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writesvani · 4 months ago

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coming down | teaser

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to- enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): underage use of marijuana and cigars, underage drinking, use of illegal substances, anorexia and obsessive dieting, calorie deficit, mentions of self-destructive behavior, angst, emotional manipulation and trauma, toxic friendship dynamics, self-esteem issues and body image, unresolved romantic tension, past betrayal and unrequited love, sexual harassment (implied in some interactions), foul language and explicit content, derogatory language, including use of "puss" and other insults, toxic romantic relationships and behavior, references to manipulation and control in relationships, most characters are morally gray, flawed, and engage in problematic behavior, complex, imperfect characters who make questionable decisions, characters often act in ways that challenge traditional moral boundaries and ethics.

THESE CHARACTERS ARE NOT MEANT TO BE PERFECT AND IDOLIZED.

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST

— next chapter

wc: 2,4k // date: 4th of March 2025

TEASER — Wicked Games; proceed with caution...

AN: OKAY OKAY OKAY WOW HERE SHE IS. i don’t know what the hell I’m writing - i mean i do but i don’t if that makes sense - this, this fanfic is literally gonna be my baby. it’s inspired by a lot of people i know, it’s partly inspired by my life as well - not gonna tell you which bits of it tho haha. but i’m so excited. honestly this isn’t even chapter one - i’m thinking more of it as a teaser for what’s about to come and when i tell you a lot is coming you better believe it. but this is going to be a part of me - something raw and something real and i know this won’t be an easy read - as you can see by the triggers but i truly, really hope you guys will like it as much as I enjoy writing it. because i’m obsessed. i just got sucked in by y/n and gojo’s dynamic of hatred and toxicity, they’re on my mind 24/7.

i love them.

i hate them.

i wanna be them and i’d hate it if i ended up becoming them at the same time.

love, vani 🩷

"No, I’m not going."

"Yes, you totally are."

"No, I’m not, Yumi. I’m dead serious."

"Y/n, for the love of Christ, I love you, but if you don’t stop bitching about it right now, there will be consequences. Now, get your ass up and get ready," Yumi huffed, arms crossed.

You narrowed your eyes before rolling them—more dramatically than you intended. Not your most mature moment, but being forced to go to that party, in that house, didn’t exactly put you in a good mood.

"Look, Yu, I don’t care about that stupid party your—what’s his name again?—boyfriend is throwing for us. Truthfully, I’d rather be buried alive in that creepy graveyard we smoke pot in. Alone. No pot. You get my point."

"His name is Nanami," she deadpanned. "And he’s throwing us a party for our birthday, which we share. It’s not like I have the option to skip it, you know. Besides, we always celebrate our birthday together."

Yumi’s voice softened as she tilted her head, giving you that look—the one she knew you couldn’t resist. "Please, please, please. Let’s just go, smoke some weed, listen to those weird-ass tunes you play when you get too baked, wait for midnight, blow out the candles, and leave. Bonus points if Nanami fucks me tonight."

She smirked before adding, "Plus, Gojo’s gonna be there, and everyone knows about your little crush on him."

You scowled. As if that could make this stupid party any better.

But again… she wasn’t wrong.

Somehow, in the middle of a crowded classroom filled with acne-scarred faces and nervous energy, you and Yumi ended up sitting together. two total strangers. two tangled-up disasters shoved into plastic chairs, thrown together by sheer chance or some kind of cosmic joke.

She was tall and slim, chain-smoking weird American cigars in the school’s piss-scented bathroom stalls during five-minute breaks.

You liked her immediately.

She liked cigs.

You liked pot.

She liked Arctic Monkeys or any other type of music that ended up overplayed by overdramatic tumblr girls at midnight.

You listened to Trilogy like it was gospel.

She didn’t give a shit about school. Skipped class constantly to drink cheap coffee at some run-down café that reeked of nargila and regret.

You somehow pulled good grades—yet skipped with her anyway, so she wouldn’t feel lonely.

And then, the kicker.

You shared the same birthday.

Same day. Same year. Two hours apart. What were the odds? Some kind of cruel cosmic irony, maybe. A glitch in the universe where it spat out two unhinged messes at the same time, doomed to find each other.

You weren’t sure.

All you knew was that Yumi was fucked up.

She didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just smoked.

Cigs and all.

Pot and all.

You, on the other hand, slept too much. Ate just enough—tracking every bite to make sure it fit inside your carefully calculated calorie deficit, of course.

And yeah, you were fucked up too.

But at least you weren’t alone.

You were fucked up together, and somehow, that made perfect sense.

And now, after years of being two walking disasters—two mistakes of nature (and probably your parents' biggest regrets)—you are finally in college.

What you didn’t expect was Yumi getting a boyfriend. And sticking to him. Yumi didn’t do relationships. they were too much, she once told you.

Too heavy.

You understood. Why let anyone waste their time trying to fix something that wasn’t fixable? Why let anyone peel back the layers when there was nothing to find? no deep-seated trauma, no unspeakable tragedy, no emotional constipation. just plain, old you—coasting through life on gold marlboro touch and iceberg salad.

You assumed Yumi felt the same. you used to get each other.

But now? Yumi had a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend—some weirdly handsome senior that got every girl on campus tripping over themselves. A guy who, for some unknown reason, had decided to settle down with the second-year that half the school had definitely jacked off to.

And you?

You were still there, of course.

“You know what? Fine,” you finally huffed, shoving your hands in your pockets. “We’re going. But—” you held up a finger, “The shit he’s getting better be good or i’m out. And—” another finger, “Btw, how is The Weeknd ‘weird girl’ music? The best music to get high is literally from an artist who made it while high. like, really?”

Yumi just raised an eyebrow, already knowing she’d won.

“And—” your third and final finger shot up—“One condition. No Gojo. Np looking at him, no talking about him, and god forbid, talking to him, okay?”

Yumi grinned like the little devil she was. She knew she had you.

And she loved it.

You’re going. and somehow, somehow, you already know Yumi’s going to break the Gojo rule. And you already hate yourself for saying yes.

Gojo, Gojo, Gojo. That foxy, smirking little minx you’ve somehow tucked away in a small, stupid pocket of your heart. Nanami's best friend.

Stupid hot and wicked smart.

One look from Gojo Satoru and half the campus is already on their knees, mouths open, waiting for the tip to slide in. one touch, and you’re pretty sure girls would be cumming fully clothed.

Truthfully? You get it.

Gojo has that whole walking sexual fantasy turned nonchalant icy prince thing going for him. you would’ve hitched your skirt up and let him fuck you senseless too—if he asked.

Would’ve.

But Gojo Satoru did something no other man had ever dared to do.

He bruised your ego.

You’d never admit it, of course. Not out loud. Not even to yourself. But the way his offhanded you’re not my type had clutched at your chest, had sunk deep into the tenderest, most pathetic part of you—yeah. It stung.

Who the hell was he to say you weren’t his type?

Yes, fine, he was hot. Really, really hot.

But so were you.

You’ve got that thing going for you—the great student, everyone loves me act, while secretly (well, not so secretly, except to your oblivious teachers) getting high and fucking emotionally unavailable men on the weekends.

Your favorite trope, honestly.

You’ve got those pretty—as guys love to say—puppy eyes and that lethal eyelashes combo that makes people practically eat from the palm of your hand.

So why the hell would he say you weren’t his type?

For fuck’s sake, Gojo Satoru fucks anything with two legs and a vagina.

And the cherry on top? He didn't even say it to your face. No, he just let those humiliating little words slip at some party you weren’t even at.

Thank god for that. You’re pretty sure you would’ve died right then and there if you had to hear those ridiculous words fall from his pretty pink lips in real time.

But of course, Yumi—your second-in-command, your ever-dutiful bringer of bad news—had called you immediately.

Campus sex god gojo satoru, not finding you attractive enough?

The scandal.

To make things even worse, you’re pretty sure everyone knows you’d totally give it to Gojo Satoru.

You may have drunkenly admitted it—once, before the whole “not his type” fiasco—to some random girl in a club bathroom who smelled way too much like puke and way too little like vanilla.

And of course, of fucking course, the gossip spread through campus like wildfire before you could even try to kill it.

So yeah. going to your own birthday party?

Humiliating.

Annoying.

Absolutely a horrible idea.

But still… there’s this slow burn inside of you, this creeping anticipation.

The kind that tells you tonight might just be interesting.

And a little drama never hurt anyone, right?

…Right?

—

Nanami's house is not what you expected.

You don’t even know what you expected, but definitely not this.

Yumi did mention he doesn’t live on campus—he’s one of those guys, apparently. Still lives with his parents or something.

Lame. Booo. Throwing tomatoes.

Because seriously—what twenty-something man still lives with his parents?

But you definitely didn’t expect nanami’s house to be this posh.

Or this proper.

Or this… fucking expensive.

Because, what the actual fuck—nanami is rich.

Like, could-buy-you-off-the-dark-web rich.

Probably in exchange for the mahogany table you’re currently pouring tequila shots on.

Or maybe just for that obnoxiously huge, icy couch stretching across the living room.

or, hell, even for his kitchen alone.

What. The. Fuck.

But then—on that same absurdly expensive couch—something else catches your eye.

Legs sprawled out in the kind of lazy man-spread that screams confidence, scrolling through his phone like he owns the place, is a man.

Dark.

Tall.

And very, very hot.

Something dark and thrilling rushes through you at the thought of dragging him into Nanami’s parents’ bedroom and riding him until he can’t take it anymore.

But before you can act on it—

“Geto Suguru.”

Yumi’s voice is in your ear, a warning.

“He has a girlfriend, so don’t even try.”

Her fingers tug at your elbow. You retaliate immediately, poking her ribs in response.

He looks up.

His shadowy eyes roam over you—slow, deliberate.

A half-smile, half-smirk tugs at his lips.

Ha.

There he is.

Good boy.

He wants it.

He wants you.

"Well, I don’t see her here, do I?"

Your voice is a whisper, teasing, as you throw a smirk at Yumi before stepping forward—gracefully, leg before leg, closing the space between you and him.

He’s still sitting.

You don’t even have to look at his face to know he’s already watching you.

Slowly, your eyes travel downward.

The soft material of his white polo stretches taut over the sculpted lines of his stomach, the fabric clinging in all the right places. Your gaze lingers, just a second too long, before moving up—finally settling on his lips.

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then, just as the tension starts to settle, he shifts—fumbling with the left pocket of his jeans.

You blink.

…Okay.

Not so hot anymore.

What the hell is he doing?

But then—

but then—

he pulls something out.

A white tissue—crumpled, worn.

You almost scoff, about to ask if this is some weird, half-assed magic trick—until you see it.

Tiny specks of green peek through the folds.

Your breath catches.

Weed.

A lot of weed.

Holy fucking shit.

You swear your mouth waters.

It’s tucked inside that questionably old tissue—and you pray, dear God, that he didn’t blow his nose in it.

Then, in that slow, deep voice—smooth like velvet, laced with a promise—he finally speaks.

"Five grams. Homemade."

He speaks for the first time, and in that moment, you're absolutely sure you're about to get high off his pot—and then, well, he's going to be the one getting high off you.

"Heard you smoke. Thought you’d want to."

Geto’s voice is low, his words soft, but the way his arm brushes your hip bone—effortlessly, casually—sends a spark through your veins.

Some might say it’s a coincidence.

But you know better.

Nothing, nothing, is ever a coincidence when it comes to men like him.

And now, now, you want it even more.

Before you can say anything, someone else interrupts.

“Yo, Suguru, I’ve been watching you all night, man. Why the fuck you sitting in the living room like some NPC loser?”

You scoff, catching the teasing tone of the voice.

"Satoru, you’re stepping on my last nerve again. Let me chill for a bit. I wanna mentally prepare before rolling with all you incompetent losers," Geto responds, his voice still calm, but there's a hidden edge to it that makes you think he doesn't mind the banter.

"There, there, boy. I just missed my best friend so much I had to see why you left the billiard room, you know? Just love spending time with you, bestie."

"You know, licking my ass won’t make me give you some of this before I try it myself. Plus, I’ve got company, as you can see." Geto’s voice drips with annoyance, cutting through the otherwise tense air in Nanami’s living room.

You don’t need to turn around to know exactly who’s standing behind you. His presence is undeniable, his scent suffocating in the best way, and that energy—God, that energy—that pulses in any room he steps into.

And then, of course, there’s the voice. That annoyingly attractive, rough drawl that always gets under your skin.

��I can see that, but I still don’t approve of you ditching your homies for some cheap pussy,” Gojo says, the mockery clear in his voice.

And that’s when you finally, finally, decide to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

What the fuck?

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Sure, being told you weren’t his type stung—but this? Calling you cheap? Who the hell does this guy think he is? What gives him the audacity to insult you to your face—well, more like to your back, but still, it stings all the same.

A chuckle rumbles through the room. You don’t stop yourself in time. You hear your own voice, but it doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

How dare he. After everything—after all the hurt he’s caused you.

Again. And again.

You tell yourself it doesn’t bother you, yet the words slip out before you even realize what’s happening.

As if you could have stopped them. As if you could have ever stopped anything with him.

After all, Gojo Satoru always had a knack for pushing your buttons exactly the way he wanted.

“Cheap, but could make your dick hard by one high school kiss in your mom’s closet. Could make you whimper out my name in your favorite teacher’s classroom. Could make you cum down your uniform just by biting your lip. We’re a little past being cheap, don’t you think Sato?”

Because before all of this—before the "not his type" catastrophe, and your drunken confessions—there was you.

And there was Gojo.

Best friends since birth. A bond that was never supposed to break. But then came senior year—the year everything changed.

You made a mistake. The terrible, stupid, earth-shattering mistake of letting things blur into something more. You slept together. Multiple times. You told yourself it was just a phase. Just a mistake. But deep down, you both knew it was more than that.

But no. There was an even worse mistake than all of this.

Falling in love.

And then, the biggest tragedy of all: letting each other down.

You weren’t supposed to end up here. But somehow, here you are. Caught in the wreckage of a love that never really had a chance.

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millieisawriter · 6 months ago

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For old times' sake

javier escuella x reader

summary: you stumble upon a man you haven't seen since the gang fell apart. a man you have a history with. a man you now hate with passion, and vice versa. it takes just a few glasses of tequila for the thin line between longing and loathing to get blurry.

wc: 2.3k

warnings: entirety of this is a smut, dub con, hate sex, sex under the influence, use of derogatory/objectifying language, face slapping (like twice only tho), rough sexual practices, spitting (like once), toxicity

obviously this is a 18+ piece, do i have to make it any clearer?

all pics taken from pinterest

♡this was requested♡

a/n: this is what 163 days without sex and a bit of whiskey at midnight did to my writing. hope you enjoy. please don't yell at me. if anyone needs me, i'll be hiding under my bed. also, wrote this one on my phone, sorry for any possible mistakes

"Tequila, por favor," you said, tossing some money onto the bar.

Your accent made it clear you weren't from here. However, the bartender didn't seem to care. He poured you a glass and turned to the next customer. Meanwhile, you brought the glass to your lips and tipped your head back, swallowing the liquid in one go. It burnt your throat, and you loved it. It was a feeling you had gotten used to.

Then you heard it. A voice you hadn't heard in years, and didn't think you'd hear ever again.

"Look who it is," Javier sneered. He was leaning against a nearby wall when you turned to look at him. "Long time no see, traidora."

He looked different. As if the years had been as unkind to him as they were to you. Despite that he looked somehow... more attractive. There was just something desirable in the time and pain written on his face.

