “I understand you’re upset. And I’m sorry to have colluded with your meddling sister. But it really isn’t what you think, pretty girl.”

You hate how patient he sounds, like you’re the crazy one. And maybe you are. You don’t know anymore. In fact, you’re starting to think you know nothing at all.

“Yes, it’s true she asked me to give you a job. But all I promised her was that I’ll give you a chance, like everyone else. And when you came for the interview, I thought a lot of things. One was that you are so different from your sister. Different from the people that tend to come through the door, from me. You’re much brighter, much warmer and lighter than everyone I’ve ever seen.”

There’s something in his eyes, a sincerity that makes you breathless. All the air has left the room and you’re leaning in without even realising it. Everything that he says is entrancing, he’s a pied piper playing a tune that fills your soul with a fire you can’t put out, and he’s leading you closer to him, away from everything you’ve ever known, away from safety and reason.

You’re not afraid.

“I had a look at your CV and thought, there’s no way I would hire you, not even if she begged or blackmailed me — I take great pride in my studio, I turned it from a little backroom space with flickering lights to what it is now. My clients trust me to provide quality service from beginning to end, and I will not let a woman, no matter how beautiful, get in the way of that.”

Geto reaches for your cheek, like he can’t help himself, and you let him. His hands are slightly calloused but otherwise smooth and soft. And that smile, the polite one he always wears, is gone. In its place is something that reflects how you feel, how you’ve both been feeling for a long time now. A frustration against the distance between you, the boundary that’s erected itself between employer and employee, boss and receptionist, and a man who’s seen it all versus a girl who knows so little.

You aren’t meant to be. Everything about this relationship is wrong, it’s inadvisable, foolish, like Hades and Persephone, or Eros and Psyche. It’s a tragic love story doomed from the very beginning, the kind people talk about centuries later with a mix sense of awe and pity. You know all about it, have read so many variations of the same story with the same individuals who think they know everything, who believe they’re different, special and that the Fates will smile fondly on them.

Except neither you nor Suguru are under the impression that you’re different, that this will turn out differently and that the cards you’ve been dealt are from a separate, fresh deck. You both know you’re playing a dangerous game.

Neither of you care.

“But then I talked to you. And you were so witty, so undeterred by my unrelenting questions, and so willing to learn as you go. You had the confidence of someone who’s worked a thousand jobs, who’s met a thousand people that, despite knowing better, I wanted to hire you on the spot.”

Carefully, with your eyes fluttering shut at the tentative touch of your skin, you breathe out, “Suguru, we shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

When your eyes open, you see his gorgeous, tortured eyes fall to your lips and you know what you want.

Your lips meet his.

This kiss is so similar to the one you shared that night, but oh so new. It seems so long ago now, and when you feel his plush lips devour yours it feels like this is new to both of you and it urges you to push in further. His tongue touches yours and you don’t hesitate to intertwine it, to explore all that he’s laying out for you.

Gasping for breath, you pull away with little success before he’s grasping the back of your neck and urging you over the desk, kneeing the papers there and hearing the pens and stapler fall to the floor with a dull clatter, you sit onto the desk and you hear his chair slam against the wall when he stands to press himself closer to you. He kisses you again.

“Things work differently with me,” he says in between pecks to your lips.

Whilst his mouth moves to your jaw, sucking at the skin by your ear, you giggle. “I know. My sister says you like control. Something about Christian Grey.”

Chuckling in your ear before nipping you there, he admits, “I’m not as insane as him. In truth, I don’t really know what I am, but I know it’s more intense than what most men ask for.”

“That’s okay, Suguru. We can work it out together, step by step.”

He kisses your pulse point. You moan. Goosebumps are rising along your arms; your back is arching to press as much of you closer to him. You’re barely capable of creating a single train of thought, you feel so lightheaded you don’t register how your legs are wrapping around his hips.

“My smart girl,” Suguru muses against your skin.

Your legs are wrapped around his hip, pulling him close until you can feel the bulge there push against your core. With a roll of your hips, the zipper of his jeans nudges your bundle of nerves. You gasp. And you seek out that pleasure again with slow, gradual grinds.

Breathlessly, you say, “Suguru…”

He’s scraping his teeth against your pulse point, one hand kneading your thigh and the other holding himself up. Filling your senses, all you can think about is him and how there’s a growing pressure within that’s dying to be released.

“Go on, pretty girl. Take what you need.” Tightening your legs around his hips, you grind harder, frustrated that there are layers between you. Your arch your back, chest rubbing against his. Like he knows what you want, his hand finds your breast, squeezing and groping. “No bra? Are you sure you came here to talk, angel?”

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, you cry out, body tightening as that coil inside snaps. You spasm, grinding hastily to draw out your pleasure. It’s much better than you any could have given yourself and you’re addicted. Hand flying to his hair, you thread it through, brushing out his hair tie until his silky hair cascades down.

He groans.

In a blink of an eye, you’re being pulled and pushed down onto your knees. You grip his thighs, blinking fast as you desperately try to regain your bearings.

“You’re asking for trouble, sweet thing. Can you handle it?” Suguru asks, a challenge glinting in his eyes as he smiles down at you.

You bite your lip, thighs squeezing to subdue the regrowing aching there. With a sudden bravery, your hands make their way up, revelling in the marble like strength in his muscles before they find his zip.

Hesitating, you feel something holding you back, an instinct within awakening. Awkwardly, you question, “May I?”

His smile widens, surprise flickering in his eyes, and then he’s threading his hands through your hair. It’s a rewarding pat, one full of warmth, and it’s empowering.

“Such a good girl. You’re a perfect little angel, aren’t you?” He coos. “Of course you may, my pretty girl. Go on, go at your own pace.”

Nodding, you unzip his jeans, tugging it down with his boxers. And what springs out leaves your mouth watering. It’s huge and intimidating. It’s bad enough that he’s well-endowed, but nothing about him is typical. He’s different to the average man in every way.

Starting with the metal piercing the underside of his dick, emerging through the head.

Seeing the horrified look on your face, he chuckles, the hair soothing your head delving down to pinch your chin. Unperturbed by your reaction, likely expecting it, he explains, “I got it done a year ago, mostly as a dare. It took around nine weeks to heal and yes, it did hurt.”

“B-but I-I can’t,” you stammer and shake your head, adding, “there’s just n-no way.”

Suguru sighs, thumb grazing your cheek. “You don’t need to. I understand this is too much too soon, but I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. You’re more than capable.”

You don’t want to disappoint him. And you want to prove you can do whatever you set your mind to. Recalling one of your sister’s drunken admissions, you know the trick is to pinch your thumb, so you don’t gag, to breathe through your nose and take a little at a time.

“Okay, okay. I can do it.”

He gathers your hair and keeps them out of the way. Slowly, you wrap your hand around the base, gasping at the way your fingers barely touch. With no particular method in mind, you explore his length, thumb following a vein from bottom to top. He’s hot in your hand, almost burning, and the tip is shining with what you know to be pre-cum.

It’s pearly white and you can’t wait to know what it tastes like; you lean in and scoop up the drop with your tongue. You both groan.

Salty, you mull the taste over. It isn’t bad. And suddenly, you no longer feel scared. Your tongue fiddles with the bent metal barbell, surprisingly not minding the cold sensation against your hot tongue.

“That’s it,” he groans, grip on your hair tightening.

You widen your jaw, suckling the head, tongue pressing against the slit before it circles around, grinding the barbell back and forth. He groans louder, deep breaths vibrating through the room.

When you push in further, you make the mistake of doing it too fast. You gag, eyes tearing up.

“Slowly, pretty. Slowly. There’s no rush, okay?”

Coughing, you nod weakly, feeling embarrassed. Recovering your breath, you go back in, slower. Eventually, you work up a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, taking more and more of him but never quite making it further than halfway.

Both hands on your head, he soothes your tears away with his thumb before he advises, “Relax your throat, sweet thing. I’ll guide you, is that alright?”

You tap his thighs twice in a yes.

And then he’s pushing in, more and more until he’s filling your throat, muscles stretching to take him in. Tearing up once more, you mentally swallow that panic rising, the claustrophobia within forcing your nails into his bare thighs.

“You’re doing so well, angel. So good -ngh- for me, hmm?”

Suguru pulls back, the piercing scraping your tongue. And then he pushes back in. Again and again, he builds up to a rhythm, allowing you to get used to it, before he gives you more of him.

This is so overwhelming, the feeling of his piercing bumping at the back of your throat, the ache in your jaw at the stretch, and the salty taste filling your senses. All you can see and feel and hear and taste is Suguru. You can’t get enough of him.

So, when he bottoms out, your lips tickling his skin, your eyes roll to the back of your head just as his do.

“I’m going to cum, pretty. Do you want to pull out?” He asks, pleasure written all over his face, the veins in his arm bulging at his barely constrained urge to fuck your throat freely. Knowing that he’s so in control, so concerned over you, when he could use you how he pleased, could take what he wants makes you so wet.

You blink rapidly.

“No? Are you sure you -ha- can take it? I won’t let you spit it out,” he warns.