But his intense gaze burned through you the same, just like the liquor did to your throat a moment prior.

"Javier Escuella," you mused out loud, smirking as you watched the man approach closer. "Didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"Should've let me keep thinking I'm what you came here for."

"You ain't. But I'm glad I found you. You look good."

"Do I?" he tilted his head. "Maybe it's because I don't have to live with the guilt of betraying my family."

"You wound me, Javier," you theatrically sighed, "are you saying I don't look good?"

Javier smirked and shook his head at your playful comment. It wasn't time nor place to play that game. Yet it was good to know that overly confident side trait never left you.

"You look more than good," the man decided to play along, "you still look fuckable— "

"Ain't you just the perfect gentleman?"

"—like a whore."

The last part caught you slightly off guard, but you quickly composed yourself. "I ain't drank enough to be spoken to like this."

"Next round is on me, then."

Javier slid onto the stool next to you, casually leaning against the counter as if that were just one of friendly reunions. He ordered drinks for the both of you, so at least you hadn't come for nothing.

"I never thought you could get meaner, but here you are," you let out a low chuckle.

"Meaner?" Javier repeated. "I'm buying you a drink, how's that mean?"

"Cause you're just tryna get into my pants."

"I didn't suggest that, not yet at least. But now that you mention it, we could do that. For the old times' sake, right?"

The bartender put another glass in front of you. This time a bit fuller, so you didn't down it immediately. Instead, you took the glass and eyed the liquid inside, as if searching for an answer.

"Usually I like to shoot men that offer me sex," you spoke quietly, your gaze still on the glass, "but you're lucky I'm feeling sentimental and horny tonight."

"Horny never was something you lacked," he drank his own drink, "glad to see that didn't change."

So a few drinks and many smart-ass comments later you found yourself following Javier upstairs, to a room he rented for the night. For old times sake, as he put it. Maybe you were just curious if he was still as good as back in your gang days, back when he was quite an often guest in your tent late at night.

Javier slammed the door shut after the two of your entered the rented room, and no sooner his lips were on yours. The strength of his body pressing onto yours forced you to take a few steps back, your back eventually meeting with the wall. His fingers impatiently undid your corset, then danced with the buttons of a shirt you wore beneath it, but you shouldn't have judged him for the quick pace since your hands were trying to get him undressed just as fast.

You lost the track of reality in that moment, the tension that had been building up in you finally able to get some relief.

"You know," you managed to find a moment to speak again, "I always wondered what I'd do if I ever met you again."

"Mhm," Javier hummed in response, not interested in what you were saying. His focus was mostly on undoing your pants after he had lied you on the bed.

"Thought maybe I'd just walk away. Or maybe I'd kill you. But this... this might be better."

Javier suddenly took your face in his hand. No, actually, he grabbed it. He grabbed it so hard your lips formed a duck face.

"You didn't talk as much shit back in the days," Javier commented. "I really wanted to fuck you, but you're making me wanna put your mouth to a different use."

If you had to do it, you would have. But you'd prefer not to. After all, you hadn't gotten laid in a long time, and sucking a man off wouldn't help you out in any way. Maybe for the first time you wished you had shut up sooner.

Javier's thumb brushed over your lower lip as a devilish smile appeared on his profile. "Are you gonna keep talking," he let go of your face and gave it a little slap, "or will you give me what I want, hm?"

"Only if you'll give me what I want," you shot back.

That was basically the last sentence that left your mouth before it was stuffed with Javier's cock. The man perched on the edge of the bed, his legs spread to make space for you on your knees.

His dick seemed to fit in your throat like a missing piece of a puzzle. Almost as if every curve, every vein was designed for your throat to take. His size made you fight holding back a cough, and as much as you could stop it by occasionally pulling away to run your tongue over the tip, you had to close your eyes to stop the tears which only increased every time Javier forced your head back down. You couldn't give him the satisfaction.

When the man saw that, he yanked your head back by your hair, stopping you. "I want you to look me in the eyes."

Unfortunately, it seemed you'll have to give him the satisfaction. As you opened your eyelids, the tears ran down from the corners of your eyes, ruining the eyeliner you had on.

"Back to work now," he ordered, and for some reason you obeyed without an argument.

His hand was still in your hair, now just gently resting there, as your mouth descended down his cock again. You did it slowly, and never breaking the eye contact, as he wished.

A low groan left the man's mouth when his hand started to set the pace and rhythm. At one point stopping the cough became impossible, you couldn't help but choke after his cock hit the back of your throat for what felt like the hundredth time. The faster he started to guide your head, the more afraid you were that's how it's gonna end. And you'd be left there with no profit.

Just then, he once again pulled your head away, a string of saliva connecting your mouth with the tip of his cock. "Enough," he rasped heavily, "I didn't drag you up here just for that."

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, giving the man a smirk. "I was starting to get worried."

"Worried I'd forget you're not a paid whore?"

His comment ignited a flicker of anger in you. "And here I was hoping you'll pretend to have kept an ounce of courtesy."

"Am I wrong, though?" he asked, helping you up. "Isn't that what you'd always been to me?"

You shoved him back so that he lied down, and your hands were on his chest as you straddled him. "From what I remember, you were obsessed with me."

"There's a lot of things a man will say or do to get what he wants."

With that, he pulled you into an aggressive kiss. He didn't let you be the one in advantage for long. His strong arms grabbed you in a way that let him easily turn so that you were now underneath him.

"Don't treat me like..." you stuttered out, "like I'm some kind of an object..."

"Mhm," he muttered against the skin of your neck, his lips marking you even if this would never happen again.

"...b-because I ain't just—"

He interrupted you. "Of course you ain't," his tone was mocking, and as he said the sentence, his dick entered your heated core with a violent force.

It was as if he had done it for the first time. You were tight, and his dick was hard as a rock. You thanked yourself in your thoughts for being such a horny little bitch, because it would have been quite painful if your cunt hadn't been dripping from all that build up tension.

Secretly, you liked the way he talked to you. You didn't remember him to be this disrespectful, he was always putting up an appearance of a hopeless romantic. Turns out it was exactly what it was, just an appearance to get laid easier. Now he knew he didn't have to pretend anymore. But you liked it. It was something that made your mind beg for more.

"Fuck, Javier," you involuntarily moaned out. You didn't plan on doing that, but the way his dick pounded into your cervix, like it was going to leave a bruise, made you see stars.

"Mhm, what is it?" he asked, one of his hands going to grab your face again. "What are you calling my name for?" and he gave you another slap on the cheek.

"I fucking hate you," you declared right into his face.

This time he didn't have any smart comment to shoot back with. Instead he forced his thumb into your mouth, making you open it just so that he could spit into it.

"Swallow it, puta."

You caught yourself fulfilling his order before thinking about it. His spit tasted no other than the alcohol you had drank tobegher earlier, with a tint of tobacco.

You hissed, "You're disgusting."

"And you talk way too fucking much."

He pulled out of you just to quickly take ahold of your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as if punishing you for talking back. With one quick move, Javier flipped you over onto your stomach.

"Ass up."

You weren't going to listen this time. "No."

He laughed darkly, the sound filled with sarcasm. "You don't get to say no."

He didn't need your obedience to force his dick back inside. Since you didn't want to do as he said, he was going to deal with that another way. He pounded into you as you lied flat on your stomach. You thought he couldn't fuck into you any deeper, but this position proved you wrong.

It felt too damn good for you to try to restrain the moans that were spilling out of your mouth. You knew it was serving to feed Javier's ego, and you hated the idea of it.

So you had to insult him a little more between the thrusts. "You're... a... fucking... idiot!"

It didn't stop his thrusts from becoming harder, more forceful, a punishment to your defiance. In fact, your words only spurred him on. The bed creaked beneath the strength of his movements.

You hated the way your own body betrayed you. The way your pussy got more and more wet by the moment. Well, at least you didn't have to look Javier in the face.

"Seems you're into it," the man retorted as the room grew rich into the squelch of your dripping core gratefully taking his cock.

"All these years and you're the same asshole," you tried to argue, at the same time subconsciously tilting your pelvis back. "Oh, shit," you whined at the sensation of his dick being buried even deeper than before.

The line between hate and desire blurred completely. Your body gave in to the pleasure, and you let the man do whatever he wished to.

You felt Javier slow down for a moment, just to grab your hips and force them up. He had you where he wanted you from the beginning. Before you could even think of anything to say, he slammed into you, now the sound of his skin slapping against yours more apparent than ever.

You buried your face into the pillow that muffled your sounds at least to some extent. The more he fucked into you, the less you could think, and maybe he finally fucked the ability to talk back out of you. The tension in your lower abdomen grew tighter, every inch of your body begging for a release.

"Fucked out whore," Javier said, but your head was empty of any replies.

All you could do was grip the sheets tighter. Your body was moving on its own, rocking in the right rhythm to cooperate with the man. His force, with which he took you, rid your mind of any thoughts. You just needed to hold on, because it felt too damn good, and you were too close to the edge, to fight it anymore.

"Fuck, I can't hold it anymore," the man grunted through gritted teeth. You could feel his cock starting to twitch, and you knew it could mean only one thing.

Javier's breathing grew more rugged as he neared his climax. Feeling you tighen up around him was all he needed. With one final deep thrust, he buried himself inside you. You cried out, having reached your peak at the same time. Your cunt pulsed around his twitching cock as he shot his release into you. It was warm, flooding your core, filling you up to the brim.

And that was it. You let him treat you like a whore for old times sake. Was it worth it? It was a question you were going to have a lot of time to ponder over.

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zepskies · 6 months ago

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Outlander - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won?

AN: Here we go! Diving deeper into Dean's (mis)adventures, plus a big Protective Dean moment...

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Mentions of attempted sexual assault (not graphic). Protective Dean, survival situations, derogatory name-calling, hunting (in the traditional sense), angst, blood and violence, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff and spice.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: What is Home

No matter how Dean tries, somehow he never makes his mark with the arrow. His boot even slips on the tree branch he was perched on, and he falls straight into the mud from this morning’s rain shower.

The other six men wait for him on the ground, and they laugh at him.

Otaktay is the ringleader today, as he is whenever Šóta isn’t here.

“Get up, wašíču. Watch close,” Otaktay says, in his limited English. He and Takoda smoke their long pipes leisurely and blow smoke rings up in the air.

Wašíču.

Fat taker. Greedy White. By now, Dean knows what that means, and it’s worse than Outlander. It makes his jaw clench and his temper spike.

Otaktay gives Takoda his pipe to hold, then reaches behind his back for his bow and an arrow from his quiver. Dean has noticed that the other men’s bows look a bit bigger than his, but Otaktay called it a “training bow.”

He notches his arrow, pulls it back and lets it fly. It hits up into the tree and spears an apple, pinning it to the trunk.

It’s an impressive move, but Dean just picks himself up and cleans most of the mud from his hands. He knows Mila will have something to say about making a mess of the clothes she made for him.

“All right, fine. I am what I am,” Dean says. He meets Otaktay’s gaze head-on. “But I’ve still been hunting all my life.”

Dean used to keep his knife on his belt, but now he wears the pants and tunics the other men wear, and they either strap their weapons in a leather holster around their thigh or to their ankles. Dean unsheathes the knife he keeps strapped to his thigh.

And he throws it hard. It cuts straight through a branch and brings an entire bunch of apples to the ground by Takoda’s feet; he even has to jump to avoid them landing on his head. The others murmur to each other, begrudgingly impressed.

Except for Otaktay. His face remains stoic.

A whistle breaks the tension in the forest clearing. It’s Šóta, who joins them, coming through on his horse.

“How is the hunt going?” he asks in English, raising a brow over at the wild boar that lies in the grass. Otaktay and the others killed it this morning, so he’s the one who speaks first.

“The Outsider will bring a whole bunch of apples to feed his wife. How satisfying,” Otaktay says, with a dry edge of mocking. Dean’s jaw clenches, but he tries not to rise to the bait.

“Maybe he satisfies her in other ways, brother,” Šóta says. “Maybe that’s why he has a wife, and you don’t.”

His tone is teasing, but is there a reproaching edge there too? Dean’s lips tug upwards, slightly; he sees that Otaktay simmers at the dig, but he doesn’t dare say anything against Šóta.

“Hey!” Takoda calls out. He points at the boar they mean to take back to the village. A mountain lion slips closer down from a tree. He sinks his teeth into the boar’s thigh and begins to drag it away, farther into the forest.

The sight of the wild cat spooks the men’s horses grazing nearby. Even Baby scatters along with them, braying in distress. But the men hustle into action. Even with mud still clinging to his clothes and his skin, Dean grabs up his bow and arrow and runs to grab his fallen knife. He whistles to Baby and calms her down enough to climb up onto her back.

The others have already done the same with their horses and are chasing the mountain lion into the woods. It zips up a tree, and Šóta, Otaktay, and the others aim their arrows high. They wait and listen.

Otaktay releases his arrow first. The cat’s angry shriek fills the clearing from above.

“You got him,” Šóta says.

“Winged him. He’s not dead,” Otaktay says. His brows furrow as he listens closer.

The cat jumps from the tree and takes Dean to the ground. Baby brays and stamps around, and Dean has to both avoid her hooves and try to keep the mountain lion from sinking his claws or his teeth into his neck.

Šóta’s eyes widen, but he springs into action by whistling to the men and raising his bow. Before he can shoot, he has to stop short at what he sees.

A moment later, Dean rolls over and heaves the lion’s dead body off of him. His knife comes out of the animal’s chest, slick and crimson with blood. It runs down his muddy shirt as he pants and heaves for breath.

Šóta gets down from his horse, running his disbelieving eyes over the scene.

Dean looks up and finds a hand offered to him. His gaze travels up further and meets Šóta’s. His eyes are an even darker brown than Mila’s. Dean takes his hand and accepts the help to his feet.

The other men hesitate, stunned into silence, but they get down from their horses and help Dean and Šóta heft the dead animal onto the latter’s horse. They will take it, along with the boar they retrieve from up in the tree, back to camp.

Mila returns to camp not long before the men. She meant to start prepping for supper, but she becomes sidetracked while playing Chase with the children. As one of the few young women still without children of her own, she tries her best to give the mothers a break in the afternoon, so they can finish washing, mending, cooking, or even just having a rest for themselves.

Watching their joy, and even helping them up when they fall and cry, makes her wonder when she will finally be blessed with a child. She hopes they will have Dean’s eyes, so pretty and green.

When the men return, she raises her head breathlessly and smiles. It soon dims, however, as she catches sight of Dean. She gets to her feet and ushers the children back to their mothers before she goes to meet him.

He gives her a sheepish look when he gets off his horse. Her mouth drops open at seeing him covered in mud and sweat and blood.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, trying to placate her with raised hands. She ignores that and touches his chest, her palms splaying down his stomach as she tries to find a wound. She finds more tears and scratches through his soiled clothes, but no real wounds. Still, she’s not satisfied yet.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Just a little trial by fire, sweetheart,” Dean says. He grasps her arms to placate her. “Everything’s okay.”

Otaktay pointedly looks away from the scene and moves on along with the other men. Šóta notices, but he goes to his cousin.

“We encountered a thief,” he says, gesturing to the body of the mountain lion they brought back for tonight’s meal. “Dean Winchester not only caught the thief, but made an example of him.”

Mila raises her brows and looks to Dean, as if to say, Is this true? He offers a smile and a shrug. She smiles back.

Šóta rides on, but he glances back and sees how Mila dotes on her husband, touching a gentle hand to his cheek.

In return, Dean holds her by the waist and talks to her with a warmth in his eyes that he only has for her. Or at least, that’s what Šóta finally sees.

Mila and Dean head back to their tipi, where she grabs a fresh change of clothing for him.

“I could’ve gotten it,” he says.

“You’ll track mud inside,” she points out wryly. She holds the bundle of clothes for him on their way to the river. “All you do is give me mending to do. You can’t keep clean, can’t keep from hurting yourself, can you?”

Dean knows her well enough now to realize her griping isn’t all that serious. She was just worried.

“I guess not,” he says, trying to hide his amusement.

She gives him a stern look, but with that cheeky look of his, she can’t stay upset for long. Her face softens into an exasperated smile, and she gestures towards the river. “Go. Wash yourself up. I will have supper ready soon.”

Dean grabs her hand and makes her drop the change of clothes in the grass.

“Only if you come with me,” he says. He grabs her and aims to toss her over his shoulder, but she squeals in protest.

“Dean Winchester! I’ll have nothing to wear if you drop me in the water!”

Dean pauses, his lips tugging at a smirk. “You make a decent point, but I’m just wondering, do I really care if you’ve gotta walk back naked?”

“Dean!” she giggles, hitting his shoulder.

He chuckles and sets her down, but he still doesn’t let her leave. By now, she doesn’t want to. He starts helping her undress, followed by him peeling off his disgusting clothes. He hooks an arm around her waist and hauls her with him into the water. She laughs and tries to escape him by splashing water in his face, but he just spits it out. He chuckles and wipes the excess droplets.

He slips his arms around her waist, holds her tight and floats with her for a bit. He takes in a deep breath and finds peace here with her here in the sun-warmed water. She’s become his peace.

Mila takes his face in her hands and kisses him slowly. When she pulls away and their eyes meet again, she smiles.

“I am proud of you,” she says. “Not just for today, but for every day that you stand strong.”

Dean’s lips quirk with a reluctant smile. He doesn’t take praise very well, but her words make the weight on his shoulders feel a little bit lighter. Holding her flush against his chest, every soft, familiar curve is pressed against him. He leans in and captures her lips again.

That evening, the tribe gathers for a feast prepared by the Chief’s wives, Mila, and her mother Weaya to celebrate the warriors’ highly successful hunt.

Šóta watches his cousin with her Outlander husband. Dean follows her lead in divvying out portions of the meal, but still at times with a supportive hand on the small of her back. He even takes the large, hot bowl out of her hand to help serve her and her family—including Chatan, who accepts the offered bowl without a word.

Dean Winchester doesn’t sit until Mila does. They talk together with her mother and the others, though Dean mostly keeps to himself while the women chat. He occasionally responds to a direct question or comment, but overall, he seems content to listen. He’s starting to follow more bits of conversation in their language.

At the end of the meal, he stands with Mila and helps her collect bowls that will be washed. The man is confident, but not prideful. He’s hardworking, self-reliant, and has the makings of a warrior.

However, Šóta is not the only one who watches his cousin and the Outlander.

Šóta pulls Dean aside after breakfast the next morning. He takes Dean back to the forest, beyond where the horses are kept in their pen, and puts his own hunting bow in Dean’s hands.

“Feel the weight of it,” Šóta says. “Does it seem like yours?”

Dean considers it, testing out the strength of the bowstring. “No. It feels heavier.”

“Because it is. We gave you a training bow for children,” Šóta says. He takes the bow from Dean and brings him the one he had tied to a satchel on his horse. “I will give you this one. It belonged to my half-brother, Takoda, before he made his own. I made it for him, and now I give it to you.”

Dean takes the bow. Šóta’s right, it’s taller and heavier than the first one they gave him. Of course they tried to trick him by giving him a kid’s bow. He tries not to be too annoyed about it, because it looks like Šóta’s warming up to him, at least enough to actually train him.

“Thanks,” Dean nods. He runs a hand over the bow and admires the craftsmanship of the wood, smooth and chestnut colored. He already has a quiver full of arrows he’s made himself, but first, Šóta corrects his stance and his posture.

“Your body knows the movements of hold, aim, and shoot, but you think too much,” he says. “How you shoot an arrow is not so different from a gun.”

Dean raises a brow. He begs to fucking differ.

Reading the skeptical look on his face, Šóta smiles.

“My father once told me, ‘A weapon is a weapon is a weapon,’” Šóta continues. “The way you use it might be different, but your mind is the same. Think like the river. Calm and free, yes?”

He throws Dean a thumbs up—something Dean taught him a week ago. Šóta just hasn’t gotten it quite right yet.

“A river ain’t always calm,” Dean points out. He should know. He almost died on the river in his journey here.

Šóta thinks for a second, tilting his head. “That is fair. Here, let me think of something better—”

“It’s okay, I think I get it. I just gotta relax a bit, is that it?”

“Yes, but stay focused.”

“I can focus. I just need you to back up a little.”

Šóta raises his hands in surrender. He takes a couple of steps back and gestures at a tree to use for target practice. Dean centers himself.

“Remember to breathe,” Šóta says.

Dean shoots him a glance. Again, Šóta holds up his hands, then crosses his arms, pressing his lips together. Dean shifts his gaze back to the target, and he lets out a deep breath. Then he lets the arrow fly.

It hits just shy of the tree’s center.

Šóta smiles, giving him another “thumbs up.”

“Good. Now, again,” he says.

The morning slowly dips behind the clouds into a golden afternoon. Šóta helps Dean catch and roast a couple of fish by the river, which cuts through the forest. Its waters are choppy and shimmering with the light.

This forest used to run almost all the way to the Black Hills, before the U.S. government began its work on the railroad. The tribe has had to move their village more than once out of self-preservation, like they did when Dean came to them.

He felt bad for it at the time, but he’s also grateful they made that precaution. The last thing he needs is to run into his old unit, let alone for the army to find out he’s still alive. And the last thing he wants is to endanger these people, especially his wife and her family.

He finishes off his second fish and glances over at Šóta.

“Look, I appreciate your help, but…I’ve gotta wonder why,” Dean says. “You don’t like that I’m here either.”

Šóta pauses in his chewing. He swallows before he answers, looking over at Dean in the eyes.

“It doesn’t matter if I like you,” he says. “You are the man who brought Kimmímila home alive. So, I help you.”

Dean nods. He can respect that. He looks down at the half-eaten meal, then at his hands, calloused and worn. They hold the weight of his past, his choices, and also the man he’s trying to be.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says.

The simple truth is that he’d give his life for hers. No hesitation.

“I know that, Dean Winchester. That is the other reason you are still alive,” Šóta says, with a slight smile. “You are brave. I will give you that.”

Dean smiles. “I guess there’s no winning over the others, is there?”

At that, Šóta pauses. “You are doing better than you think. The others see you aren’t afraid. They see you work hard, and you try to respect our ways. You just don’t know them. They don’t know you.”

“I get it,” Dean says, nodding. “Like, uh, Otaktay. Right?”

“Ah,” Šóta rubs his clean-shaven chin. “You will have a harder time with him.”

Dean quirks a rueful smile. “What’s his deal?”

“His deal?” Šóta questions.

“His problem,” Dean elaborates, “with me.”

Šóta sighs sharply. “Our men are warriors bred. Otaktay. His name means, ‘kills many.’”

Dean raises his brows. He slowly inclines his head.

“Riiiight. Of course.”

“Names have power, Dean Winchester. Otaktay takes his name like a challenge he will win, but he does it to protect our tribe above all else,” Šóta says.

If that weren’t enough, the man levels Dean with a more serious look.

“But there is something else you should know.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s going to like whatever’s coming next. He nods, wordlessly urging Šóta to continue.

“Otaktay has always watched my cousin, admired her spirit and her beauty,” he says. “Mila has known this, and maybe she would have accepted him, had she known…but he planned to ask Chatan, my uncle, for Mila’s hand.”

Dean’s chest tightens, as does his frown. “What happened?”

“She disappeared,” Šóta replies. “When Mato was taken, she couldn’t accept it. She left the village to find him against my uncle’s command. Then she found you.”

Dean isn’t exactly surprised by that. His wife is many things, defiant chief among them. Also, it makes a lot of things make even more sense. It explains her father’s tough outer shell, and clearly, it means he’ll have to keep a sharper eye on Otaktay.

She had been successfully avoiding him, until now.

Mila had just left the horses after helping Takoda feed and brush them, and she was planning to wash up before helping her mother and some of the other women cook for the entire tribe again this evening. Today is the last moon of the summer months, and so they’ve been preparing the wild game that the men had hunted for the past two days. Tonight, they will have an even greater feast.

She feels a shadow at her feet as she ventures through the village. They’re getting bigger as a tribe, harder to move when they need to, and it’s more mouths to feed, but it’s also a good thing. Despite all the challenges the past few decades have brought, their people are enduring.

However, Mila pushes these thoughts to the back of her mind when she feels a prickling down the back of her neck. It’s followed shortly by the strong hand that closes on her wrist, and the man that calls her name.

She gasps and whips around. He’s there, gently shushing her. She glares at him and tries to pull her hand out of his grip.

“Ota,” she snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I just want to talk to you,” Otaktay says. His brown eyes are earnest, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “You have been avoiding me.”

“I can’t be any more honest than I have been,” Mila says, and finally she manages to free herself from his grasp with a sharper tug. “Enough of this.”

She begins to walk away from him. The distance between the horses’ corral and the village is short, just over the gentle slope of a grassy hill and down below…but her cousin isn’t here. Her husband isn’t here. Otaktay believes this is his only chance—his chance to make her see reason. He stops her again, this time with his words.

“Do you think it will be that easy?” he says. “The Outlander will bring death upon us all.”

Mila stops short. She turns on her heel to meet him with a glare.

“His people think he’s dead,” she says.

Otaktay approaches her with slow, measured steps. “And what if they find him here? Every day their iron caravans invade our lands. Every day their patrols come to take from us, to destroy us. How many of his own do you think he will kill for you?”

He raises a pointed finger. “And your children. Your children with that man will be cursed. Forever in the shadow of two worlds, forced into one, and hated by the other.”

His words pin Mila to the ground by her toes. Her body stills, because she’s shaken deep within. She doesn’t want to believe him, but she also won’t admit that these are the thoughts she’s tried to push from her mind. What she wants most of all is a family of her own. She wants it with her husband.

But is it fair?

To them.

To him.

To her people.

She doesn’t know, and for that, her lips tremble. Her eyes burn with tears and she raises a trembling hand to her mouth.

Otaktay draws closer and attempts to hold her hands, but her brows crunch in anger. You!

She pushes him in the dead center of his chest, so hard that it unbalances him. He’s surprised by her ire, and that satisfies her. She shoves him again, more forcefully this time, but he manages to hold his ground.

“Kimmímila—”

She doesn’t give him the chance to try and placate her. With a cry of effort and frustration, she slaps at his face with all of her strength. It whips the man’s face to the side and even makes him stumble. He raises a hand to his cheek in disbelief. Already his tan skin is reddening, both from the mark of her anger, and from his own.

When she goes to shove him again, he grabs her by the arms to try and subdue her. Her tears are beginning to blind her, but she doesn’t care. The way he holds her tightly makes a flash of dread coil in her stomach.

In her distant mind, she knows Otaktay wouldn’t willingly hurt her. But his grip reminds her of Roman, the officer at Fort Laramie, who took advantage of the way she was tied to a post in their camp. She remembers his rough hands, the wood pressing into her spine. She remembers his hot breath and his chapped lips trying to claim her, his knee pressing between her legs.

Her own breaths come out in shallow gasps as that well of dread grows in her chest, rising into her throat to choke her. Mila punches wildly at Otaktay’s chest and rakes him with her nails. He finally grits his teeth and grabs her tightly by the hair.

“Enough!” he shouts in her face.

She matches him, her voice echoing in the clearing. “Let me go!”

“Not until you calm down!”

He takes her face in his hands. Looking down into her tear-filled eyes, wild and devastated, he begins to feel remorse; but there too is desire and jealousy, deep and twisted together in the oily dark of his soul. Otaktay believes he’s only been selfish once in his life. Kimmímila is that one.

“Let go!” she shakily demands. She struggles against his hold and tries to run away from him, even though she used to run with him, ride with him through the forest on horseback and across the grassy plains instead of doing their chores. He tries to remind her of it now when he bows his head to kiss her.

He finds himself ripped away—shoved hard enough to land stumbling into the sun-hot grass.

“Dean!” Mila gasps. She reaches for her husband, even though the clenched set of his jaw and the tightness in his broad shoulders make her wary. She’s not afraid of him though. She just has a terrible feeling that she knows what’s coming next.

Dean turns his attention to her first, a firm, but gentle grasp of her shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks gruffly.��

She nods, brushing away tears from her cheek. She holds onto his hand. “Yes.”

“Okay, stay back,” he says, releasing her.

She tries to stop him from advancing on Otaktay, but Šóta holds her shoulders with a grim look on his face. He guides her back and at his side. He and Dean have come on horseback. They jumped down to help her. She doesn’t know that they heard her and Otaktay shouting from several yards away, their voices carried on the wind.

Dean hadn’t been able to understand the words, but Šóta’s sense of urgency and the shrill, angry panic in Mila’s voice spurred him on, urging Baby to a full gallop down the hill. Seeing her tears was one thing, but while he saw Otaktay, in his mind, Dean also saw the night that Roman tried to force himself on her.

The rage that compels Dean now is different from the anger he had then. Back at the camp, he was just doing what he felt was right. Today, this is a protective call for blood.

Otaktay had barely gotten back to his feet, but the upward swing of Dean’s fist cracks across his chin and sends him back down to the ground. He seethes, with blood in his teeth, but he angrily swipes Dean’s legs from underneath him. It becomes a grapple for leverage as the men tussle in the grass, trading swift punches. Otaktay kicks Dean hard in the stomach to gain some distance, rocking back onto his feet. Dean stumbles slightly, but he does the same.

“Stop!” Mila shouts in protest. Šóta holds her back. Despite her wildness before, she doesn’t want either of them dead. She fears more for her husband, but not because she doesn’t believe in him. She’s afraid of what will happen if Otaktay is killed.

He plays dirty, spitting in Dean’s face. Dean matches by throwing an elbow into the other man’s throat, grabs his arm, then pivots and heaves him over his shoulder onto the ground. For a moment, Otaktay lies there winded on his back. Dean pins him there with his heavier weight bearing down on him.

Otaktay sneaks a hand from the sheath strapped to his thigh and twists a knife into his hand. Šóta and Mila both see it, him with a tight frown and her with widening eyes.

She calls out in alarm, but Dean reacts fast. He strikes at Otaktay’s wrist and grabs his arm. A swift elbow and Otaktay’s knee in Dean’s gut forces him to the side, heaving a grunt. Otaktay gains the better position as he presses a knee right over Dean’s chest. He grunts at the impact; it threatens to break a rib. The knife becomes poised over Dean’s face in the struggle, nearing his neck.

“Otaktay!” Mila calls out sharply, a warning and a plea all at once.

He hears her. For just a second, he allows himself to glance up at her and see what lies in her eyes. He knows her fear is not for him.

Still, anger overcomes his heart. He calls out a battle cry and puts his entire strength into bringing the knife down. Dean allows it with gritted teeth, but he positions his hands in just the right way to guide the man’s arm just to the right of his neck, slicing shallowly into his skin. The knife sinks into the earth.