Sucking your cheeks in, you suction him closer. His cock head is rubbing the back of your throat, piercing burning, and with a shallow thrust, he’s cumming down your throat.

Hot liquid fills your mouth.

Suguru pulls out and you swallow the thick cream he leaves in your mouth. Your head slumps against his thigh, gasping for breath, heaving like you’ve just ridden a rollercoaster.

Hands tucking themselves under your arms, he lifts you onto his lap just as he sits back on his chair, boxers pulled up before you even realise what position you’re in now.

He rubs your back, muttering encouraging words about how perfect you were, how amazing you did, and how he knew you’d do well for him.

“Open,” he orders, bottom lip pulled down by his thumb. He inspects your mouth and smiles at what he sees. “Good girl.”

And then he’s kissing you, tasting both yours and his essence.

“No wonder Miguel gave me a funny look when I asked how many piercings you have,” you whisper against his lips, a high pulsing through your veins.

Suguru chuckles. “He’s a good guy, did all my piercings. Eased all my concerns every time and I knew I wanted him in my studio.”

You nod.

Your eyes are heavy and you’re hiding your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, and pondering the change between you. You’ve accepted that you’re entering an unconventional relationship, that he’s going to introduce you to a world none of your friends had seen a glimpse of, but you won’t be navigating it by yourself.

He’ll lead you just as he had when you first started working here.

Softly, gently and with so much patience, you’ll be free to stumble as often as you need until you know who you are, what you want, and what you need to be.

“Get some sleep, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

Is the last thing you hear before you fall deeper into sleep in his arms.

#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk smut #Suguru geto #suguru x reader #suguru fluff #suguru smut #jjk drabble #jjk oneshot #suguru geto

518 notes · View notes

pinkmarbella2050 · 3 days ago

Text

In relation to my explanation as to why my fics are currently locked, here is somebody's story about Word Stream. Stay safe out there, and protect your fics.

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using

his dyslexia;

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there.

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain;

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again.

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice.

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later:

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether.

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them.

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that.

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation.

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

Again, please, please PLEASE reblog this post instead of the one I sent originally. All the information is here, and it's driving me nuts to see the old ones are still passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much.

#ao3 #wordstream #word stream #fuck this shit #fuck this #fml #fuck off #fuck everything #i hate it #protect yourself #this is important #protect your fics #announcement #marbella

42K notes · View notes

angelseraphines · 2 days ago

Text

ೃ⁀➷ sad girl ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x girlfriend!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! this story takes place in an alternate ending for squid game where sang-woo wins instead of gi-hun! there is also a part one to this story, million dollar man! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ one week had passed since your boyfriend, sang-woo, reappeared in your life under strange circumstances that made your blood run cold. for two agonizing weeks, he had vanished without explanation. then, he returned, battered and hollow-eyed, his face bearing scars that seemed etched not only into his skin but into his very soul. he had come to your door clutching a bag of cash, his body trembling, his clothes soaked with sweat. “wait for me,” he had whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate. you promised you would, and so you did.

˚ ༘♡ you couldn’t stop replaying that moment in your mind, every detail a puzzle you couldn’t solve. had he been involved in something criminal? was he tangled in debts or worse? the thought that he might be ensnared in something far beyond your understanding consumed you. the sight of him, standing there, so broken and afraid, haunted you. you didn’t want to believe he was in danger, but deep down, you couldn’t dismiss the fear.

˚ ༘♡ then, this morning, a text came through on your phone. it was brief, offering no answers, only an instruction, “come to my house.” no explanation, no reassurance, merely a summoning. the clock had barely struck six, but you didn’t hesitate. sleep clung to you as you threw on the white, wool coat he had gifted you months ago for your three-month anniversary.

˚ ༘♡ the streets were quiet, the morning air biting at your skin as you made your way to his home. every breath a battle against the anxiety clawing at your chest. when you reached his door, it swung open almost immediately.

˚ ༘♡ before you could say a word, he pulled you inside, his movements quick, the door closing behind you with a soft click. the air inside was warm, contrasting the chill outside, but it did little to ease the tension in your body.

˚ ༘♡ “you’re here,” he murmured, his voice low, and then his lips kissed your cheek, cool and brief, a gesture that was both familiar and foreign. the touch left your skin tingling, not with comfort but with unease. his eyes lingered on you, their usual sharpness dulled by something you couldn’t place, something sinister.

˚ ༘♡ you stepped back from him, your voice trembling but firm. “you have to tell me everything right now,” you demanded, though the weight of your exhaustion seeped into every word. the fear you’d carried for weeks had worn you down, leaving sorrow in its wake. “i can’t keep living like this, with all the secrecy and half-truths. it’s killing me.”

˚ ༘♡ as you glanced around, you noticed his home looked different, emptier than you remembered. furniture was missing, and stacks of boxes lined the walls, their presence unnerving. your eyes narrowed as you turned back to him. “are you moving? why didn’t you tell me anything?” your voice cracked with disbelief. then, anger surged, and you shoved his chest, your frustration spilling over. “this has to stop! you can’t keep throwing money and gifts at me, thinking it’ll distract me from everything you’re hiding!”

˚ ༘♡ his posture stiffened, his muscles taut under the pressure of your words. his jaw clenched tightly, and for a moment, he looked away, as though searching for the right response. when he spoke, his voice was strained, his frustration cutting through. “if you would only give me a chance!” he snapped, the sharpness of his tone filling the room. his chest heaved and fell rapidly as he struggled to compose himself.

˚ ༘♡ letting out a slow, deep breath, he rubbed his temple, his hand trembling slightly as he pulled off his glasses. without them, his eyes looked more vulnerable, the walls he so carefully built around himself momentarily exposed. “why can’t you trust me?” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mixture of anger and hurt. “why is it so hard for you to believe in me?”

˚ ༘♡ the scars on his face had faded slightly but still marred his handsome, angular features. your eyes lingered on them, the memories of his battered appearance resurfacing with a painful clarity. tears welled up, blurring your vision, and a tightness settled in your throat. “then tell me,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the truth he was about to share. “it was business dealings,” he began, his tone measured, “not illegal, but high-risk. it was meant to be a way to increase my earnings, and it worked. it was highly profitable and lucrative in the fiscal aspect. it was presented as a secure business opportunity.”

˚ ༘♡ you narrowed your gaze, suspicion flaring. “how much money are you talking about?”

˚ ༘♡ he hesitated for a moment before meeting your eyes. “forty-five billion six hundred million won,” he said, his expression unreadable.

˚ ༘♡ your breath hitched, your mind struggling to process the sheer enormity of the figure. “what?” you managed to choke out, your disbelief evident. “sang-woo, that kind of money doesn’t come without strings attached. it can’t be clean.”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw tightened, and he looked at you with an intensity that made your stomach churn. “do you trust me enough to believe it is?”

˚ ༘♡ you faltered, the strength of his question bearing down on you. he wasn’t explaining, he was testing your loyalty, your ability to have faith in him despite the glaring inconsistencies. deep down, doubt clawed at you, but your love for him, flawed and reckless as it was, overpowered your reservations. “i trust you,” you murmured, guilt creeping into your voice. “i’m sorry for questioning you.”

˚ ༘♡ he nodded, the tension in his frame easing slightly, though his gaze remained guarded. “the investment fund ended a few weeks ago,” he continued, his tone darker now. “it got messy, very messy.” his bruised hand lifted, gesturing to the faint scars on his face. “this… was the price of my involvement.”

˚ ༘♡ the word lingered between you, heavy and suffocating. you stared at him, the weight of his choices crashing down on you like an unbearable tide. “why didn’t you tell me?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “don’t you know I would have stood by you? no matter what?”

˚ ༘♡ his eyes darkened, and his voice rose intensely, startling you. “because I didn’t want to drag you into my problems!” he shouted, the force of his words filling the room and making you flinch. the reaction caught him off guard, his frustration fading as he noticed the fear on your pallid face. he let out a deep sigh, running his hand through his disheveled hair before pacing the length of the room. when he returned, his expression softened, and he cupped your face gently, his touch warm despite the tension. “i’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with regret. “i didn’t mean to scare you. i’m sorry.”

˚ ༘♡ you had hoped that hearing the truth would make things easier, that it would bring the clarity you craved. but instead, it felt as though the distance between you had grown wider. “sang-woo,” you said softly, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions, “i don’t care what you’ve done or what happened. i only want to know that you’re safe, that we’ll be okay.” tears spilled freely down your pale cheeks, salty streaks marking the anguish you couldn’t hide.

˚ ༘♡ his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. your head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you in a way his words couldn’t. his hand moved slowly along your back, a comforting motion that was far different than the turmoil brewing within you. “everything will be fine,” he whispered, his tone firm yet almost pleading. “i promise, it’ll all be fine.”

˚ ༘♡ despite his reassurance, you couldn’t shake the pang of unease in your stomach. his words might have been meant to comfort, but they felt fragile, as though they could shatter under the strain of whatever truths still remained hidden.

˚ ༘♡ “i love you,” he murmured, his hand gently tilting your chin until your eyes met his. his gaze was steady, filled with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. “i want to spend my life with you. to get married, have a family…”

˚ ༘♡ a shaky laugh escaped through your tears, a fragile moment of relief breaking through the tension. “alright,” you said softly, wiping at your damp cheeks. “let’s start with something simple. how about we go get something to eat?” your fingers brushed against his tired, weathered face, tracing the lines of exhaustion etched into his features. “you look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days,” you added with a small smile.

˚ ༘♡ sang woo’s lips curved upward, faint but genuine. “that sounds good,” he replied, his voice carrying a gentleness that was almost unfamiliar after everything.

a/n: i thought sang-woo wouldn’t tell his girlfriend about the squid game, with how concerned he is with maintaining a perfect reputation. let me know if you have any other requests! 🤍

352 notes · View notes

eilinelsghost · 2 days ago

Text

Comparative Sizes of Beleriand and the Lands to the East

I put this together as a resource for my own writing awhile back and at first just stared at it in utter bewilderment. Is Beleriand really this small?! It seems like the answer is yes, and I'll give a quick explanation as to why below.

I've seen various stitched together maps of the First and Second/Third Ages, but the primary ones I've encountered still end up with the distance measurements not quite reflecting what we have in the text or map legends.

Without going into too many of the tedious bits, the basic overview is that I put this together by superimposing the maps in Photoshop, aligning Himring and Tol Himling, then drawing this out till the two iterations of the Ered Luin crossed. The primary thing here was ensuring the distance between Himring/Himling and the Ered Luin remained the same in both places.

There were various other details as well, but the key factor for determining whether this was feasible was to check whether it held up when comparing the numerical distances we are given as well.

This is simplest on the map of Middle-earth in the Third Age, since the official map was kind enough to provide a mileage legend. However, the Beleriand map was not nearly so forthcoming. So off we go to everyone's favorite chapter of the Silmarillion (Of Beleriand and its Realms) where we find that East Beleriand is described as being

at its widest a hundred leagues from Sirion to Gelion and the borders of Ossiriand

If this is 100 leagues, then we can convert that to roughly 345 miles and move that rasterized line down within the same file and line it up with our mileage legend from the map of Third Age Middle-earth (scaled as shown in the first image). Which gives us this:

Almost spot on!

Which, I'm not going to lie, really shocked me. I expected to find that this was wildly off since I've always assumed these maps to be fairly equal in my head. But no, it seems that all the epics of the First Age really did happen in an area no larger than Eriador.

One last image that I find interesting is isolating just Beleriand from this stitched map while retaining the water's tint so you can see the approximate whereabouts of the new shorelines would have ended up.

#beleriand #middle earth #the silmarillion #lord of the rings #tolkien #middle earth geography

244 notes · View notes

salemlunaa · 21 hours ago

Text

✾˚•Time isn’t your enemy because it isn’t real∘˚✾

Stop trying to beat the clock, you’re getting nowhere

∘✾˚PART I | THE ALLEGED WASTE OF “TIME”

The same could also be said for circumstances because they also aren’t real. I understand your frustration; you want to induce now. You think you’ve wasted time and you want to manifest your dream life now.

𖦹˚∘“You’re scared of failing (you literally can’t fail a meditative state; this isn’t rocket science). You’re panicking because you swore to yourself you would induce pure consciousness over the break and live your dream life, and then you didn’t. *Loud heavy sigh* You can’t fail this, guys. It’s okay to be worried, but this isn’t something that just can never not work for you.” ∘˚𖦹

↑ quoted from my gorgeous girl @luvmanifesting

you need to realise that the fear of failure and wasting time here doesn’t make sense because you already have it, why would a mother cry because she “NEEDS to have a baby before the end of this year”, if she’s holding the baby in her arms? if it’s right infront of her?

✾˚٭EXPLANATION | WHAT TIME IS TO US

You guys are growing desperate because you have given yourself a time crunch, and that’s where you go wrong. Your outer man (you in the 3D) will experience the 3D and time, but your inner man can’t experience these things. Your naked self is your inner man. The entire concept of the void state is that it is just your inner man alone, with no power of the 3D or time. This is why you are able to set ANY intention, because the barriers of time and the 3D are nonexistent. This is why you can choose to go back in time (being able to manipulate time = time isn’t real), and you can choose to manifest a pink elephant plushie on your bed (manipulating the 3D = time isn’t real). You are your inner man viewing the world from your outer man, but you can align them together.

܀˚✾PART II | BYE BYE TIMECRUNCHES!

And I’ll tell you now, if you don’t align yourself with your inner man and realize you have it now, you’re NEVER going to get it.

“but i NEED to manifest my dream life before school”

“circumstances are tough and i NEED to induce pure consciousness and leave this reality before exams”

“i hate my job i NEED to induce before the end of this year”

No, no, no. Stop playing this game of racing against time. IT ISN’T A REAL THING. I don’t care what’s happening tomorrow, I DON'T CARE what’s happening in two days, I DON'T CARE what’s happening next week, next month, or in a year, and neither should you. If you are giving yourself a time crunch, you don’t understand what it means to be pure consciousness. If you have told yourself that you ABSOLUTELY MUST induce before a certain time, you don’t understand what it means to be pure consciousness.

I DON'T CARE if your back is against the wall and you’re drowning in unfavorable circumstances—stop valuing time and stop valuing the 3D. If you don’t accept it now, it will NEVER come. Because the time is now; you are only experiencing now. It’s like the riddle: “What says it’s coming but never does? Tomorrow.” Because the “tomorrow” you speak of will be called “today” when you experience it. So you are always experiencing the now. You must accept it now.

Say Bye Bye to time crunches, because they don’t exist for a god because time isn’t a thing to your inner man. When you think of something, I don’t care if it’s a penny or fairy wings—you have it. When you want to be pure consciousness, because of that want, you have it. You have your dream life.

˚✾∘˚PART III | THE TIME IS NOW, NOT YOUR ENEMY

Time is not your enemy, because your inner man is god → your inner man manifests → time doesn’t exist to your inner man = therefore everything is happening all at once (and when i mean everything I don’t mean intrusive thoughts) So when you want to induce pure consciousness, know that it is instant, effortless and already done. I don’t care if the 3d has failed you, if your outer man has slept while trying to induce, you have everything you could possibly want.

Trying to win a race against something that is non existent is allowing your outer man to waste even more “time”. So stop this in 2025, I DON'T CARE if school is starting next week, if exams are starting next month, if you NEED to do this by the end of this year, if you spend time trying to beat the clock, you’ll end up with nothing. You have it now, the time is now and always will be.

Kill those thoughts before they come up.

OUTER MAN: “I have this pit in my stomach when I think about resuming school and all the circumstances that come with it, I should have manifested my dream life”

INNER MAN: “I have manifested my dream life already, i don’t care what the 3d is showing me”

OUTER MAN: “I was supposed to manifest my dream life over the break, now i’ve got to see all those people I hate”

INNER MAN: “They don’t exists and neither do my circumstances”

OUTER MAN: “ I NEED TO MANIFEST MY DREAM BOD BEFORE SUMMER, it’s so long away but i always manage to waste time”

INNER MAN: Huh, what’s time? I am everything, therefore i have everything I want now

NO deadlines, NO due date, NO time limit, closing time, ultimatum, NO NO NO, not for a god, not when you literally have it now

🪼🐅 stop creating deadlines for yourself, you’re a god who doesn’t need them.

you have it now!!

267 notes · View notes

tired-and-clumsy · 19 hours ago

Text

Ok so this got me too, and I also couldn't find any firsthand source for Gerber and Stettler making "processed cheese". There are a multitude of listings online of people selling "Gerber & Co et Stettler" 'cheese spread' tins apocryphally dated to 1911, but I can find no other proof the company existed, or any information about the products they sold.

James Lewis Kraft first patented a process of preserving cheese on March 25, 1916 (US patent 1,186,524 for the curious) but this was simply a method of pasteurizing cheese while whisking it, and just helped prevent spoilage without any substantial change in the cheese's texture. The whisking was the real novel invention, as otherwise the melting cheese will separate into oil, fat solids, and protein.

Then, on October 28, 1920 a George Herbert Garstin files US patent 1,368,624 - "Cheese and process for sterilizing same" which describes adding Sodium Phosphate to the melted cheese to prevent the breakdown of the protein structures. Garstin charmingly refers to sodium phosphate as "a medicinal substance which is harmless and has the properties of a mild laxative and a liver tonic", and claims it "increases [the cheese's] digestibility" (charming). This is the US in the early 1900s remember, the age of Crisco™. In my mind, this is the first true Kraft-style processed cheese, as it's the first step into scientists recklessly playing god with the structure of cheese.

A great many parents followed, that if I had more time to spend on this aside I would try to sort through and trace, which began to introduce additions of cream or other liquid fat to enhance the product, as well as changing the Sodium Phosphate to Sodium Citrate. This then of course paves the way for the storm of horrifying cheese-based products that inundated the US market, culminating (in my opinion) with the invention of spray cheese by Betty Lou Foods in 1963, notably first advertised with the property of being "perfect for a do-it-yourself dessert" with no further explanation.