Dean throws a punch that lands across the Lakota’s cheek, then another, and it allows him to kick the man in his ribs, sending him backwards with a heavy grunt. Dean grabs the knife out of the ground, and when he rolls onto his feet, he slashes at the other man’s chest. It isn’t deep enough to be fatal, but it’s enough to make him bleed red rivulets.

Otaktay works harder than ever, trading blows and kicks that Dean can’t always dodge. But eventually, Dean hooks a boot behind the other man’s ankle and unbalances him enough to drive him to the ground. He shifts the position of the knife and brings it flush to Otaktay’s throat.

His eyes widen; he never expected to be bested by the Outlander. The sharp edge of the blade bites into his skin, cutting a thin line of blood dripping down to his collarbone.

They’re both heaving for breath, sweaty, bloody, and bruised. It’s then that Dean realizes that they’ve attracted a small crowd. At the center of it is Chief Tahatan. He’s watching closely, his face unreadable, along with one of his wives. A few men stand beside him, namely Mila’s father, Chatan, Takoda, and some of the women too. Šóta whispers to them, explaining why the men are fighting.

Even Dean knows that by the customs of their tribe, he’s well within his rights to end this the way his hand in itching to—by sinking the blade into Otaktay’s jugular. Maybe it will finally earn him respect. Maybe it won’t.

He glances up and finds Mila’s eyes. She stands frozen with her heart in her throat. All she sees is him. And she’s the only one Dean means to answer to.

He raises the knife—and he brings it down into the earth beside Otaktay’s head.

The warrior inhales sharply, his brows furrowing in shock and confusion. He stares up at Dean, who looks down at him with the remnants of jaw-clenching anger. In that moment, they come to an understanding.

Dean pulls back and straightens up, with just a small shake in his bowed legs. His gait steadies as he makes his way back to his wife.

Šóta lets go of Mila so she can go to meet Dean. She runs her hands over his chest and arms, trying to find injuries she may not have seen before. Her fingers trace around places that are already becoming bruises, but Dean just holds her, taking pains to soften himself. His arms around her are secure, but not too strong. She’s just grateful that he isn’t hurt too badly.

“You okay?” he makes sure.

Mila nods, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “Yes.”

Her parents watch them closely, even though the couple doesn’t realize it.

Behind them, Takoda shakes his head at his friend, but he dutifully helps Otaktay to his feet. Šóta crosses his arms and levels him with a cold look.

“Take him to Eyota,” he says.

“Yes,” Tahatan agrees, his voice deep and grave. “Tell her what her son has done here.”

The rest of Otaktay’s anger drains when he looks up at his chief. He says nothing, and can’t hold the older man’s gaze for long. He reluctantly leans on his friend to help him up and over the grassy hill, down to the village. The others gathered there wait to see what Tahatan will do next. He approaches Mila and Dean.

“A good man protects his family above his own life. A warrior protects his tribe, even at the cost of blood,” Tahatan says. He looks directly at Dean. “But an honorable man knows when to show mercy.”

Dean’s heart begins to beat fast again. He hadn’t known that his choice was the right one, until now. He’s able to keep his head high without being arrogant. He just isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say.

“Dean Winchester, you will be called Ikíphi,” Tahatan declares.

Dean blinks in surprise, and also confusion when he notices the way Mila begins to weep silent tears. He tightens his arm around her waist in a wordless question, but she just smiles at him.

“Uh, what does that mean?” he whispers the question to her.

She opens her mouth to respond, but her father is the one who answers. Chatan rests a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Worthy,” he says.

He meets Dean’s gaze and holds it, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. Dean gives the gesture back to him in kind, and to Tahatan as well. Then Chatan takes his leave, walking back to camp with Weaya, Šóta, and the Chief. The others whisper Ikíphi, offering their nods of respect to Dean before they follow suit, until it’s only Mila and Dean left in the clearing.

She pulls out of his hold just to take his hand. She looks ahead rather than at him.

“Come,” she says.

Something’s wrong. Dean knows it in his gut.

He and Mila bathe together in the river again, but even though she helps him by washing his back, she’s quiet and distracted. He asks her if she was hurt. She tells him she wasn’t. That’s the only time she looks him in the eyes.

Later, they return home thoroughly exhausted. Dean starts up a small fire for the coals to help dry them off the rest of the way.

“There is a feast tonight,” Mila reminds him while she sits on the bedding, brushing through her long, damp hair. Dean sits near the fireplace and uses his knife to shave. He glances her way and lets out a deep breath.

“I don’t know if I’m up for a party,” he admits.

She surprises him by agreeing. “I’m tired too. I think Tahatan will understand if we stay in.”

Dean quirks a brow. She loves it when the tribe comes together for mealtimes. For days, she’s been telling him about moon feasts—the music, the games, the antics her cousins get up to, performing stories for the children and whoever else indulges them.

So Dean gets up and goes over to her. He swipes her hair aside and lays a kiss on her shoulder. She keeps brushing her hair, so he keeps up his path of kisses along her neck, nibbling her ear. She laughs a little and flinches at the ticklish feeling, making him smile. He wraps his arms around her from behind, and she sighs, succumbing to the feeling of him warm at her back. She settles against his chest.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

Her smile fades, though he can’t see it. “I should ask you that.”

“I’m fine, baby,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well, maybe you should not be fine,” she says in a smaller voice.

Dean pauses, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

Mila gently pushes his arms away from her. She stands up and creates distance between them. She crosses her arms to hold herself, not even daring to look back at him.

“I mean that…maybe you should go home, back to your people,” she says. She manages to keep her voice steady, even though she’s breaking her own heart.

Dean gets up to his feet, alarm and unease coiling in his stomach. He grasps her elbow and comes around to see her face, and when he does, he sees the truth. Tears shine in her eyes, slipping down with every blink. His furrowed brows ease somewhat, but he still needs answers. He holds her by her arms and stares into her soulful brown eyes.

“Mila, what’s going on? Your family, the Chief, even your dad—they’re all starting to accept me now. Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks. “What happened today, it’s a one-off, okay? For damn sure, Otaktay’s not touching you again—”

“It’s not that,” Mila says with a sniffle. She holds herself tighter, trying not to let Dean’s concern, his touch, or the intensity of his green eyes affect her so much.

“Today we have peace, but how long will that last?” she says. “And…and our children. Will they be accepted too? Or will they never find their place, caught between two worlds, but never belonging to either one.”

Mila succumbs to quiet, shuddering sobs. Her trembling hands try to cover her face from him.

Dean’s face gentles. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest (again). He gathers her to his chest and holds her closely. In the entire month he’s been living here, he hasn’t thought too much about kids. Not in any real way…

Well, okay. Maybe he has, whenever he sees Mila caring for the children of the village for their mothers. Or when they run past him, laughing, playing imaginary games. He would smile, remembering how he and Sam used to drive their mom crazy tearing around the farm when they were little.

In fact, the thought warms him now. Dean cradles the back of Mila’s head and runs his fingers through her hair. He imagines her holding a little boy who has her dark hair and eyes, and maybe Dean’s chin. He thinks she’d be a good mom.

I wish Mom could meet her, he thinks.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says. He pulls away so he can see Mila’s eyes again, honey-brown and shiny with tears. “I can’t go home. I’m already here.”

Mila can’t help but soften, her lower lip trembling. He caresses her cheek; a gentle thumb brushes away stray tears.

“So it might get harder,” he says. “Maybe we are doomed to fail. Or just maybe, our kids are the ones who are gonna make the peace stick.”

Mila’s fingers curl into his shirt. She holds onto him, and he can see that her reservations are finally breaking down. He squeezes her waist and earns her gaze on him.

“All I know is, you’re my wife ‘til the day I die,” he says, more firmly. “I’m not going anywhere without you. You understand me?”

Another watery path finds its way down Mila’s cheek, but she wipes it away. Her sweeter smile peaks through, along with the amused gleam in her eyes.

“I understand,” she replies. Her voice is mostly steady; the small quake is no longer uncertainty, just heartfelt emotion. “You take your vows seriously.”

“That’s right,” Dean nods, his lips hinting at a smile. “And you promised me something too last night, remember?”

Her brows furrow as she considers the question. But then, it dawns on her.

You will never be alone.

Her small smile returns, and she nods.

“Yes. I’m sorry…I should not let fear blind me to the truth.” She takes his hand from where it lies on her waist, and she guides it to rest over her heart. “You live here now, in my spirit.”

Dean has never heard the words I love you said quite like that before. It warms places inside him that he didn’t know were all that cold and dark. For her, he could try to put into words what that means to him, but words aren’t his strong suit. He’s never been that good at letter writing or giving speeches. That, he always left to Sam, or Benny.

Above all, Dean is a man of action.

He takes her face gently in his calloused hands, and he kisses her. He gives her everything in that all-consuming kiss, and he hopes she understands what he’s trying to say.

I’m home.

AN: This might feel like the end, but we have two more parts left! As you can see, Dean's doing his best lol. Do you think he made the right choice with Otaktay? There might be more drama ahead, plus, a special guest finally joins the cast...

Next Time:

Her smile drops with a sharp inhale of breath.

She hears hoof falls on the earth. A horse treads nearby.

Slowly, she lowers the wet clothing back into the basin. She sees two reflections growing on the water: a horse and a man. The man gets down from his horse first.

“Hey there, miss—”

Mila swiftly turns and unsheathes the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle.

Pronunciation Guide:

Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew") Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

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jerseydebil · 3 months ago

Text

disorganized off thoughts april 12 2025

the off fanbase has a lot of smart and creative people inside of it, so i accept others have had the same thoughts and ideas as i. the game is 17 years old, it's hard to have an original thought about it. that being said i've been imagining what the history of the zones may have been like.

it's kinda impossible to ignore the post-war undertone of the game. i myself have made many comparisons to dadaism and the early 1900s. many of the game's more industrial graphics evoke the era:

these are a more in-your-face allusion to historical theming, scenes of industry and production (notably around 30 years before wwi, as these are sketches and not photographs.)

though these aren't specific to wwi and wwii, i feel they're hinting at the idea of the zones having history rooted in reality. i feel there's a pretty exact decade that there's a strong argument for being when the zones were created: the 1940s.

within the room, there's scenes of scorched earth and (what appears to be) a laboratory. both of which tie with concerns of war-fueled apocalypse at the time, the existence of the atom bomb (and by extension the manhattan project as a whole) remain horrifying. this and the existence of the line "Your mother? Don't worry, she'll come back soon, she's just off to see the new world. She's someone really important, you know." by the tall mister lead me to believe hugo was the equivalent of a child living at los alamos. either that or eloha worked at a laboratory, explaining her absence.

i have no firm theories, and i feel like matpat enough already (derogatory). i really need to abandon shame. i do not believe in applying a firm, rigid history to off, the nonsense and the sense of the world being created the moment you start the game are very important. these are just the connections i'm personally making.

#off #off game #off by mortis ghost #yap sesh

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wlntrsldler · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!! For ur song challenge could you write cinnamon girl with Jamie Tartt 🤍

cinnamon girl | jamie tartt

based on the song cinnamon girl by lana del rey

description: your ex did a number on you. now you're letting the ghosts of your past control your relationship with jamie.

pairing: jamie tartt x f!reader (she/her)

warnings: language-- it's ted lasso, what did you expect?; sad!jamie, insecurities, miscommunication-ish, emotionally abusive ex

word count: 4.2K

ted lasso requests are open | main masterlist

In your last relationship, your ex constantly made you feel replaceable. At first, it started out as snide remarks from his friends that he laughed at, never once defending you or your relationship.

“Oh, Y/N, be careful with that one, nobody can tie him down.”

“He’s slippery, girl. Keep an eye on him.”

“You’re his girlfriend? Wow, props to ya. I couldn’t ever commit to someone like him.”

You tried to brush it off, ignoring the sting of his laugh after each comment. He didn’t even deny it. And the worst part? He would make comments comparing you to his exes even without the presence of his friends. You knew how he was. When you first met him, it wasn’t lost on you how he flirted with everyone and everything that would let him. You knew he had history, which you’d later on find out was not history, but more of an ongoing thing, with the people in his inner circle.

You felt stupid for staying in that relationship for that long. You knew what he was doing and what he was saying wasn’t okay, but you had been stuck in the cycle for so long that you were convinced that nobody else would put up with you the way he does. That was until you accepted a job as a Business Relations Assistant at AFC Richmond.

It was weird at first to be surrounded by strangers who cared more about your well-being than your partner of a year and a half did. Since Higgins introduced you to the crew, you received “How ya doing, Y/N?” in passing from Sam, hugs as a form of good morning from Dani, and the occasional grunt– complimentary, not derogatory– from Coach Kent. It was simple, little things, but these moments of care and acknowledgment came without an expectation of something in return. They simply wanted to make you feel welcome.

Your love life before dating Jamie was a mystery to the team, Jamie included. They didn’t even know that you were dating someone for so long until Keeley came into the locker room to tell the boys to be extra kind to you since you were going through a breakup. Shaking off their initial shock, the team agreed to shower you with love when they saw you after Isaac gave them an aggressive in tone, yet filled with flowery words about how you were a great addition to the team, pep talk.

By this point, you and Jamie had built a solid rapport, somewhere between acquaintances and friends. You were courteous when you’d run into each other at Nelson Road, even walking side by side until your paths diverged, often talking about the lovely, or horrific, weather you were having. During bus rides to games, he would sit on the window seat beside Sam, in front of you, and would always ask you to be the tie-breaker for one of his many ridiculous polls. You’d always end up siding with him, not because you agreed, but because Jamie grins up at you like he just won the lottery. Even though you didn’t agree that burgers were better than pizza, you’d say they were just to be on the receiving end of one of Jamie Tartt’s award-winning smiles again.

It took you a while to open up to people again. Your life revolved around your partner and that meant that many of the friendships you had faded in the background while you were with him. But after the breakup, Keeley and Rebecca played a huge role in helping you step out of your comfort zone. They listened to you talk about your relationship as often as you wanted until you were out of words and out of cares. These talks would happen over a glass (or ten) of wine in Keeley’s living room with some sappy romantic comedy playing on mute in the background. For the most part, you had forgotten about your ex. Soon enough, you were saying yes to invites from Isaac or the coaches for team outings.

That’s how you found yourself kissing Jamie Tartt on your front porch after a night at Ola’s.

When you pulled away, a goofy smile plastered on your face, you saw Jamie’s flushed cheeks that he tried to hide by pretending to cough into his elbow. You shoved his shoulder playfully, unsure if this was just a cruel dream that you’d have to wake up from soon or if this was real life.

Jamie, who seemed to be thinking the same thing, realized that this was real life when your hand met his shoulder. Feeling more confident, he placed his hands on your hips and pulled you closer once more. He whispered against your lips, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?” You asked in shock. You would’ve never guessed that Jamie liked you in that way. “I never noticed.”

“Sam was right,” he chuckled, shaking his head that he was bringing up his teammates while he was inches away from a pretty girl’s face, but he knew he had to tell you this so you knew how serious he was about you. You weren’t just a one-night stand and this wasn't an "I had too many drinks tonight," mistake. “I’ve been flirting with you for ages. Sam said that you were oblivious to it but for a while, I really thought you just didn’t fancy me back. I’m really glad that I was wrong.”

“I had no idea you liked me.”

“Are you joking?” he scoffed, grinning widely. It was the same smile he shared with you on many bus rides. “Why do you think I always ask those stupid questions on the bus? I couldn’t give two shits about whether or not the team preferred Chinese or Italian food, or if they put both socks on first and then their shoes, or one sock and one shoe at a time. I only made those up so I had an excuse to talk to ya. Have a whole notes app full of questions and everything.”