The earliest reference to Gerber and Stettler I can find is an article in the Michigan Diary Review titled "Processed Cheese: What is that Stuff Anyway?" by Professor Zeynep Ustunol of the Department of Food Science and Human Nutrition at Michigan State University. Prof. Ustunol is also a member of the American Dairy Science Association, and worked as Editor in Chief of the Journal of Dairy Science, so if anyone would be able to solve this issue it would surely be her. Sadly her article, though it has citations, does not provide any source for the 1911 Gerber and Stettler claim.

Every other source I've found is either a news article later than Ustunol's article without sources, cites Ustunol's article, or cites another source in a chain ending again at the Michigan Dairy Review.

At this point I'm considering an email to Prof. Ustunol, but wording an email to a US professor of food science pertaining to a 15 year old article about cheese in a way that doesn't read as strikingly unhinged is a task that will take some time. If I ever do manage to send the email and receive a response, I will of course update here.

Please also let me know if you find anything that extends any of the loose ends here - I'd love to know more about where all these tins came from, or how on earth Garstin considered putting phosphorus salts into cheese, as well as if there are any earlier articles I missed!

the thing about that weird stuff americans call cheese is that if you heat it a little it becomes an excellent burger condiment despite its failings in every other area. such is the fate of the american cultural product

26K notes · View notes

burningembers91 · 1 day ago

Text

On Display - The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to Freak of Nature

Synopsis: When you break your routine, the Salesman is forced to break his.

A/N: I'm still not sure how dark I want this to be. I mean, he's obviously certifiably insane, but I also want him to retain some likeability.

Warnings: 18+ only, The Salesman is a stalker, the MC has been crying.

Something was off. He sensed it the moment he sat down and spied the empty chair that was usually occupied by your perfect frame. You were never late, and today it was 4:08pm and you were nowhere to be seen. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his molars grinding together as his temples twitched. He didn’t like it when things didn’t go as expected. It was one of the reasons he liked you so much; you were predictable. He knew exactly where you’d be at all times, but today you’d thrown him off his schedule.

You always finished work at 3:30pm sharp. You took 15 minutes to have a catch up with your colleagues, 5 minutes to freshen up in the staff bathroom and then 10 minutes to walk from the school to the coffee house. He’d seen you through the staffroom window, had seen you smile as you spoke to your colleagues. Cursing himself, he adjusted his position on the park bench, smoothing down his grey blazer as he tried to abate his rising anger. He’d had such high hopes for you. You’d done everything exactly the way he'd wanted until today. Of course, you had no idea what it was that he wanted because you had no idea he existed, but that was the beauty of it. He could test you out from afar before deciding whether to approach you. You were so nearly perfect, but today you’d let him down.

He took another look at his watch: 4:11pm. He was a patient man, but even he had his limits. He knew you didn’t have any other plans today. The handy little tracker he’d implanted in your phone one day at the coffee house when you’d been in the bathroom gave him full access to your phone. Your diary was clear, as it always was on a weekday. So where were you? He checked again, staring at your blank calendar as seething rage consumed him. Why, why did you have to break your routine?

His hands began to shake, and he closed his eyes, taking deeps breaths as he counted to ten. Therapy hadn’t been a complete waste of time; he’d learned a few coping mechanisms to help when he felt himself losing control. There had to be an explanation for why you weren’t here. Something must have changed.

Reaching 10, he opened his eyes. And there you were. Your eyes were red, your makeup smudged with tears. You’d been crying. He’d never cried before, could never understand why people did. Nothing in life was worth crying over as far as he was concerned. But something had obviously upset you. Was it your boss? He knew from your work emails that he’d been giving you a hard time. Maybe he needed to pay the man a little visit…

He watched through the window as you dumped your belongings in your usual seat, haphazardly wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands, which only smudged your mascara more. You looked beautiful like this; so vulnerable and soft. He wondered what you sounded like when you cried, whether your sobs were soft and gentle, or whether your body wracked with the tears you shed. He hoped you weren’t an ugly crier; it would be such a shame if you were. He needed to get to the bottom of this, needed to find out who had done this to you.

Picking up his briefcase, he marched into the coffee house. He needed to be careful about how he approached you; the last thing he wanted to do was scare you off. Not after he’d worked so hard to learn everything about you. You were the next in line to order, and he slotted himself behind you with a quiet ease. This was the first time he’d been this close to you, so close he could touch you. The familiar scent of your perfume wrapped him in a comforting blanket. Of course, he’d tracked down the scent and bought himself a bottle, spraying it whenever he couldn’t be near you. You were shorter than him, as he’d expected, but perfect in absolutely every way. He chastised himself for the anger he’d felt for you earlier. Someone else had made you late, had made you cry, and whoever it was would pay.

“One latte please,” you said to the barista, your voice hoarse with tears. He clenched his fist at the sound of your voice, the usual melodic tones now scratchy and gruff. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t right at all. “Please.” He stepped forward without thinking, his default smile plastered to his face. “Let me pay.” You looked up at him, your red rimmed eyes filled with confusion. He watched you take in his appearance, watched the tip of your tongue dart out to wet your lips. He fought to control himself as he watched you, wondering how it would feel to for him to do it, to run his tongue over your lips before biting down until you moaned at him to stop.

He coughed, ridding the overly erotic image from his mind. He’d pictured you in a thousand positions, in a thousand different scenarios, but somehow the simple act of you licking your lips had put him into overdrive. He was struggling to concentrate, losing control of himself. He didn’t like to lose control.

“Thank you,” you finally said, your perfect eyes meeting his. “That’s very kind.” He smiled at you, brushing past you to pay for your coffee, adding his own order. The smell of your perfume was overwhelming, memories of long nights spent inhaling the scent he’d sprayed on his pillows as he pleasured himself to thoughts of you.

What was happening to him? He could feel his stomach dropping, feel a wave of nausea pass through him. Is this what panic felt like? “Would you like to join me?” you asked, taking your coffee from the barista. “Yes,” he managed to say, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead as he followed you and that damned perfume trail to the seat by the window. He was in over his head. He needed to get away.

“I’ve seen you before,” you said to him, as you sat down. “You like to sit on the bench.” You pointed to his usual vantage point, eyeing him curiously. “Yes,” he smiled, “I like to sit and watch the world go by.” He hadn’t realised you’d noticed him; you were always so engrossed in your work. There was that stomach dropping feeling again, but this time it was accompanied by the most delicious feeling, like his stomach was fizzing. His shirt felt too tight, his tie a little too snug around his neck. What the hell was happening to him? Was he losing his edge?

“You like to people watch?” you smiled, “so do I. It’s why I sit here. I find people fascinating.” He was trying to concentrate on what you were saying, but your mascara-streaked cheeks were such a distraction. He wanted to wipe them clean, to remove the inky black stains that spoiled your perfect skin. He wanted to lick away the tear streaks from your face, to tie you down and fuck you until the tears you cried were for him.

You watched him, maintained eye contact as you waited for him to speak. He was so lost in his thoughts that he couldn’t remember what you’d said. “You’ve been crying,” he observed instead. “Why?” You laughed nervously, wiping at your makeup-stained face. “Oh, just ex-boyfriends,” you laughed, “nothing serious.”

Nothing serious?! In all the meticulous research he’d done, there had been no mention of an ex-boyfriend. How serious had it been? Was he still in the picture? Evidently, he was, if he was still able to make you cry. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he managed to say, barely clinging to his polite persona. He wanted to tear this man apart, whoever he was. He wanted to make him feel agonising pain in every inch of his body. You were his, and his alone. He managed to maintain his composure for the rest of your chat, his mind drifting between your perfect features, thoughts of fucking you until you begged him to stop, and thoughts of ripping apart the man who had made you cry. The time was approaching 6:00pm. You’d be heading home soon, to cook some dinner and watch some Netflix, or read a book. He’d have to be content to watch you from the restaurant across the road, your figure outlined in your cream curtain against the soft glow of your lamps.

“You know,” you turned to him as you pulled your coat on, “you don’t have to watch me from the window. If you wanted to talk to me, you could just come and sit down.” You smiled slyly, and left the coffee house without a further word. Never in his life had he been left speechless. He thought he knew you, thought he had you all figured out. He’d spent months learning all there was to know about you. He knew the names of your parents, knew how much money you had in your bank account, knew the name of your first-grade teacher, but you’d blindsided him in a single sentence. You knew he’d been watching you at the coffee house. You knew and you chose to stay in that same spot and let him stare at you every day. You knew what you were doing when you sat in front of the window at 4:00pm each afternoon. You were enticing him. You wanted him to play with you. You put yourself on display for him.

As he followed you to your apartment, a good few meters apart so you didn’t catch on, he couldn’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, after all this time he’d finally met his match.

#squid game x you #squid game x reader #squid game 2 #squid game #the salesman #the salesman x reader #the salesman fanfic #gong yoo #the salesman x you #the salesman squid game

367 notes · View notes

st4rg8te · 2 days ago

Text

The Villainess' Redemption (P. 1?)

Various! Yanderes X Ex-Villainess! Reader

✦✧✦✧

Synopsis: You were once the villainess from some poorly-written romance novel, and somehow, you’ve ended up taking the place of a girl who shared your name—a girl who died while reading your story.

This world is different. Here, you’re no longer tied to a script or doomed to a villainess’s fate. Can you rewrite your ending, and find a place for yourself in this new reality?

(aka cliche villainess reader gets transported into the modern times and suffers a lot)

✦✧✦✧

The last thing you remember is the swing of the executioner’s blade against your neck—a fitting end for all the terrible crimes you’ve committed.

Or so you thought.

When you wake up, it’s not the fiery pits of hell that greet you, but a room unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Through blurred vision, you make out walls impossibly smooth and white, gleaming like polished marble. The light above burns unnaturally bright. The air is sharp and clean, carrying a faint, acrid tang that prickles at your nose.

Was this the afterlife?

Thin tubes are attached to your skin, running from your veins into strange machines you can’t begin to understand. A spike of panic grips you, your breath quickening as your mind scrambles for an explanation.

What if you weren't dead? What if they kept you alive to make you suffer more?

Your trembling hands brush over your body, and your face burns when you realize they’ve stripped you of your former clothes. You’re left in plain, white garments—clean, but thin and exposing.

The indignity is almost as much as the confusion, but you swallow it down, determined to unravel the mystery of this waking nightmare.

On the table beside you lies a book, its presence almost unnoticeable in the room. Yet something about it draws your attention, an unspoken pull that makes your hand reach out despite the unease in your gut.

The front is adorned with a vivid illustration: a man and a woman locked in a tender embrace, their faces soft with affection. There’s something hauntingly familiar about their faces, though you can’t immediately place why.

The title, etched in bold, flowing letters, reads: Enchanted by Fate.

You flip the book open, its pristine pages cool and crisp beneath your trembling fingers.

At first, it seems harmless—a typical romance, the kind that young noble ladies often liked to read. But as your eyes skim the text, a dreadful recognition dawns.

The names leap off the page like venomous snakes: his name—your old lover—and her.

Your heart pounds as anger flares, spreading through your chest. You can almost see her face again, the one who orchestrated your downfall, the one who plunged the blade into your back long before the executioner ever did.

Then your fingers freeze.

Your name.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing your life, your crimes, and your eventual execution. The words blur as the memories resurface—the blade, the crowd, the jeers. Your breath hitches, and the sterile air suddenly feels suffocating.

You slam the book shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the room, and throw it across the floor. It lands with a dull thud, pages spilling open like a gutted beast, taunting you from where it lies.

That book knew everything. It was impossible. Yet it was real.

With your mind still reeling from what you've just read, you fail to notice the woman entering the room.

Then, the sound of her voice cuts through the fog.

“She’s awake!”

You must have been right. This is your own personal hell.

✦✧✦✧

Human beings are resilient.

So, despite the mental blows you've suffered in a single day, you slowly begin to adjust to your strange new existence in the hospital over the following weeks.

There's so much about this world that you don’t understand, and begrudgingly, you admit that it still frightens you. You can’t shake the feeling that this is all some form of witchcraft.

The nurses, though kind, remind you of your old maids, their faces polite but distant as they introduce you to odd contraptions you can't begin to comprehend.

They call it technology, and they show you things like a 'television,' a box that displays moving images as though alive, and a 'toilet' that can swallow waste with a single flush—something that still seems impossible to you.

They find your lack of knowledge a little concerning, but none of them have the courage to say anything about it, chalking it up to a side effect of your memory loss.

It’s humiliating beyond words to be treated like a clueless child. The condescending tones, the endless explanations of things that feel like they should be second nature—it grates on you until the frustration threatens to spill over as tears.

In your past life, you were always the one in control. You were the influential daughter of a noble family—admired and feared by many. Now, all of that feels like a distant memory, a cruel joke played by fate.

You feel lost.

But the worst part—the part you can never quite confront—is the stranger in the mirror. The face staring back is not your own. You're told she shares your name, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

You can't help but avert your eyes every time you see reflections of yourself.

“[Y/N], are you doing okay today?”

The deep, gentle voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. When you look up, a handsome man comes into focus.

It’s Your Doctor ♡.

Initially, he took an interest in you purely out of professional obligation. Your case was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He had treated patients with amnesia in the past, but never one as severe as yours. Especially considering the circumstances of why you were admitted in the first place. You reminded him of a wild animal—eyes darting with mistrust and fear, shrinking away from your surroundings. And yet, against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to you, compelled by the need to unravel the mystery of your mind. While you lacked even the most basic understanding of modern conveniences, certain skills and knowledge seemed to come to you effortlessly. You could converse fluently in multiple languages. You knew the names and precise uses of every piece of cutlery, from fish forks to soup spoons, and could recount their placement in a formal table setting. It was truly strange. He began to set aside his busy work, stealing moments during breaks to visit your room. It became a routine—teaching you; how to use a water dispenser, explaining the functions of a phone, or describing the significance of certain holidays and traditions.. He relished the way your face would light up in awe at the simplest things. The wonder in your eyes made him feel like he was witnessing the world anew, through your gaze. He still chuckles quietly to himself when he remembers your reaction to the television. The way you gasped, wide-eyed and almost frozen, as moving images flickered across the screen—it was unforgettable. “Pft.” The sound escaped him, soft but audible. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks, stunned. She had worked with the doctor for years and had never seen him laugh—let alone blush. Yet here he was, smirking to himself like a schoolboy with a crush. After that, whispers began to circulate through the halls: that the hospital’s famous bachelor had fallen for someone.

"I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking, doctor."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, his tone warm. "And you don't have to be so formal with me."

He sits down by your bedside, eyes curved upwards in a gentle smile as he begins to speak again.

"You're being discharged this afternoon. You'll be able to go home soon."

"Home?"

Would that mean that you would have to meet the body owner's family?

Throughout your entire stay at the hospital, not once had anyone visited you except the doctor and the nurse who attended to you daily.

A knot of nervousness forms in your stomach at the thought of finally meeting those people. What if they found your behavior too strange? What if they saw through you?

They didn’t know the truth—that their daughter was gone. Replaced by a stranger.

The doctor seems to notice the shift in your demeanor. Without hesitation, he reaches over, his hand warm and steady as it rests over yours. The gentle squeeze pulls you back to reality.

"Don’t worry," he says softly. "If you feel any pain or discomfort, please don’t hesitate to let me know. And I can give you my contact information—you can call or text me if you need help with anything."

"I... I’ve troubled you enough already," your eyes are fixed firmly on the bedspread, unable to meet his intense gaze.

Maybe it is normal in this world for women and men to touch eachother so casually like this.

"Nonsense," He replies with a chuckle. "Helping you is my job, after all ♡."

In the end, you are sent off with a small bag containing all your belongings and a crisp white slip of paper in hand, the string of digits scribbled neatly on it.

He watches you walk away, his gaze never wavering. A part of him wishes you had stayed longer.

He exhales a long, quiet sigh, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile. You’ll call him soon.

And when you do, he’ll be there, ready to help.

✦✧✦✧

To your surprise, a nurse leads you to what they call a “car” parked in front of the hospital entrance—a carriage without horses. You feel a small flicker of pride in yourself for remembering the term.

It moves faster than any carriage you’ve ever known. And as the scenery blurs by, you can’t help but press your face to the window, eyes wide with wonder. Towering buildings scrape the sky, their glass and steel glinting in the sunlight. The bustling streets are filled with all kinds of people from all walks of life.

The driver eventually steers the car away from the bustling scene, guiding it into a quieter neighborhood. The streets narrow, and the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, more subdued structures. Finally, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, old building.

"Have a nice day, miss."

"Ah… thank you," you say softly as you step out, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

The car drives off, and then you're finally left alone.

You turn to face the building, its weathered facade staring back at you. Compared to the grand mansion where you spent your entire life, this place feels cramped and shabby, its age evident in the peeling paint and creaking steps. Rows of numbered doors line each floor, stretching upward in a vertical maze.

Navigating the unfamiliar hallways proves to be a challenge, every turn leaving you more disoriented. When you finally find the staircase, you hesitate. The nurse had mentioned “elevators,” those strange boxes that carried people between floors. But the thought of stepping inside one fills you with unease.

Shaking off the idea, you take the stairs instead, the journey upward feeling longer than it should. Your legs ache with every step, and by the time you reach the supposed floor you live on, you’re out of breath.

At last, you find your door. Apartment 303. The brass plaque gleams faintly in the dim hallway light.

"Hello?"

You knock on the door, but only silence greets you. Anxiety begins to coil in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You glance around the empty hallway, hoping for a sign, a clue—anything. But nothing comes.

Your gaze shifts to the pad mounted beside the door. The arrangement of numbers stares back at you. It should be easy, you tell yourself. Just enter the code.

You press the first digit, then the second. It feels right—like you’re doing what you’re supposed to—but when you hit the final key, the pad lights up red and emits a harsh beep.

Locked.

Your heart sinks. You try again. But the result is the same: a flash of red and that sharp, cold beep.

Again.

Each failure making your frustration rise. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the sudden overwhelming pressure of everything catches up to you.