You threw your head back laughing, imagining Jamie deleting questions that he already asked you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, “You could’ve just talked to me, you know.”

“Yeah, but you make me nervous,” he blushed, the tips of his ears turning bright pink. “You’re really pretty and proper fit. Plus, you never call me stupid even when my questions are fucking dumb. You’re always so nice to me and you’re loads of fun.”

You cocked an eyebrow, trying to make sense of the situation. Jamie Tartt was nervous to talk to you? “Jamie, you do realize you’re a world-class footballer, right? Like rich and famous and can get anyone you want?”

“That don’t matter to me,” he said, shrugging. “Want you, that’s all.”

It was a strange feeling to hear that from him. You haven’t been wanted in a long time, at least not like this, not in the way that Jamie was looking at you like you are somehow the most incredible thing he’d ever have the privilege of getting to see. He looked at you like he was thanking whatever deities were responsible for reincarnation for allowing him to experience you in this lifetime. If the next fifty lifetimes were filled with nothing but suffering for him then so be it, as long as he had you in this one. You haven’t been wanted this purely before– wanted for who you are and not for what you can offer, not for the potential of what you could be.

You kissed him again.

Six months after your first kiss, you and Jamie were going strong. So far the relationship has been a secret to the public and the media. The team, though, found out a month into your relationship when Jamie got injured during training and you ran out of your office onto the pitch, ignoring Beard’s confused remarks as you sped past him.

Jamie was lying on the pitch, forearms covering his eyes, trying not to think about the shooting pain from his ankle. You shoved Jan Maas and Richard away from Jamie, which made them protest, but quickly understood why you were in such a hurry to get to Jamie. You kneeled beside him, running your fingers through his hair.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered, “You doing okay? How bad does it hurt?”

He moved his arms at the sound of your voice. His eyes met yours and he immediately reached for your hand, threading your fingers together. “‘M okay, I think. Ankle hurts like a bitch, though.”

You continued to tend to him as much as you could but quickly remembered that you two weren’t alone. Your eyes widened as you began to look around the circle that was forming around you and Jamie.

“Fuuuuuuccckkkkk,” Jamie mumbled, realizing that you two now revealed your relationship to the team. He looked at you apologetically, “Sorry, bub.”

“Oi, Bumbercatch!” The team’s attention shifted over to Isaac who had a smirk on his face. He held out his open palm, “You owe me ten pounds.”

The team erupted in cheers, almost forgetting that Jamie was indeed hurt and would probably have to sit out a game or two. You looked down at Jamie and shrugged your shoulders, “Seems like they’re taking it well.”

He laughed, propping himself up to sit up, “I’m glad we told them.”

“Me too,” you replied, pressing your lips together.

“I’m going to fucking gouge my eyes out.” You heard Roy say, though there was a hint of a smile in his voice. In sync, you and Jamie held up your middle finger in Roy’s direction, which earned the both of you a signature Roy Kent grunt in return.

Much like your reveal to the team, your reveal to the general public was also just an accident. You were spending the weekend at Jamie’s flat as part of your six-month anniversary celebration. You just pulled up to his place, using one hand to unlock his door with the key he had made for you, and the other hand was used to carry in your large duffle bag. You heard him speaking in his living room and assumed that he was on a call with one of the lads.

“Baby, I’m here!” You called out loudly, hanging your coat on his coat rack by the door. You walked toward his living room to find him staring at you wide-eyed, jaw hanging low. You giggled, “What’s wrong, love?”

“I’m on Instagram live.”

“Oh shit,” You mirrored his expression, facepalming. “I’m so sorry.”

On Jamie’s screen, hundreds of comments about the interaction began to pop up.

Holy shit???? Who was that?!!!

Jamie has a girlfriend!!!!! NOOOO THAT SHOULD BE ME!!!!

Does that voice sound familiar to u guys? I think that’s Y/N, I recognize her voice from Keeley’s stories.

Jamie looked at you, trying to figure out what the best course of action was. You tilted your head as if asking, “Should we just do it?” He nodded, a huge smile taking over his features.

“Well,” he began. “Cat’s out of the bag, I suppose. Get in here, love.”

You spent the next thirty minutes answering questions from his fans on Instagram live. Some of the team even joined for a few minutes to fangirl over your relationship in the comments which made the two of you laugh. The next day, Jamie decided that it was time to make your relationship Instagram official by posting a photo from your anniversary dinner. It was a picture that cut off right above your lips, still giving a hint of anonymity, although many people already knew. You had your glass of wine in a cheers motion with his own. The caption read: “just us two. happy six.”

The picture got more than two million likes in the first hour and hundreds of comments speculating who the girl in the picture was. You decided to comment on the post the day after, hoping that most of the hype around it was calming down. You rolled over Jamie’s side of the bed, smiling softly as he slept peacefully.

You commented, “just us two (and the entire afc richmond team, including the coaches and admin) (so really just us two and fifty people). love you beyond words.”

You stayed in your little bubble of love for the rest of the weekend. After your social media launch, you stayed off the internet until you got back to work on Monday. When you finally checked social media, you were surprised to find that most of the public’s opinion of your and Jamie’s relationship was positive. However, there was one tweet that caught your eye.

“Y/N Y/L/N is strong tbh. If my partner had the history of Jamie Tartt, I’d sleep with one eye open to keep an eye on him.”

You frowned. You knew Jamie wasn’t like that. He would never do that to you, at least not now. He talked to you about how he used to be before you met him. He talked about how shit of a boyfriend he was to Keeley, how he was too much of a prick to be friends with the lads, but he also talked about how he grew from that and how he was no longer that person. And you believed him. It’s Jamie, of course, you believed him.

But that didn’t stop those voices in your head from taking over. Voices that sounded an awful lot like your ex’s friends who made those sly remarks. Voices that told you that you were replaceable. Voices that told you Jamie could do better, that Jamie should have better. Voices that drowned out the loving words of your boyfriend who loved you so much it hurt.

The distance started out subtle. It started with telling Jamie that you had to get to Richmond earlier than normal because you had expenditure reports to look over. He even suggested that he'd go to Nelson Road extra early for you, but you refused. He pouted but reluctantly agreed to let you drive yourself to work instead of him picking you up. Jamie was upset that he no longer got to spend his mornings with you, but he was understanding and knew that it was for your job.

Then, you started cutting your kisses short. During date nights, which used to be filled with lingering kisses that were surely too heated to be deemed acceptable PDA, you started to give Jamie quick pecks on the lips before pulling away. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable so he let it go and settled for the short kisses, even though it didn’t feel enough for him. Typically, you’d spend the night at his place after your dates, but recently you’ve been asking him to take you home, blaming the expenditure reports once more. Jamie, trying to be ever-so-understanding, drove you home, and slept in his own bed alone with a frown on his face.

The final blow for Jamie was when you didn’t sit next to him on the bus to Tottenham. He sat patiently on the aisle seat, craning his neck up to see when you were coming in, as he knew you preferred the window seat. His eyes lit up when you entered the bus, smiling widely as you approached him.

You refused to look him in the eye as you pointed toward the back of the bus, “Sorry, Jamie. Rebecca wants to talk about something so I think I’m gonna sit with her today.”

“Oh,” he cleared his throat, trying not to show his disappointment. He didn’t want to force you to sit next to him. Of course, you were allowed to sit with Rebecca. It’s just that he missed you so much. He hasn’t seen you in a few days. You’ve barely replied to his texts. He felt like you were slipping away and he didn’t know what to do. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course. I’ll see you at the hotel, yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a small smile. He smiled back sadly. When you walked away to sit in the back of the bus, Sam nudged him, asking him to scoot over so he could sit next to him. Jamie felt nauseous, and he blamed it on the fact that he hadn’t sat by the window in months, but he knew the real reason why.

Throughout the entire bus ride, you kept sneaking glances at Jamie. You couldn’t see him too well being so far back in the bus. Rebecca, who was shocked to see you beside her instead of your boyfriend, was looking at you with a questioning expression. She closed the notebook she was writing in and crossed her arms.

“Alright, spill,” she tutted, leaning back in her chair. “Why aren’t you sitting with Jamie? What has he done?”

You shook your head, “Nothing. He hasn’t done anything.”

“Then why do you look like the living sunlight was sucked right out of you?” You didn’t say anything. Rebecca sighed, rubbing your back comfortingly, “Whatever is happening. You need to talk to him about it. Nothing good is going to come out of you keeping things from him. Trust me.”

You knew what Rebecca was saying was reasonable. It makes sense to talk to Jamie about things that were bothering you. The thing was, you had already convinced yourself that Jamie would be better off with anyone else but you. It’s not that you thought Jamie would ever cheat on you or compare you to his exes because that’s not Jamie. You knew this. But you couldn’t help but think about Jamie realizing he deserved better than you.

It will only make things easier on you if you mentally prepare yourself for it. It was inevitable. After all, you were replaceable.

By the time you arrived in Tottenham, you were feeling more anxious than ever. You knew you were sharing a room with Jamie as it became an unspoken rule since you first told the team about your relationship. You watched as Jamie exited the bus, trailing behind to create as much space between the two of you as possible. After Higgins distributed the keys, you took a deep breath and headed to the lifts.

Jamie had gone ahead with Sam and Dani since you were standing to the side with Rebecca. In the elevator, Rebecca squeezed your hand in support and offered a kiss on your temple. When you arrived on the 10th floor, you waved goodbye to Rebecca and made your way to the room.

Jamie was quietly unpacking his things when you walked in. He turned around, eyebrows furrowed and a frown tugging on the corners of his lips. You wanted to walk over and kiss the creases on his forehead away. He cleared his throat, “I can take the couch if ya want so you can have the bed. I know you’ve been working hard on those reports so you deserve a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s alright, Jamie. I can take the couch. You have a game tomorrow that you need to be well-rested for.”

“No, it’s fine,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He sounded defeated. “‘M not letting you sleep on the couch. You can take the bed and I can just stay with Isaac or Richard or something.”

“No, Jamie, this is your room.” You said, standing your ground.

“No it’s not!” He exclaimed, finally reaching his wit’s end. He stared at you, a look of frustration and brokenness evident on his face. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the tears from breaking free. “It’s our room! And I just... I just don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. What have I done wrong?”

You took two hesitant strides towards him. Jamie looked at you, hopeful that you’ll touch him again, this time without him making the first move. He missed feeling you draw sweet nothings on his skin with your fingers. Or the feeling of your lips on his jaw as you try to wake him up in the morning. Or the feeling of your arms wrapped around him in a warm embrace.

You stopped short in front of him. His heart dropped. “You haven’t done anything, Jamie.”

“So why do you keep pulling away? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages. Like a proper conversation. I haven’t kissed ya in days and it’s killing me. I feel like I’m losing you.”

It was then, with Jamie staring at you with pleading eyes, that you realized how stupid you were being. You ran to him, broken sobs escaping your body, as he stumbled back, unsure of what was happening. Jamie engulfed you in his arms, kissing your head as he tried to console you. You spoke into his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Jamie.”

“Hey,” he cooed, pulling you away. He led you to the bed to sit you down. You sat criss-crossed on the bed, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. You didn’t even want to imagine how much of a mess you must look like right now. He reached over to place a hand on your thigh, rubbing circles to help you calm down. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, hm? What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been such a dick to you,” you confessed, sniffling silently. You placed a hand on top of his, giving it a light squeeze, “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” he tried to joke, offering you one of those award-winning smiles you were a goner for. “But what I don’t know is why. Talk to me, please.”

“D’ya remember when Keeley told you guys to be extra nice to me because I’d just broken up with someone?”

Confused, Jamie nodded his head. “Yeah?”

“Well, there are things I want to say to you, but I don’t really like talking about it. Took me ages to even open up to Keeley and Rebecca about how bad it was,” you trailed off, looking away. You suddenly felt so small under Jamie’s gaze, like you were unscrewing the top of your head to give him a full view of all the fucked up things in there. You felt so exposed, but you knew you couldn’t keep this from him anymore. It was affecting him now, too. “My ex, he used to do this thing that kind of fucked me up really bad. He used to compare me to his ex-girlfriends and it made me feel like shit. His friends used to make these jokes about how he was a playboy and would probably get tired of me soon or would make condescending comments about me staying with him because they knew nobody could really tie him down. Like I was stupid for being with him or something.”

Jamie frowned, internalizing your words. He looked down on his lap, lip quivering, “You think I’m like that? Like I’m just playin’ with ya?”

Your eyes widened. You quickly shook your head, “No, not at all! I just… I was with him for over a year and when you hear those things said about you enough times, you start believing them. I got in my head thinking that you could and should do better than me and it made me pull away from you.”

Jamie remained quiet, but the expression on his face changed to a more neutral one. You continued, “I figured it would be easier for you to come to the conclusion that you deserve more than me if I gave you the space, you know? I was trying to help you realize that I’m replaceable, but it backfired on me because now you think you did something wrong– which you absolutely haven’t.”

He sat there, not saying a word, trying to comprehend what you just told him. He blinked, “Babe, that’s absolutely mad.”

You couldn’t help but let a laugh escape your lips as a teasing smile made its way to Jamie’s face. He followed suit before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you down to lie on the bed with him. He rolled the both of you over so he was hovering on top of you. Jamie nudged your nose with his, “Don’t get me wrong, your feelings are valid. I would kill that prick and his twat friends if you let me, but love, you are everything I’ve ever wanted. You are not replaceable to me.”

“It’s just hard to hear you when there’s so much nonsense noise in my head, you know?” you whispered, holding his face in the palm of your hand. “Sometimes those pesky voices are just so loud.”

“Well,” he got up off of you and propped himself next to you. He gave you a cheeky smirk before leaning back. Then in the loudest voice he could manage, he yelled, “I love you! I love you! I love you, Y/N Y/L/N! There is nobody else for me. I love yo-”

Fearing that he wouldn’t stop anytime soon, you covered his mouth with your hand, laughing loudly at how ridiculous the whole situation was. Jamie’s eyes twinkled with something you’d missed over the last few days and the sound of his muffled chuckles was like music to your ears. You removed your hand from his mouth.

“Loud enough, do ya reckon?” he joked. Then, he looked at you seriously. He inched closer to you, sighing in relief when you didn’t pull away. “But seriously, love. Whenever those voices come creepin’ back in, just let me know, yeah? Talk to me. I don’t think I can handle another day like that again. It was my own personal hell, to be honest.”

You wiped the tears from your eyes and nodded. You placed your lips on Jamie’s, allowing your kiss to last as long as possible before you had to pull away for air. You snuggled against him, basking in the scent of his cologne. “I promise I will, Jamie. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

#ted lasso #ted lasso fics #ted lasso imagines #ted lasso imagine #ted lasso oneshot #jamie tartt #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfic #jamie tartt x yn #jamie tartt oneshot #frances writes #frances song fics

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smiley-mcdoggington · 24 days ago

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YAYAYAYAY MORE FORD HERO DELUSIONS CW stancest CW tfpreg CW eggpreg CW unreliable narrator CW 1982 Stans (derogatory) CW slight trans-inclusive period typical misogyny CW probably ooc but who gives a fuck

Of course, when Ford finally had unicorn hair in his reach, it was because he was tied with it. The tensile strength of unicorn hair was - apparently - supernatural, and the gnomes must have a few pure of heart souls to have gotten so much. They wouldn't have missed the amount Ford was trying to take, and if that squirrel didn't alarm them, they wouldn't have noticed at all. But now, he was trapped, being carried deeper and deeper into the woods by dozens of tiny hands on his back while he tried again to pull his arms away from his sides. The unicorn hair was actually beginning to cut into the gabardine of his trench coat, which not even a griffin could do. He would note it down if he had his journal.

He turned his head to eye the gnomes holding him up. "Where are you even taking me?! I've spoken with schmebulock senior, I believe I have a right to a lawyer." He snipped.

The gnome doing most of the carrying of his right shoulder smirked. "That was before, when we only had a council. Now we have a queen, and she will judge you."

"You're a matriarchy now?" He asked, forgetting his situation for a moment. "Has your queen only recently come of age then? My informant said you were a democracy."

"We don't raise a queen." The gnome looked disgusted. "We find her. She rules until her death and then we become democratic until we find a new one."

Ford scrunched his nose. "Why would you willingly throw out a democracy?"

The gnome gave him an odd look. "For love..?" He said like it was obvious. Ford didn't quite understand that, but when he opened his mouth to ask, another gnome nudged the one he was speaking to.

"Horace, stop sharing with the human, the Queen hates a blabbermouth." The other gnome hissed.

"Blabbermouth? You mean your matriarch doesn't allow free speech?" He huffed. "Some government. I thought gnomes were more developed than this."

All the gnomes in unison snapped to look at him like he'd spit on their mother. "Don't insult our wife." The other gnome spat.

"... 'Our'?"

Then he was thrown out of their tiny hands and onto the ground. Luckily that wasn't a very far fall and he wasn't winded.

"Our Queen! We found this interloper trying to steal our unicorn hair! And then he kicked Larry!"

Ford shuffle-squirmed until he could see some sort of throne. It seemed to me made out of a large tree warped and braided possibly hundreds of years ago, cultivated for something much larger than a gnome. Two thick legs were crossed one over the other, thin white fabric draped over them. Ford couldn't see their face or torso behind a veil of dichondra, but they were large, confident in their seat. Was that what female gnomes looked like?

"We want to give him the death penalty, my lady!"

Thick fingers poked between the thin vines, and parted them gently. "Francis, you always want the death penalty." The queen of gnomes spoke, her voice low and gravelly with... A jersey accent? It took Ford a second to recognize that round nose, that square jaw, those broad shoulders.

"Stanley?!" Ford gaped. All the gnomes hissed.

Stanley looked down at him, sitting prim in this living artifact of gnome history, long white dress dripping off his shoulders and over a beer gut more impressive than their grandfather's. His eyes were wide. "Stanford..? What the hell are you doin' out here?"

Ford squirmed in his bindings. "I should be asking you that, Stanley! Did Ma tell you I moved here?! Are you trying to ruin my research grant too?!" He hollared from the dirt. The gnomes started grabbing him again, hissing and spitting senselessly.

Then Stanley stood, and the gnomes parted for him like the sea. Ford glared up at him and Stan glared right back. "You got a lot of nerve coming here, stealing from me and mine, and saying I'm the one not welcome."

Ford struggled harder against the unicorn hair. "You kidnapped me, Stanley!"

Stan sighed. "That's not my name anymore." He said firmly. "It's Constance."

Suddenly, a few facts snapped into place. A feminine new name, long hair, feminine clothing, complete loss of the Pines' man chicken legs but the backs of her hands had divots between the bones from muscle atrophy. "Oh." He said astutely. Then; "You kept Stan in your name..?" She used to go by Stan, Ford always hated it for himself but Stan would just smile and say she liked being part of a pair. Did she still? After all these years?

Stan smiled gently. "Yeah." She said simply.

"Did you become a transsexual when you were instated as queen of the gnomes?"

Her face soured. "Eight years and that's what you ask - no, Ford." She said shortly, putting a hand on her gut before turning her back to him. "Punishment is excommunication with gnome scholars for a week, and a price hike on buying unicorn hair, now where's Larry?" She said definitively, and all the gnomes started moving around her. One particularly bitey gnome from earlier scuttling up to her so she could pick him up and hold him to her breast. The gnome looked very smug about this.

Then he was picked up again, and he started squirming harder. "Constance! Wait! I have questions!"

She sat back in her veiled throne and Ford was carried away. "Stan! Wait, Stan!" But she didn't move.

He tried to note the way he came but he didn't know the forest this low to the ground and the fifty tiny hands on him were distracting. He looked back - the chatty gnome was holding up his shoulder again. "Horace! How on earth did my sister become a gnome queen? How long has she been here? Did she know I was here?"

Horace squinted at him. "Sister?"

"Yes, that's the more accurate term I presume."

"But you're so..." He trailed off.

"Ugly!" One of the others piped up.

"Smelly!" Another added.

"Kicky!"

"Scrawny!"

Ford huffed. "Well she is. We're identical - we were born as such anyhow."

Horace looked skeptical. "If you say so, scientist."

"You didn't answer my question."

Horace gave him an annoyed look. "She became our queen the same way anyone does. By marrying us and carrying our--" Another gnome elbowed him.

"She doesn't want us talking to you." The other gnome snipped, giving Horace stink-eye.

But Ford's mind caught on the verb. Carrying. Carrying. But Stan wasn't holding anything, what of theirs could she possibly be carrying?

They carried him all the way to his house, and put down on his rug. He stayed very, very still while tiny hands undid the knots of unicorn hair, noting every bind until he was freed.

Then he scrambled to his feet and sprinted back out the door. He needed answers. He retraced the steps of the gnomes, not hearing them following him but keeping up his pace anyway. It wasn't until he realized he had been running longer than the gnomes had been carrying him that he slowed, retraced his steps, found trees he recognized that only lead to trees he didn't. He found his own boot prints, the journal he had dropped, but not a single gnome. He sketched out a rough map that was somehow always wrong, found his own boot prints again, managed to circle back to his house and by the time the air started cooling he was no closer to finding that clearing he was brought to. He retraced his steps again and just by the last familiar tree he looked on and saw nothing, no break in the trees, no stray anomalies, nothing.

"Stan!" He called into the shades of orange the sky had become through the tree tops. "Stan! Where are you?!" He yelled but his words were carried off in the breeze and no response came.

He sighed, leaning and then sitting against a tree with a root he'd seen one of his gnome captors trip over. He should log the events, it wasn't every day one was captured by gnomes. But when he got out his journal and a pen, he started sketching Constance, instead.

He hadn't seen her in nearly a decade. She still had those broad, muscled shoulders, but she didn't slouch so much anymore. She seemed comfortable where she was, so easily confident the way she always had been, the way Ford always envied. Maybe she genuinely didn't know who Ford was, maybe she was drawn by the weirdness magnetism just like he was.

He drew her long, curly hair that was the same texture as their Ma's but just a bit lighter. That smile she'd given him, for just a moment. Her dress, that only emphasized her shoulders and biceps and made him wonder if she still boxed like she used to. Then her stomach, the one that protruded farther than usual, the one she had held strangely, almost protectively.

Carrying.

But that was just ridiculous. Sure, he didn't know the intricacies of gnome reproduction, and facts were relative in Gravity Falls, but his twin wouldn't just let anyone use her for a broodmare, she was a free spirit, always had been, nothing could tie her down that way, certainly not gnomes.

Even if it might have. Even if she still wanted to be a parent just like she had gushed about when they were teenagers watching Shermie and she wouldn't put him down for even a second. She wouldn't need gnomes for something like that.

He drew her protruded stomach anyway, the way her hands went over it, the way she held herself.

His sister. He wondered if Ma knew. She'd wanted Shermie to be a girl so badly, maybe she would be happy to finally have her daughter.

He wondered how his twin had changed. If maybe she was more mature, after their time apart. He sketched her out again, her sharp eyes down to her soft legs. He barely noticed how his pen loosened in his grasp and his blinks got longer until he leaned his head back against tree bark and didn't look back down at his pages again.

----

When he woke up, the air was warm, and light shone through his eyelids. Five fingers were gently combing through his hair but he couldn't feel any alarm through the warm fog his mind was steeped in. He blinked his eyes open.

"Stan?" He yawned.

The fingers stopped, and Ford frowned. "Yeah, Knucklehead. You passed out in the middle of the woods. Could have been chow for the hide-behinds doing that."

"Hide-behinds are carnivorous?" Ford slurred, before clearing his throat. "More importantly - where were you? What are you doing here? Why do you sell unicorn hair?"

Stan snorted. "Still always up for an interrogation, huh? Anybody tell you you'd make a shitty detective?"

Ford huffed, sitting up from what was apparently Stan's legs - which were softer than he remembered. Perhaps a consequence of estrogen. "I would never work for an institution that wasn't my own."

Stan cackled. "Damn straight. Is that why you got that creepy ass cabin? Avoiding the Geneva convention up there?"

Ford smiled. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"Ha! And all our teachers thought you was an angel."

"Compared to you I was a Saint."

"Says the guy that built a bomb to get out of summer school gym." Stan bumped his shoulder.

"Sayeth I. At least I never used my babysitting job to make an information black market." He bumped Stan right back, but Stan went down cackling.

Ford took in his surroundings. He seemed to be on a giant bed of blankets and furs and clothing, a very obvious divot where one had slept consistently. The bed only ended at the trees surrounding it, and each tree had hanging plants veiling the space between like a canopy.

He looked back at Stan, who was still smiling and struggling to sit up. Like this, her stomach seemed even more prominent.

"What are you carrying...?" Ford muttered, and Stan froze like a startled deer.

"Heh - whaddaya mean, poindexter?"

Ford reached out. Stan's stomach was solid in a way that really made no sense. Warm, feverishly warm under the thin cloth, little touches of static barely registering to his fingertips.

Stan's breath hitched. "S' just part of the deal, you know. They take care of me and all I gotta do is--" Something, something shifted under his hand - two somethings in two different directions.

Ford's fingers knotted into her unnaturally white dress. "They take care of you?" He said faintly. "That's all it takes?"

Stan shifted away a little, her own hands coming up to her stomach protectively. "It's more complicated than that - and it's not like it was my first idea, it just kinda happened."

"Just happened. You just let yourself get impregnated? By gnomes? Were the gremloblins busy? Did the gnomes just get to you first? Or is there a line?"

Stan smacked his hands off of him. "You don't know the kinda shit I went through, Stanford! I've done a lot worse for a lot less, you don't get it living it up in a big fancy house where you can just chase gnomes all day instead of chasing your next meal! You think I'm a whore? I fucking am! At least a whore gets fed!" Stan had shuffled away on her massive bed, hands still over her stomach like Ford would hurt her. She still had that fire in her eyes, in her tone, but she was defensive.

Ford couldn't take his eyes off her. "I could have taken care of you."

"Fuck off Stanford, don't think I forgot your first reaction to seeing me in almost a decade!" Her voice was raised, but she glanced to the side, and something made her quiet. "You're awake, it's morning, you can piss off now." She muttered.

"I was reactive from being kidnapped, Constance, it's unreasonable to blame me when you facilitated my kidnapping on top of knowing I lived here and never saying anything!"

"You were arrested for stealing, and the only gnome that knows your name is Schmebulock, so pardon me for not catching it, scientist." At the last word she made the same gesture he'd seen Schmebulock make when visiting - he thought it was just a gnomish hand-wave.

Ford blinked. "You're really living amongst them? What happened to your sales job?"

"They all fell through. At least this gig guarantees me another month out of my car." He ran his hand over his naval. "Maybe less." He muttered.

"You're coming back with me." Ford blurted.

Stan got defensive again. "Fat chance."

"This is a very unusual condition to be in, and I specialize in the unusual, so--"

"Nope - not talking about this. Not happening. You're lucky I told the guys to keep away because if they heard you talking like that they'd eat you." She said matter-of-factly.

"Gnomes are carnivorous?"

Stan paused, squinting at him. "If I give you something to geek out over will you give up on making me your lab rat until I've at least had breakfast?"

On one hand, Ford resented that notion, he just wanted to monitor her condition, and he had a right to ask questions. On the other hand, Stan never disappointed when it came to giving him new discoveries.

"... What kind of something."

"Something you gotta be really, really, really careful with." She responded, crawling to the centre of the bed, and that divot in the blankets. Her stomach distended nearly as far as her knees, touching the bed when she crawled. He wondered if he should help hold it up for her.

But then she reached the middle and started digging into the blankets. When she was elbow deep she gave him a very stern look. "No questions if I let you hold this, and if you drop it I'll kill you." She said, and Ford nodded dumbly.

She pulled out a large, oblong pink shape about the size of a cantaloupe. "You wanna know what I'm carrying, it's more of these." She said, and before Ford could say the first syllable of his many, many questions, she shot him a glare. His teeth clacked shut audibly. "Hold out your hands."

Ford held them out, and Stanley carefully put the egg in them. It was just as warm as her stomach, and put slightly stronger sparks into his fingertips. That would explain why his hands were shaking. "Stan, I--"

"Nope, no questions. I'm fucking starving, I'm getting breakfast, if you got questions ask Ford Jr." She grunted, crawling off the massive bed and leaving Ford in a daze.

He stared down at the soft pink calcium carbonate shell his sister had given him to watch. It felt alive in his hands the way the all the wilderness of Gravity Falls did, sparking things in his hind brain without any real direction. He looked at the life Stan had made (and given to him, trusted him with) and those aimless neurons seemed to all snap into place.

This was Stan's child. His nibling. His family. His legs curled, putting the egg in his lap and curling around it until it dug into his abdomen, safe. The ambient electricity of it buzzed with content and Ford hummed right back to it.

Stan was probably joking about naming it after him, but just the thought had his vision blurring. Stan had made the most miraculous little thing, and if she named it after him? His heart was in his throat.

He stared at that pink egg and hoped it hatched looking like its mother.

Then something solid wacked him on the head. He curled even tighter around his egg, but when he turned it was only Constance.

"Shit, I thought the hypnosis was a me thing. Not everything's a threat, Ford Jr. is a little ugly, also a gnome, and what always knocks me out of it is imagining the birth so I guess try that."

Ford blinked - it burned, had he been forgetting to blink? But he turned to properly face Stan, relaxing his hold on the egg. Stan looked beautiful, aetherial, heavy with life and glowing with it and--

Stan thunked him again on the head with what he now knew was a wooden bowl full of nuts and berries. "Imagine. That thing. Coming out of you."

Ford looked down at the egg again. It was larger than both his fists put together.

"See? Not as cute now, huh."

He didn't imagine himself, he imagined Stan, alone and in pain without him there, having to do everything herself, a normal human birth could be fatal, he didn't know the statistics of someone with an incorrectly shaped pelvis. He looked back at her, struggling to carry herself, heavy with more of these little wonders that she would have had to give life to alone if Ford hadn't found her.

"Do you need the bowl again?"

Ford shook his head. "If I were hypnotized I would know, Constance." He said simply. His sister rolled her eyes. "And beyond that, I really think you should--"

"I got you breakfast." Stan cut in, balancing the wooden bowl on his bent knees. "Gimme Egg Ford."

Ford handed over the egg like a dead man handed over his heart to Anubis, and Stan picked it up one-handed, tucking it into her elbow and against her breast like a mother would. "Did you really name it after me?" Ford asked, taking the bowl to pick at.

"Maybe. Maybe I just named him after the car."

Ford snorted. "And not after your old beater?"

"Hey. Put some respect on the Connie-mobile's name. I even got her a new license plate for it."

"Oh - not Stan?"

"You call me Stan, you get it, anyone else does I got some brass for em'." She grumbled, sitting herself down properly.