The tears spill over, warm streaks running down your cheeks as quiet sobs escape your lips. You feel pathetic.

You miss your family.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think about them until now—not fully. But their faces stay clear in your mind.

You miss your father’s embrace, your mother’s soothing voice, the way your brothers would tease and protect you in equal measure.

But they are gone. All of them, condemned to death because of your stupid actions.

And now, here you are—trapped in this foreign land, surrounded by incomprehensible machines and alien customs. The people here don’t know you, and you’re certain they never could. You’re an imposter in a world that feels as if it’s actively rejecting you.

And for the first time since you woke up in this strange world, you let yourself finally admit the truth.

You don’t belong here.

✦✧✦✧

"Holy shit lady, are you okay?"

The last thing Your Neighbor ♡ had expected after coming home was to find you sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably by your apartment door.

The two of you have exchanged pleasantries a handful of times, maybe a nod or a muttered “hello” in passing. But it had still worried him a little when he hadn’t seen you in months. Hell, he even figured you’d finally had enough of this place and moved out for good.

"Do you… need help?" he asks, stepping closer cautiously.

Your face burns with embarrassment. You quickly wipe at your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling as you try to compose yourself.

"I just… I can’t get the door to open.."

His eyes flickers to the lock and then back to you. "What, the code’s not working?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze. "I… I’ve tried it so many times, but it keeps locking me out," you say, your voice wavering. "Do you know how to open it?"

"Yeah, I can take a look. Just give me the code."

As he steps closer to the keypad, you wipe at your eyes again, trying to salvage what is left of your dignity.

What is wrong with you? Your mother would have been disappointed at you acting like this.

"Hey," he say after a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Don’t sweat it. This lock’s a piece of crap. Happens to me all the time."

"Um... do you know if anyone else lives in this place with me?"

The man tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I don’t think so."

A part of you feels relieved. The idea of facing her family—the family you now supposedly belong to—had been gnawing at you since you left the hospital. At least you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

But at the same time, the thought of living alone makes your stomach twist. You’ve never been on your own before. In your old life, you were always surrounded by people—your parents, the servants, ready to spoil you rotten. You never once thought about what it would be like to have to manage on your own.

This is your punishment.

The irony isn’t lost on you. The gods must have seen how you mocked her—your father’s bastard. You used to laugh at her and make fun of her upbringing. Now you can't help but think that she would have done much better if she was in your situation.

"Thanks." you mutter finally, your voice barely audible.

She wouldn't have cried over some stupid door like this and humiliate herself in front of a random man!

"Anyway, that's how you do it. If you need help with anything else, just knock on my door-"

BAM!

Before he could finish his sentence, you were already gone.

✦✧✦✧

Your Neighbor ♡ thought that would be the last time you two would really talk to eachother.

Every time he saw you in the hallway or from across the parking lot, you’d scurry away like a startled rabbit, avoiding eye contact. He figured you were just shy—or maybe embarrassed about how you’d met. Either way, he didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So, he was surprised when, a week later, there was a knock on his door.

When he opened it, there you stood, cheeks flushed an indignant pink, holding a neatly folded napkin in your hands.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"I made it for you," you said, thrusting it toward him. "It’s a gift for helping me that day."

He unfolded the napkin and blinked in surprise. His name was carefully stitched onto the fabric, surrounded by flower motifs.

"Holy shit. You made this?"

It was the sweetest gift he had ever received.

I-I noticed you seem to… sweat a lot. Whenever I see you. I thought it might help," you added, the words tumbling out in a rush.

It took him a second to register what you’d said, and when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s because I go to the gym a lot. Not because I’m just… sweating everywhere."

Your eyes widened, mortified. "Oh! I didn’t mean—"

He grinned, cutting you off. "Relax, it’s thoughtful. Thanks."

There was an awkward pause before he gestured behind him. "You want to come in?"

That moment marked the beginning of something—he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Friendship? Maybe. But that night, over tea, you finally opened up and told him about your memory loss.

A protective instinct had sparked in him the day he found you crying outside your apartment, and it only grew stronger as the two of you started spending more time together.

Before long, it became a routine—going back and forth between apartments, sharing meals, and finding small ways to help each other.

You didn’t know how to cook, so he often brought over dinner and started teaching you how to make simple meals. At first, you were hesitant, your pride making you stubborn, but he patiently guided you through every step.

Grocery shopping became another shared activity, with him pointing out what to buy and explaining things you didn’t recognize. Though he did like to tease you whenever you added far too many sweets to the cart.

One day, he had casually mentioned his interest in learning an instrument, and before he could blink, you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to teach him. Your enthusiasm embarrassed him at first, but he couldn’t say no to you.

When you discovered the dusty electronic keyboard he’d tucked away in a storage box, your eyes had lit up like it was treasure. From that moment on, you became his self-appointed music tutor, insisting it was your way of repaying him for everything.

“Why do I feel like you’re only spending time with me for the keyboard?” he jokingly asked after yet another lesson.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m doing this because I want to help you.”

He couldn’t hold back his grin.

The more time he spent with you, the harder he fell. You were blunt and prideful, but also sweet and endearing in a way that caught him off guard. When he told you about his job as a club bodyguard, you had compared him to a knight, which made him burst out laughing.

On his way to the gym, a nosy neighbor had stopped him. “So, are you two dating yet? I remember her asking around about your name once.”

He blinked in surprise before the memory clicked. It must have been when you made that embroidered napkin for him. The image of you nervously going door to door asking around, too shy to talk to him directly, made his chest tighten.

Without thinking, his hand drifted to his pocket, where he still kept the cloth. He was on cloud nine the entire day.

Ah, he’d ask you to be his girlfriend soon. That much he was sure of. If only you weren’t so wary of relationships—and that other man who kept hanging around you. How irritating.

The man claimed to be your doctor, but what kind of doctor visited his patients so often? He wasn’t naive, and he could see the way the guy looked at you, the way he lingered too long in your presence. He knew those signs well enough.

Well, no matter. He’d just have to keep a closer eye on you.

After all, you were his to protect.

✦✧✦✧

EXTRA:

After slamming the door in the man’s face, you sighed in relief.

Finally, some peace.

Turning to the apartment, you fumbled around for the light switch. When the bright light flickered on, it hit you—and so did the sight in front of you.

"What the hell?!"

The walls were plastered with posters—of him. Your old betrothed. His smug face stared back at you from every direction, alongside her, the woman who ruined your life.

You froze, taking it all in. It wasn’t just posters. There were figurines, framed photos, and even a pillow with his face on it.

It didn’t take long to figure out the awful truth. The girl whose body you’d taken wasn’t just any stranger—she was a die-hard fan of the book you came from.

✦✧✦✧

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this wacky gift for New Years. I plan to introduce 2 more love interests if I ever get to writing the second part. They're like color coded. Anyway, this was like massive compared to my other works.

I'm still writing Twisted Affections Pt. 3, but some pieces of smut are probably going to come out before that. Thank you for patience!

✦✧✦✧

#yandere writing #reader insert #x reader #yandere x you #yandere blog #tw yandere #fem reader #yandere x reader #villainess reader #female reader #male yandere #oc x reader

227 notes · View notes

claymoresword · 3 days ago

Text

I Choose Her | Stand Alone Series: Chapter 3

Hermione Granger x Slytherin Fem!Reader

Summary: A few years post 'Battle Of Hogwarts', y/n decides to buy her and Hermione a home that they can move into as newlyweds.

Pairing: Hermione x Reader

Wordcount: 2.8k

Warnings: smut, jealous hermione, g!p reader, dom hermione (in theory), penis in vagina sex, cunnilingus, possesive hermione is hot, porn very little plot

Note: hello! so i've had this drafted for months but just never had the motivation to finish it but i finally forced myself to write since i was missing hermione, so here it is :) this isn't an original idea (loosely inspired by a scene in a film) and i'm embarrassed to admit which movie gave me the idea so i won't say it but iykyk. anyway, enjoy!

Taglist: @aweidlich @xxsekhmet @poppyflower-22 @cocoyeehaw @blackbirdv98 @arcturusseer @cherryflavoredcoke @js-a-writer @baylegend6 @t-wylia @raven-ss @unexpected-character @brocoliisscared @aki-ham @theheartwants-what-itwants

"Make a left here." You say as you point to the turn coming ahead. Hermione merely scoffs, begrudgingly turning the steering wheel.

"Will you just tell me where you're taking us?" She asks, your wife's brows are furrowed the same way it has been the entire drive, but still, you don't give in.

Shaking your head, you respond. "Have patience, darling.. you'll see soon enough."

Although that does nothing to soothe Hermione's curiosity; her scowl only deepens.

She takes her eyes off the road for a moment to glare at you. "You know that I hate surprises."

"Oh you'll like this one, I'm sure of it." You declare with a certain conviction, soon leaning in to place a chaste kiss on Hermione's cheek.

As you almost earn a smile, you continue to kiss along Hermione's jaw before reaching up to part her hair away and doing the same on the shell of her ear.