Ford smiled at her. She averted her eyes and grabbed a handful of Ford's breakfast. "I still think you should come home with me." He said with more surety behind it.

Stan sighed and put a hand on her stomach. "Not your lab?"

"Well, my lab is most of my home, but I do have a living area. Technically." He could still see her doubt, defensive of her young. "I can take take care of you - I will, I want to. I can do thousands of times better than those damn gnomes, I swear."

Stan sighed like she was carrying the world - and she might be - and looked down at his namesake. "Maybe. A little help with the next two would be good, at least. Gnomes have shitty bedside manner." Ford nodded. "... So after this, you'll let me sleep on your couch or something? You know I can't pay rent, and it'll take a few days after these two are born to work and--"

"You'll sleep in my bed."

Stan's eyebrows shot right up. "Oh. Like..." Her head lowered, looking for any eavesdroppers. "Like highschool kind of sleep or middle school kind of sleep?"

"Whichever you'd like." Ford said. "But, ah, I did appreciate our highschool sleeping arrangements."

Stan's cheeks were pink and she had a smile on her face. "Damn, Sixer, way to romance em'." She mocked, averting her eyes again.

Ford cupped her face. "I could always take you out - I suppose it's my responsibility as the man."

Stan snorted. "Yeah, such a gentleman." She commented, but pushed her face into his six-fingered hand.

"I'm serious. I want to get to know my sister." He said very seriously.

Her face got redder. "Whatever you say, Casanova. Now finish your breakfast, the gnomes worked hard to get all those."

Ford put his bowl to the side. "Breakfast can wait." He said sternly, cupping her other cheek and kissing her.

She sighed like she was home, leaning into him. Ford held her easily.

#Pardon the one italicized comma #Ford is so susceptible to hypnosis before the portal its not even funny he's got his mind's legs spread at all times #That was a horrible metaphor why did I say that #Stan: So yeah I'm a surrogate #Ford: *nodding* these are our children that we will raise and I should start setting asside college funds for them #stancest #Don't check the word count on this #Any amount is too long #drafts

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highladyluck · 4 months ago

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Wheel of Time, Season 3, Episode 2 (second watch) Liveblog

Elayne like "This is the largest gay bar in the world, please don't take me away"

Emotionally Intelligent Lan never fails to jumpscare me lmao

I already said this but I do need to reiterate: Galad would not fuck

I like that we see Morgase's accepted ring like, first thing. Also those maid headdresses that look like approximately one-fourth of a swan has been applied directly to the entire head? They're very good. Very intimidating. Very high fashion.

I'm now watching to see if Elaida has the bracelet this early- hard to tell tho.

So. I was not a huge fan of the Lannister lean-in thing they did with Morgause on first watch. But I've seen some commentary that has reconciled me a bit more to it- one is that people were going to make the comparison between Andor's whole vibe and Game of Thrones anyway, so they called it to mind deliberately but contrasted it with Morgase's slightly more strategic/principled(?) motivation. This is the kind of thing that RJ did with the first 200 pages of EotW and The Fellowship of the Ring- deliberately echoing the more familiar property before going in a different direction with it- so it's not like that's a new-to-WoT tactic. The other bit of commentary that has influenced me is the argument that it sets up some really juicy stuff for Elayne to work with later in her succession plot.

Elayne is so cute when she lies through her teeth

Siuan waiting a very precisely calculated amount of time to let them in lmao

Siuan is WEIRDLY smiley re: Lord Gaebril considering her mood moments before…

This is obviously because of the letter Elayne sent, but I honestly don't know why Elayne told Morgase she was kidnapped if she didn't want to get hauled home. Maybe to drive home the Seanchan threat?

I forgot who I first thought the people in the ways were, but I was totally wrong. As we find out later, it's Alanna and Maksim, but yeah, wtf are they doing in the Two Rivers in this turning? Still hunting for novices?

Yeah that was a significantly long pause for Elayne before she acknowledged Gabril

Mat looks good in green :)

If only we had someone who could fix mind diseases! [thinks about Mat in Graendal's clutches] NEVERMIND NO ONE NEEDS THERAPY

The implication of 'honorary great serpent ring' is that Morgase didn't have to go through the Arch(es) but honestly since they don't require channeling and are a character/commitment test similar to [SPOILERS FOR LATER IN THE SEASON] I've always headcanoned that Daughter-Heirs of Andor who went to the Tower actually took the test. But maybe it's seen as too risky for them to actually take it? I'd certainly buy that in this universe.

Elayne like "This is the largest gay bar in the world, please don't take me away"

Emotionally Intelligent Lan never fails to jumpscare me lmao

I love the contrast between the Aiel 'save and destroy' and the WT 'save or destroy' here; it's less of a stark contrast in the books but I think it's a really interesting nuance to dwell on and fits with the overall themes of encoutering different perspectives and the subjectivity of history/prophecy. Also I love Avi talking duty with Egwene and Moiraine, just like, on principle.

These landscapes holy shit

At least we know that Marin is the kind of person who would hide people in her attic

Alanna, Perrin used to live here. What the fuck are YOU doing in the Two Rivers?

lmao once you get an Elaida infestation it's hard to get her out

ooof. I bet Siuan is thinking in terms of another Darkfriend attack on the Tower re: Min's visions.

Mat, you absolute dumbass [derogatory]. That said, Clara is super hot. "I think everyone is into this kind of thing, Mat" - excellent line delivery Nyneave

Awwwww is Nyneave wearing Lan's ring around her neck? Or her great serpent ring?

"And is the Lion Throne under threat?" damn Nyneave is killing it this episode

Rand you cheating ho

I already said this but I do need to reiterate: Galad would not fuck

I knew immediately that someone was gonna catch Elayne vamping with the crown and I was preemptively embarrassed for her I hate that Gaebril is charming I hate it I hate it (it's very good) Galad is always serious oooof not Gareth Bryne :( High-Functioning Alcoholic Elayne T_T I buy it but it hurts me

THE MAT AND SIUAN SCENE IS PERFECT. Also it sounds at the beginning like she's got him as a guest on her early morning tv show/interview podcast and that always makes me laugh. I really hope that she and Mat get to meet again because they were so fun to watch together.

And now for another scene of masterful manipulation! GO GO ELAYNE

Elayne: "My path will always lead back to Andor." Me: '-through the circus.'

Lan listens but you aren't fucking talking, Rand

Lmao I'm enjoying the barely veiled threats in this Morgase & Siuan confrontation

#wheel of time #wot book spoilers #wot on prime #wot on prime spoilers #wot on prime s3 #wot on prime s3 spoilers #wot on prime s3e2 #wot on prime liveblog

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smoshdrama · 2 months ago

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Anonymous ASK & we ANSWER #1: Addressing the Recent Noah Grossman Controversy

With the ongoing discussion surrounding Noah Grossman's recent comments in the Spud Hut episode, we’re taking time to respond to two anonymous messages regarding the situation.

Anonymous Submission #1:

Our Response:

"I just want to say, about the cut Spud Hut moment from the most recent episode—while 'lesbo' is pretty rude and insensitive, it’s not a slur... It’s being blown way out of proportion. Besides, he’s playing a character—get a grip."

Our team has researched the term "lesbo," which is widely regarded as a slur or derogatory term used to describe lesbians. Historically, it has been employed to demean, sexualize, or stereotype women who love women—particularly in media portrayals. While some within the LGBTQ+ community may reclaim the term in self-referential or humorous contexts, this usage does not negate its harmful connotations when used inappropriately.

In this instance, Noah Grossman referred to two sapphic characters—portrayed by Amanda Lehan-Canto and Angela Giarratana—as “lesbos.” This usage is disrespectful to sapphic fans and should not have been permitted. Although Noah was playing a character, it’s important to note that Spud Hut episodes are entirely improvised, as confirmed by Smosh. Therefore, the decision to use that word was unscripted and personally made, which makes the situation more concerning.

Anonymous Submission #2:

“So, as people have pointed out—Noah said something in Spud Hut that’s considered a slur against lesbians. HOWEVER... I genuinely didn’t know that word was a slur. I’ve heard it used by a lot of people, and not always in a negative way.

If it wasn’t cut from the video originally, that might be because the editors didn’t recognize it as a slur either. (Smosh hire more lesbians challenge?)

I obviously know the major slurs, but this shows that some terms aren’t as widely recognized, and maybe Noah didn’t know either? (Not defending him, just acknowledging the possibility.)

Our Response:

And let’s be real—people have every right to be upset. But I also think part of the backlash is because Noah is already a controversial figure. If Ian or someone else had said it, I feel like people would’ve just laughed it off.”

You raise valid points about how language can be nuanced and how not everyone may recognize certain terms as slurs, particularly when they've heard them used casually or without malicious intent. Language evolves and circulates in different communities, and some terms don’t immediately register as offensive to everyone.

That said, “lesbo” has a long-standing history of being used in derogatory and objectifying ways. Even if someone is unaware of its connotations, the impact on those who are hurt by it remains significant—especially when the term is used publicly by someone outside the affected community. Intent does matter, but so does being willing to listen and learn when harm is pointed out.

Regarding the backlash, you may be right that perceptions of a person can influence public response. However, that doesn’t invalidate the criticism itself. This situation underlines the importance of greater sensitivity and awareness—particularly from public figures and editorial teams responsible for what makes it to air.

Thank you to both anonymous contributors for sharing your perspectives. We’ll continue to follow and update you on any developments related to this controversy.

What do you think?

#smosh discourse #smosh negative #smoshblr #smoshtwt #spud hut #smosh #Anon asks? We Answer!#angela giarratana #amanda lehan canto #wlw #lgbt discourse #noah grossman

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cosmicjoke · 7 months ago

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How Ash's Sexual Abuse Impacts His Perception of Himself Part 1:

I think one of the biggest mistakes people make in their understanding of Ash is in thinking, because he had the intellectual capacity to objectively view the abuse he suffered as wrong and to understand objectively that his abusers were bad people, that must also mean the abuse he suffered didn't have a genuinely negative and crippling impact on his perception of himself. Typically, you see people who make this argument also lamenting the ending of the story as "bad" or "unnecessary", or done for "shock value". They argue that Ash would have been able to recover from the sexual abuse he endured because he already showed an intellectual resistance to it coloring his perception of himself. But I think this is completely wrong, and I think, further, it only serves to undermine the seriousness of what Ash went through, what was done to him, by framing it as something simple intellectual prowess and fortitude should be able to overcomes, as if that's how the insidious nature of abuse and the ways in which it impacts its victims has ever worked. Emotion isn’t dictated by logic. How we feel isn’t dictated by logic. Being able to objectively acknowledge that something that's happened to you is wrong doesn't mean you haven't internalized the experience or will somehow be able to escape any and all feelings of responsibility and self-blame. Victims of abuse, particularly child abuse, can often objectively understand that what they went through was wrong, but they often still struggle with feelings of shame, rooted in the sense that the abuse must have somehow been deserved or otherwise a result of some failing on their part, which is also why you see victims of abuse often struggle to fully blame or hold their abusers accountable for what's been done to them. I think this very obviously applies to Ash, evident in his naked self-loathing displayed throughout the story, and there are so many examples throughout the story that prove without doubt that Ash's perception of himself has been impacted and terribly skewed by the abuse he's suffered.

So I'm going to go through just some of the examples of that evidence:

Example one. When Ash is forced to watch footage of himself being raped by Marvin, he reacts with evident shame, unable to even look at the film being shown, turning away from the screen and falling mute. He explodes moments later in this scene when Willard keeps badgering and harassing him over his age and his history of working as a child prostitute on the streets of New York, before again seeming to crumple and resigning himself to the things Willard is saying about him, insinuating that he's always been a bad person, always been a "whore", etc...

Example two: Ash weaponizing his sexuality. Ash often willingly puts himself into positions of letting others see and treat him as a sex object to advance his goals. This speaks to someone who is willing to sacrifice their sense of self-respect and dignity by allowing themselves to be abused or otherwise objectified, in the name of gaining an upper hand. What this tells us about Ash is that his sense of identity is wrapped up in the idea of being a sex object. He treats taking on this role almost as a natural extension of himself. He falls easily and readily into adopting the persona of a "whore" when it benefits him to do so. That doesn't seem like something someone would do who genuinely believed themselves to be above or to be better than reducing themselves to sex work. It speaks to someone who believes their dignity and body is an acceptable thing to sacrifice because it isn't worth anything, anyway.

Example three: Ash's father calling him a "whore" and Ash not at all seeming offended or angry about it, not even acknowledging it, simply brushing it off like it isn't a big deal at all. Almost assuredly Ash isn't offended by his father calling him something so derogatory because Ash, deep down, likely agrees with his father about what he is. We see other people who have abused Ash do the same thing, blaming him for their actions and accusing him of being a whore or a slut, acting as if Ash seduced them. The police back in Cape Cod do this to Ash, too, blaming him for his baseball coaches actions, telling him and his father that Ash must have done something to make Coach Peterson rape him. It only makes sense for Ash to have started to believe, consciously or subconsciously, that all these people telling him his abuse is his fault, must be right.

Example four: Again, we see how truly bereft of self-esteem and convinced of his own rottenness Ash is when we see him openly express here his genuine belief that Eiji will eventually grow "sick of him", and thus, get over being sent back to Japan. He genuinely believes that Eiji will eventually grow to hate him because he'll realize what a worthless person Ash is.

Example five: Relating to example four, how willingly and ready we see Ash is kill himself to save Eiji. This doesn't speak to someone who holds their own lives as very valuable. There are countless examples of this throughout the story, of Ash willingly sacrificing himself to save the lives of other people. He treats his own life and well-being like it doesn't matter at all, and that tells us that Ash doesn't see his own life or person as equivalently valuable to other people's. Again, this comes from suffering a lifetime of abuse and being told and treated as if he's nothing but an object made to fulfill the pleasure and satisfaction of others.

Example six: Ash having a literal mental breakdown while being held captive by Dino, referring to himself as a "living toilet" made for Dino and all of his other abusers to empty their sperm into whenever they got the urge. Ash starts to laugh uncontrollably at the idea of Dino wanting to make him the heir to his criminal empire, saying it's "the funniest thing (he's) ever heard". Ash sees it as a massive joke, laughing at the irony of being treated as nothing but a worthless object his whole life, only for Dino to want to make him his heir. Ash then says "Sorry, but I don't think I'm going to rise to your expectations "Dad".", and that's indicative of him seeing himself as only being suited to the role of being Dino's and others sex toy, expecting himself to fail at taking on the role of anything "better" or "higher" than that. He can't envision himself as accomplishing anything beyond his life as a criminal and a prostitute, because the abuse he's suffered and the life he's been forced to live as a result of that abuse, have conditioned him into believing himself to be worthless.

Example seven: Ash being willing for Max to use the photographs of him being raped for his article, saying "Dead people don't have any privacy to protect. Or any sense of shame". Again, we see Ash willingly allowing his own sense of dignity and well-being to be sacrificed here, despite the humiliation and shame it causes him to be seen the way the pictures depict him. He's saying here that he has no rights, and no right to even feel ashamed of himself, because this is just what he's always been. A sex object. A thing made for the pleasure of others. This so clearly demonstrates that Ash has indeed internalized this idea that's been drilled into him his entire life, that he's a worthless whore and nothing else, and so he shouldn't even attempt to preserve his dignity or sense of self-respect. He's expressing here that he has no claim to those things, and so it's pointless for him to fight for them.