You nip at it, and this time Hermione doesn't fight back her giggle as she squirms, shrugging you off. “Stop it, you rogue– I'm driving.” Your wife warns, and you eventually relent, leaning back in your seat as you travel further into the outskirts of London.

Gone is the bustling city, now there is only a long winding road, shaded with tall oak trees.

For a while it seems as though the journey may never end, but soon enough, a large property comes into view.

Ten acres of wood and stone, the house sits perfectly at the end of the road. It remains still and empty, abandoned for nearly a century, but it is a glorious sight nonetheless.

“Why have you brought me here?” Hermione questions as she slows the car, before it eventually comes to a complete halt.

You don't respond just yet, your bottom lip is set in between your lips in excitement as you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing out of the vehicle.

Hermione follows suit, eager for an explanation.

You step in front of the car before speaking.

“You once told me.. when we were looking for places to stay in London, that you liked the look of this house. So I bought it.” You explain with a growing smile, glancing at the home once more.

As you take in the sight of the house and the surrounding scenery, Hermione stares at you as though you had gone mad, but inevitably, a smile also graces her delicate features.

“You are a complete imbecile.” Your wife remarks, although there is no bite to her words. It is cushioned even further with the way she practically jumps into your arms.

You chuckle as your hand rests on the small of Hermione's back. She clings to you, enthusiastically peppering kisses all over your face.

You wince at the contact, but a grin tugs on the corners of your mouth all the same. “I've made a good decision then?”

“Yes, it's- I love it. Reminds me of the lakehouse my parents owned.” Hermione admits.

She takes a step back, keeping her hands on your shoulders as she marvels at the large house with an almost childlike wonder.

Your chest brims with pride at her expression, and you proceed to intertwine your hands with Hermione's so you may walk together.

“Come, let's go see inside.” You urge, giving your wife's arm a tug, but she doesn't budge.

Instead Hermione pulls you back towards her, capturing your lips with her own for a searing kiss, her grip remains firm on your collar.

As your fingers get lost in her hair, you move to deepen the kiss, however you are abruptly interrupted by the sound of another car pulling into the driveway.

“Ah, that must be the muggle architect I hired.” You state watching as the silver car parked next to your own.

“Look, we don't have to change a thing if you don't want to.. but I figured it would be good to have a second opinion.” You express and Hermione swiftly nods, her hand remains on the nape of your neck as you both turn your attention to the curly haired brunette that emerges from the car.

The woman smiles at you as she approaches.

“Mrs Y/N, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” The architect greets, surprising you by pulling you into a hug.

After the initial shock subsided, you stiffly embrace her in return, before shifting your gaze towards Hermione.

“This is my wife, Hermione.” You introduce, and the architect finally releases you from her hold.

“Hermione, I am Emilia.” The woman says, only regarding your wife with a firm handshake in contrast.

“This location is excellent, I am going to build you a fabulous house.” Emilia avows, her hand somehow finds your shoulder this time. Her touch lingers uncomfortably, and you catch the way Hermione is staring daggers at the other woman.

You clear your throat, deliberately taking your wife's hand in your own. “I'd like to show Hermione inside.”

“Ofcourse.” Emilia beams, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. “This way.”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

On the inside, the house appears somehow worse for wear. The walls are caked in dust, the wallpaper and paint cracking, but it is expected, and the interior remains gorgeous nonetheless.

More importantly, you know that Hermione prefers houses like this, one with a rich history.

“This is beautiful.” Your wife gaped as you all stepped into the spacious kitchen.

“Really, you like it?” You inquire, making the mental note of keeping the kitchen as it is.

“Yes, it's perfect Y/n.” Hermione utters as she walks around the room, inspecting the aged furnishings.

“Good.” You mutter with a relieved sigh as you take off your blazer to hang it over the barstool.

“It's hot in here, isn't it?” Emilia's voice is sudden as she enters the kitchen with a roll of blueprints in hand.

“That's why I think it would be best to get rid of this old brick and instead replace it with some temperature resistant concrete.” The architect suggests, but as you open your mouth to respond you are distracted by the way Hermione falls in next to you.

She drapes her arm around your shoulder in an almost possessive fashion, her body is flush against your own, as though to eliminate any chance of space in between you.

You wrap your own arm around her waist as a way to reciprocate.

Emilia proceeds to roll out the blueprint onto the kitchen island so the three of you may look at it. “So, this is what I have in mind.”

“A state of the art, self-sufficient smart home. Marine steel with self-cleaning glass, a guest wing and an entertaining area to the west.” She continues, and you notice the way Hermione tilts her head as the architect speaks.

You know your wife well enough to understand that she only does so when she disapproves of something.

“and this, infinity pool” Emilia says as she points to the top half of the blueprint. “It will overlook a gorgeous view of the lake.” She finishes, unnecessarily reaching across the island to touch your arm.

You clench your jaw, now starting to grow agitated with the architect’s incessant attempts to flirt with you right in front of Hermione.

You feel the way your wife's hold on you tightens, she clears her throat before addressing Emilia directly.

“So you plan to tear the entire house down?” Your wife challenges and Emilia flashes an insincere smile once more.

“Why not? It is incredibly dated.” The architect remarks, glancing at you for a reaction.

“I like it, it adds character.” Hermione interjects, she threads her fingers through your hair, now demanding your attention.

You hear Emilia scoff, she continues to address your wife in a condescending tone. “Well, a new house would be a statement. Ecologically efficient– truthfully these older homes are very impractical.”

“Eitherway, it's up to you.” Emilia speaks to you directly, her fingers brushing your forearm once more.

The architect's lack of subtlety makes your brows knit together in annoyance, you look to Hermione to find her wearing a similar look on her face. Although you also notice the way her sharp gaze is now brimming with anger.

“Actually it is up to my wife. What Hermione says goes.” You declare, squeezing Hermione's waist reassuringly before removing yourself so you may look at the pool table in the study.

As you explore further, you somewhat manage to overhear the things Hermione is saying to the architect.

“Please stop speaking to my wife as if I weren't here.” Even in a hushed tone, your wife's frustration is palpable.

You can hear Emilia's chuckle, laced with condescension, no doubt, although as she tries to respond, Hermione interrupts. “This is not your prestige project, this is going to be my home.”

“If you want this job, I suggest you stop making eyes at my wife and keep your hands to yourself.” Your wife concludes firmly and only silence follows afterwards.

As you wait for a response from Emilia, you reach out for the eight ball atop the pool table, fiddling with it.

The architect soon speaks, and you listen closely in added intrigue.

“That is ridiculous, Hermione I would never–” Emilia attempts to continue the farce, but Hermione refuses to tolerate the disrespect any longer.

Your wife sighs. “I have decided this is not going to work, my wife and I don't require your services after all.”

“What? I–” Emilia stutters in evident shock, but Hermione's patience has been stretched thin.

“Do shut the door on your way out– drive safe.” Hermione instructs curtly, and more stunned silence follows before you finally hear the rustling of papers followed by the echo of footsteps heading towards the front door.

As you hear the door shut, the noise is swiftly followed by more footsteps, Hermione's heels against the hardwood flooring as she enters the room you are currently standing in.

You observe the way your wife is looking at you; she appears almost like a predator, staking her claim.

“She's gone?” You ask the obvious and Hermione nods, she gets close enough to wrap her arms around your neck.

“I think you should hire someone else.” She states in a lighthearted tone and you let out a huff in amusement, your hands find Hermione's waist as you reply. “Alright, darling, I will.”

Hermione hums in satisfaction before leaning in, her lips meet your own for a heated kiss.

You only break away once your chest is heaving.

“I've been in the presence of actual Death Eaters, and you are more intimidating than most of them.” You quip and Hermione smirks at your statement, but otherwise, she continues to look at you in a way that suggests she wasn't exactly in the mood for conversation.

“Shall we see the rest of the house?” You attempt, and your wife shakes her head in disagreement.

“Not yet.” Hermione contends and your breath hitches in your throat as her hand finds your rear, harshly holding you in place.

“You're mine.” She asserts and this time you smile, matching her intense gaze.

“Yes. All yours, my sweet.” You seal your promise by kissing the column of Hermione's throat. Your wife's hand shifts to the back of your head in approval as she bares her neck to you.

You continue to kiss her, earning a breathy moan as you sucked on her tender flesh, Hermione proceeds to tug on your hair so she may guide your mouth towards her own once more.

She kisses you passionately, open mouthed and wanting, Hermione's tongue clashes against your own repeatedly as her hands roamed your frame.

Eventually, her palm settles on your groin over your slacks, and you aren't able to fully comprehend what was happening before you can feel Hermione's enchantment working.

The shaft begins to form within your underwear, and the familiar sensation causes you to groan, it is only heightened as Hermione boldly palms your cock.

“Hermione–” You barely manage as your lips separate for an instant; your wife doesn't speak, but the gleam in her stare still manages to send a thrill through your body.

“My love, please–” You find yourself muttering pathetically, as you ground yourself into her touch.

Hermione gives your shaft one last squeeze before pulling her hand away. “I know, baby” Your wife coos, and you watch as she lifts her dress up to her thighs before languidly removing her black laced underwear.

“I want to feel your mouth first.” She admits as she settles her rear atop the edge of the pool table.

As Hermione parts her legs, you don't need to be told what to do next.

You kneel before her eagerly, trailing a path of wet kisses along her inner thigh before your tongue inevitably makes contact with her hot, weeping core.

Hermione gasps aloud at the sensation of your tongue on her heat. Her fist clenches in your hair once more as you begin to pleasure her with your mouth.

“Yes..” Hermione moans and you slide your tongue skillfully in between her folds. You repeat the motion a few times before settling your mouth over her sensitive clit so you can suck on it.

Hermione is already trembling once you slip your tongue inside of her. You revel in the way your wife moans aloud.

You soon break away to lap at her folds, and as your tongue makes contact with her clit again, Hermione finally comes undone.

Your wife throws her head back as her climax rips through her. You hold onto her thighs as she writhes, her hold on the back of your head is painful, in truth, but you don't care.

“Y/n,” Hermione utters breathlessly, as you place one last peck upon her swollen folds before standing up to meet her in an urgent kiss.

Your wife does not waste anymore time, matching your eagerness as her hands find your belt. She unclasps it with trembling hands, and you moan as she slips one hand inside of your slacks to grip the base of your shaft.

Her thumb then traces the tip of your cock before assisting you in pulling off your pants completely. As you kick them off, Hermione doesn't let go of your length, leaning back onto the pool table.

You swiftly follow her lead, as though in a trance, climbing on top of your wife.

Hermione hastily pulls down the top of her dress until they fall to reveal her breasts. You then eagerly take them in your mouth, licking and sucking on her hard nipples. Your lover rewards you with more gasps of pleasure.

Hermione tugs on your hair habitually, and once your face is hovering over her own, your wife kisses you again, stroking your length simultaneously.

You feel her leg settle around your waist as she lines up the tip of your cock to her entrance.

Meeting her halfway, you move in a fluid motion, and soon you are sheathed inside of her to the hilt. The moan that rips out of Hermione afterwards causes your cock to twitch desperately inside of her.

"Fuck–” You groan, retracting your hips slightly before pushing deep inside of her once more.

Your wife's nails begin to dig into your back through your blouse, you can feel the way she is desperately trying to pull you closer.

You oblige her, your mouth eventually finds the base of Hermione's jaw as you continue to pump in and out of her at an urgent pace.

Hermione is incoherent, she is mewling and whimpering with every movement of your hips as your cock never fails to reach just the right spots within her after each thrust.

“Y/n– don't stop” Your wife eventually manages through her heavy pants, and you can already sense her second orgasm approaching.

You don't stop, instead, bracing your hands on either side of her head, you lift yourself up before rutting into her wildly. The lewd noises of your joining fills the vast room, and Hermione's whimpers soon morph into a loud moan as she reaches her peak on your cock.

The way the walls of her cunt flutters around your shaft was maddening, and the sudden gush of arousal that coats your girth instigates your own release.

Your entire body tenses as you orgasm, mere seconds after your wife.

Your heavy breathing matches Hermione's as you collapse on top of her, for awhile all you can feel is her arms and legs draped around you, along with her soft lips against your ear.

“Perhaps I should make you jealous more often.” You mutter in a playful tone once you regain your bearings.

Your joke earns a firm slap from Hermione, one that lands directly on your bare rear.

“Don't get any ideas.” Your wife warns sternly.

#hermione granger imagine #hermione x reader #slytherin au #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #g!p #hermione granger smut #hermione smut #g!p reader

212 notes · View notes

im-so-normal-iswear · 2 days ago

Note

Hellooooo!

I have an idea and I am going to give it to you if you want.

Reader that is deaf, Yandere!Sonic, yandere!Knuckles, yandere!Shadow (separately) the bois didn't know that reader is deaf until eggman's robots decided to attacked them. They called out for reader but only to realize that reader is deaf.

A/n: these were kind of rushed

Yandere!Sonic/Knuckles/Shadow x Deaf Reader

Sonic:

Being around Sonic was always an adventure. His constant energy and carefree attitude could light up any situation, and for someone like you, Sonic's world was exhilarating. He’d often dash off mid-sentence, leaving you to guess what he was saying, but you didn’t mind. His antics spoke volumes on their own.

What Sonic didn’t know about you, however, was your deafness. You’d learned to adapt, reading lips, watching expressions, and observing the world carefully. Sonic, being Sonic, never noticed. His world moved so fast that he didn’t question why you didn’t always respond immediately or why you tilted your head to watch him so closely.

It all came down one day when Eggman’s robots attacked. You were walking through Green Hill Zone, enjoying the breeze, when the ground trembled beneath your feet. Sonic, as usual, showed up in a flash, shouting something. You didn’t catch it, but you smiled at him and nodded.

"Hey! You’ve gotta get out of here!" Sonic yelled, but when you didn’t move, his smile faltered. He darted to your side, grabbed your hand, and led you away from the battle.

As you both reached a safe spot, he turned to you, his brow furrowed. "Why didn’t you move when I told you to?"

You could tell he was upset, but before you could explain, another explosion erupted, and Sonic raced back. He took down the robots effortlessly, but his mind was racing faster than his feet. Something wasn’t adding up.

After the battle, Sonic confronted you again. His normally carefree demeanor was replaced by concern "Hey, you’re gonna tell me what’s going on, right?"

When you finally explained your deafness, Sonic’s eyes widened. At first, he was stunned, then guilty, and finally, protective.

"Oh, man... I had no idea. That’s why you didn’t move?" He paused, running a hand through his quills. "I can’t believe I didn’t notice. You could’ve gotten hurt!"

From that moment on, Sonic became glued to your side. He was always watching you, ensuring you were safe. He started learning sign language, obsessively practicing until he could communicate with you fluently. While his efforts seemed sweet at first, his protective nature quickly became suffocating.

"I can’t leave you alone," he’d say, standing in your doorway as you tried to explain that you needed space. "What if something happens? What if I’m not there to protect you?"

Sonic’s world was fast-paced, but when it came to you, he was willing to slow down, if only to keep you by his side.

Knuckles:

Knuckles wasn’t one for small talk. His nature meant he rarely spoke more than necessary, which suited you just fine. Your communication with him was largely through gestures and expressions, and he didn’t question it. To him, it felt natural, like the two of you shared an unspoken bond.

But that bond was tested the day Eggman’s robots came for the Master Emerald. You had been helping Knuckles keep watch, your presence a calming effect on him. When the first robot appeared, Knuckles barked out a command.

"Get back! I’ll handle this!"

You didn’t move, too focused on the robot’s sudden approach. Knuckles sighed in frustration, rushing to shield you. After taking down the first wave, he turned to you, his eyes blazing with anger.

"I told you to move! Why didn’t you listen? Are you even listening?"

Your confusion must have shown on your face, because Knuckles stopped mid-rant. His fists unclenched as realization dawned. "Wait... can you even hear me?"

When you shook your head, tears stinging your eyes as you signed your explanation, Knuckles froze. He wasn’t mad at you, he was furious with himself.

"I didn’t know..." he muttered, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. "You’ve been here all this time, and I never noticed."

From that day forward, Knuckles became overbearing. He was always by your side, watching you like a hawk. He insisted on teaching you how to defend yourself, his training sessions grueling and relentless.

"You need to be able to protect yourself if I’m not there," he’d say, though the thought of leaving you alone made him sick to his stomach.

Knuckles’ obsession with your safety only grew. He’d isolate you on Angel Island, insisting it was the only place you’d be truly safe. "I alone, am capable enough to protect you" he’d say, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Shadow:

Shadow was observant by nature. It didn’t take him long to notice that something was different about you. You rarely reacted to loud noises, and your eyes were always focused on his lips when he spoke. Still, he didn’t say anything, content to keep his suspicions to himself.

That changed during a mission to stop Eggman. You were part of the team, assisting while Shadow handled the heavy lifting. When the attack came, Shadow barked out a command.

"Get to cover!"

You didn’t respond, your attention fixed on the approaching danger. Shadow cursed under his breath, teleporting to your side just in time to shield you from an explosion.

After the battle, he confronted you, his eyes narrowed. "Why didn’t you listen to me?"

When you explained your deafness, Shadow’s expression didn’t change, but his mind was racing. He hated the thought of you being vulnerable, especially in a fight.

"You should’ve told me," he said, his voice cold. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

From that moment on, Shadow took it upon himself to protect you. His methods were extreme, he shadowed your every move, ensuring you were never out of his sight. He even went as far as to demand that you stay out of battles entirely.

"You’re a liability," he’d say, though that wasntbthe full truth. Shadow didn’t see you as a weakness, he saw you as his responsibility. And in his mind, that meant keeping you safe at all cost, even if it meant controlling every aspect of your life.

"You don’t need anyone else," his voice soft yet chilling. "I’ll protect you. Always."

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic x reader #sonic the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #yandere shadow #yandere sonic the hedgehog #yandere #yandere shadow the hedgehog #yandere sonic #yandere sonic the hedgehog x reader #yandere shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog #shadow #knuckles x reader #yandere knuckles x reader

167 notes · View notes