There's other examples, but I can only fit ten pictures into a single post, so I'll be making a second to drive my point home that Ash's self-perception absolutely was negatively impacted by the sexual abuse he was subjected to. That, indeed, his sense of self-worth was deeply eroded by that abuse.

#Ash Lynx #Banana Fish #analysis #meta #commentary

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violetsiren90 · 11 months ago

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New Rules | Don't let him in.

Table of Contents: Teaser (Prologue); Don't pick up the phone; Don't let him in

Pairing: f*ck boi!Jisung x f!Reader; Jisung x Minho

Genre: choose your own adventure; drabble/vignette series; angst and smut; f*ck buddies; college/post grad

Summary: Jisung has had you wrapped around his finger for the last half-decade. You know good and well that it's time to move on…but you can never seem to follow your own rules long enough to shake him.

*Based on the lyrics of "New Rules" by Dua Lipa

Content warnings: 18+ (minors, dni) Explicit smut; toxic relationship; characters commit sexual acts after having partaken in controlled substances (themes continued from previous chapter); Minho touches reader intimately without asking for consent (not against her will, but still, no check-in); masturbation; flashbacks/backstory; lust and resentment; possessive Minho; cum on a character from a previous sexual encounter; super brief spanking; cursing; name calling: slut - sexual, derogatory(?); subby Jisung; kissing/making out; oral sex (f. receiving); face-sitting; female orgasm; lots of conflicting and negative feelings; drunkenness and vomiting; are we in some unhealthy territory here, folks.

Word Count: ~1700

Author's Note: Well, things are getting darker and messier. 🖤 I want to ask that any readers please review the content warnings before partaking! Thank you for everyone who's voted so far!! I absolutely love that you all chose to involve Minho in this, because the dynamic brewing here is something else. Remember to vote in the pole at the bottom of the fic if you'd like to help decide where these characters go from here! 😊

As always, if no one has told you today, please know that you're loved, and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

You'll have to kick him out again.

Three dragging raps against the door of your hotel room pull your head from the pillow and the rest of your body follows lethargically, weighed down by champagne and dejection. You bumble into a pair of sweat pants and sag against the door momentarily before pushing up on your tiptoes to press an eye to the peephole.

Mother fucking asshole.

“What do you want, Jisung?” you bark venomously, not reaching for the lock.

His brow furrows and he steps back, stumbling. Clearly, he’s made equal use of the open bar.

“Howdya know it was me?” he slurs, eyes wide in slow-witted confusion.

“I can see you through the peephole, moron,” you sneer.

His lips tug down into a pout, the kind that makes him look like a sad, injured puppy. You know them all, the manipulatively emotive masks of expression. It’s been a while though, and you can’t be sure this particularly somber scowl isn’t genuine. No, you know. It doesn’t matter if the offense he’s taken is real, the things he’ll say once he crosses the threshold won’t be. And you can’t fucking do it again. Not tonight.

You slide down the door onto flat feet and turning to press your back against the glossy eggshell paint of its surface.

You’d known he’d be at Chaeryeong and Changbin’s wedding, and you had been tempted to just send a gift out of the sheer desire to simply avoid this moment. But part of you wanted to see him. Wanted to see if he had found someone new - or if the hand that had once kept him just out of your reach still held him in its grasp. You wanted…closure, if you were being honest with yourself. A reason to move on. But of course, he’d come solo, and refused to make eye contact with you for the for the entirety of cocktail hour. Then, significantly later into the evening, you’d felt a familiar gaze burn into your breasts, your ass, the back of your exposed neck. So you’d left before you could get drunk enough to backslide onto his cock; which, should history prove exemplary, would be two shots of tequila from where your BAC currently stood.

You feel a thump against the door, and you hear his voice, closer now, like he’s leaning against it.

“Miss you.”

“No, you don’t,” you counter, with a heaving sigh.

“You don’t…hey…”

“Get out, Jisung.”

You hear him push himself off the door and shuffle over the carpet, then he thumps back against the door hard enough to jostle you.

“Just let me…use your bathroom. I’ll l-leave.”

But he never leaves. He stays, poisonously yet addictively parasitic until you carve him out like a cancer, taking so much of you with him every goddamn time.

Jisung was still panting against Minho’s chest, cum slipping slowly down his heaving belly when he opened his eyes and saw you that night all those years ago. He didn’t speak or move, jaw hanging open and eyes locked on yours as Minho leaned up to murmur whispers onto the shell of the his ear. You watched as Jisung’s eyes slid to down your body, a delicious pulse shuddering through you, and suddenly you became aware of your own fingers against your clit. You blinked down through the haze of heat and substance, to see your skirt lifted and your hand pressed to your messy cunt. You pulled it away to steady yourself against the edge of the bar.

Minho licked his lips as they stretched into a smirk, hitching the younger man up by his hips and onto his feet, pants still shoved around his thighs and his wet cock growing soft above their open waistband. Minho slowly stood, his palm sharply cracking against the bare flesh of Jisung’s ass, spilling a whimper from his lips and causing him to stumble forward, his shirt falling down over cum-slicked skin as he fumbled to tug up his jeans. The senior stalked toward where you swayed on your feet, crowding you as his hand grasped the side of your waist. As his eyes bored into yours you felt like a little quivering creature in a jar - his gaze searing past your retinas and into the dark recesses of your being where he dissected you bit by bit. His cold, steady hand slid down your hip and over your thigh, pushing your skirt up to impassively cup your sex. You let out a shuddering moan, your eyes squeezing shut. Minho chuckled darkly.

“Hmh - such a needy pussy. All puffy and wet…” he purred condescendingly above you. “Hannie baby will take care of that, right?” his hand dragged up your body to take your jaw in his pretty, powerful fingers, still damp with your arousal. Your trembled in his grasp as he pulled back to regard you with a smirk. “Remember, though - sweet, stupid little slut - you can play with that cock all you want…but I own it. Capeesh?”

You sucked in a breath and he released your chin with a hum, patting your cheek before slipping his hand into his pocket and strolling around you. You heard the sliding glass door open and shut. Jisung glanced up at you, running his hand through his hair.

“I…Jisung…”

“You’re not wearing panties,” he muttered with a swallow, his eyes on the rumpled fabric obscuring your sticky want.

“What?” you breathed.

His eyes darted up to yours.

“You liked it - watching. Didn’t you?” His voice shook as he asked. It was such a raw question - not taunting, like Minho’s had been. He was hoping. Begging.

As you watched him shuffle forward, still fumbling with the button of his jeans, you remembered his face as he came. You remembered Minho’s eyes. A fragrant, poisonous hunger bloomed to life in your belly. You surged toward Jisung, daydreams forgotten - shoving him and causing him to stumble back, eyes going wide with surprise. Alarm bells sounded somewhere in your skull, and you look down at the tremor in your hands. You didn’t recognize them. You didn’t recognize the voice that came out of your mouth.

“You’re pathetic.”

He froze, lips parting as he drank in the venom of your tone.

“Baby…” he murmured, stepping toward you cautiously.

“Don’t call me that,” you clipped, your lip quivering as your heart thrummed like a frantic hummingbird trapped inside your chest. “He called you that.”

His brows knitted, as if unsure if your words held accusation or question. He didn’t ask. Just as well. You didn’t know. Some thorny thing weaving its way around your soul tore at the innocence of your longing.

His pupils were swallowing his irises as he raised his hand to touch your cheek. His brows drew together again, but this time with a desperation so intense it was erotic. You were soaked. He leaned in and kissed your lips, and you let him. You moved your hands up to grip the sides of his shirt. He was a needy, messy kisser, and it fed the thing burning inside you that loathed and lusted with equal relish.

He dipped his hand between you to brush his fingers over your drenched folds and he groaned into your mouth. Someone stirred on the loveseat off to the right and you choked on a moan.

“Not here…” you shoved him off.

The next thing you knew your knees were kissing the harsh chill of the downstairs bathroom tiles as his mouth kissed your cunt. Your nails pressed dully into the palm of your hand through the barrier of your bunched up skirt, pulled away to afford your eyes the sight of his face between your thighs. Your other hand gripped the edge of the counter for dear life as you fought to stay upright through the overwhelming pleasure of his languid laps against your sex.

“Fuck…oh, fuck…” you whined and he whimpered against you in response, sending a buzzing vibration through you that had your body screaming out for more. You tucked the hem of your skirt into the band and reached down to part your folds with your fingers, presenting him with your flushed, swollen heat. Immediately latching onto your clit, he sucked as though his survival depended on it, and you wailed up to the ceiling, grinding down over his greedy lips and tongue.

You came against his mouth, but that wasn’t what you remembered on feverish nights thereafter. You remembered the churning in your stomach and the burning in your thighs and the drug of his gaze, heady and addictive as you smothered him, injecting itself into your veins.

You push to a stand against the hotel door, legs shaking. You want it. You need it. Just one more time.

You open the door but he pushes past you, stumbling into the bathroom and collapsing in front of the toilet.

You let out a hissing sigh, leaning against the door frame as he wretches. Perhaps this memory of his body rolling to its back on a tile floor will push away the one that’s haunted your fantasies. Perhaps. But that’s now how it’s seemed to work thus far. He raises himself up to vomit again and leave him there, tossing yourself back into bed.

Pulling the door open to a gentle knock, you recognize Changbin’s best man.

“Hi,” he grins at you sympathetically as you open it further, “One of the groomsmen said there was someone who needed a helping hand back to their room?”

He’s effortlessly handsome in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie discarded in favor of an open neck. The smile he’s sporting which presses a dimple into his cheek could likely melt tungsten at ten percent intensity. Your mouth goes a bit dry and when you swallow, it tastes like shame. You glance at Jisung laying in front of the sink.

“Uh, yeeah..” you blink, shuffling back to grant him entry.

He ambles in and peeks his head into the bathroom before turning back to you with a little furrow between his brows.

“You okay?”

You wish this stranger would immediately stop looking at you with those brown eyes - the kind that seem to scan you for weaknesses without a single predatory intention. You cross your arms over your chest and duck your head. You wish you liked it, those eyes on you - a gaze that promised nurture and healing. But you know who you are, what you crave.

“It’s been a long night. Thanks…”

“Chris,” he offers as he pulls Jisung up to a stand. You think he smiles again, but you’re not looking.

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sanjoongie · 1 year ago

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𝛵ᴡ𝕠-𝓦𝛂𝛾

ღPairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader (f) ft Seonghwa

ღAu: detective au, murder mystery au

ღTrope: exes to lovers

ღRated: 18+ MDNI, smut, pwp

ღWarnings: abuse of power, ⚠dub-con⚠, exhibitionism, angry sex, manhandling, degradation kink, sumata (rubbing cock against labia without penetration), non-penetrative sex, sexual interrogation, edging, questionable sex position just go with it 😆

ღWord Count: 1,232

ღSummary: As one of the suspects in a murder case, Yunho decides to interrogate you the only way he knows how... with your legs spread and his cock between them

ღBeta's: @mejuii & @downtoamagicalland

ღDedication: @daesukiii @flurrys-creativity @mingsolo because without you, I wouldn't have had to suffer through this. Thank you 😒

ღAuthor's note: happy birthday to Yunho! apparently the only way to lit a fire under my ass is to write angry Yunho smut. it's a ritual at this point 😂😔

“When are you going to change your tune?” Yunho demanded, both hands palm down on the table between you and him.

Yunho, or Detective Jeong, had been hounding you for several hours in the interrogation room. Past lovers, you having a degree in criminology and he moving down the more physical route through the police force, had a history and it was most definitely not helping the matter at hand. A woman had been murdered and you were one of the top suspects. But still you continued to insist on your innocence.

“I’m not,” You said with a bored voice, “And the sooner you realize that, the better, Detective Jeong.” You said the latter part of that sentence like it was a derogatory term.

Yunho’s jaw clenched in anger. “I know you’re a part of this. My gut is telling me you’re knee deep in this shit.”

You stared at the gray concrete wall, using a tone indicating you had better things to do. “Good thing your gut isn’t enough evidence. Now you can only hold me for twenty four hours so be a good boy and fetch me some coffee.”

Yunho shot over the table and grabbed both your upper arms. “Stop playing with me,” He growled under his breath.

You gave him a smile that was sharper than a knife. “Who’s playing a game right now? Certainly not me?”

Yunho knew that smile. That smile was a mask you used to hide any other emotions under. Yunho hated that mask because he knew it was a lie. The last time he had seen that smile was when he had broken it off with you when you proclaimed you weren’t going to follow him into the police force to better the world. And now you were here in his precinct, as a suspect? Fate was a cruel task mistress.

His anger fueled his body. Yunho pushed you up against the two way mirror rather roughly. “Tell me what role you play in this?” Yunho insisted.

“Yunho!” Detective Jeong’s partner, Detective Park, voice came through the comms rather perturbed. “This is uncalled for.”

“Is it?” Yunho cooed cruelly under his breath. “As I recall, you respond well to orders when you’re manhandled.”

You held yourself still, holding your breath, waiting for Yunho’s next move.

After a moment of silence, Yunho said, “Why don’t we show Seonghwa what a good little slut you are, hmm?”

A quick yank had Yunho lifting your shirt and bra, exposing your breasts to the detective on the other side. “Seonghwa doesn’t know how much you love others watching you, otherwise he’d sit down and enjoy the show.”

You watched your reflection as Yunho’s large hands encompassed your breasts and began to massage them. He squeezed and groped, making you moan in response.

“See? Once a good little slut, always a good little slut,” Yunho said in a sing-song voice.

“Yu-yunho!” Seonghwa protested on the comms once again.

You could see Yunho staring through the two way mirror. “Don’t worry Seonghwa, she’s loving the attention, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nodded your head and then let it fall back on Yunho’s shoulder as he played with your tits. You could feel yourself getting wet, quickly falling back into that mindspace you always had with Yunho in bed. But you got too comfortable too quickly when he removed your underwear without any resistance from you.

Yunho switched positions, scooping your body up, hands under the back of your thighs, and squished you against the two way, your legs spread slightly beyond comfortability. You were flexible, it wasn’t impossible, but you still felt your thighs burn at the quick spread. Your nipples pressed against the cool glass surface, cheek smooshed as well, hands barely bracing yourself.

“Look how wet she is, Seonghwa. She fucking loves this. She loves being manhandled and groped and watched. Such a good little slut,” Yunho praised you and degraded you at the same time.

Using his weight against your back, Yunho one-handedly undid his belt and zipper, pulling out his cock that was very hard by now. He pushed it downwards, so that it could slide against your wet folds and shuddered when his tip hit the cool glass after brushing past your clit. You whined at the stimulation and Yunho couldn't help but chuckle darkly.

“That desperate for my cock, sweetheart? You won’t be getting that until you tell me how the hell you’re involved in all this,” Yunho insisted.

You bit down on your lip and moaned as Yunho bucked his hips, trailing his cockhead against your most intimate parts but never entering you. He worked his cock against you, pushing his cockhead against your clit and the glass wall, surely leaving a smear there. You were a hot mess with this scene, totally unable to say a word right now.

Yunho halted his motions, however, when you didn’t respond to him. That allowed you to cool down for a moment and use your words. “Yunho… I need…” You panted.

Yunho’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “I can give you what you want. You just have to tell me what I want to know.”

By now, your mind was simply on searching out that sweet high that you had forgotten only Yunho was able to do. His cock was the only one long enough to hit the end of you and even though he had been rubbing your clit, you knew in the back of your mind, if you did what you were told, you would get his cock. Your submissive mindset was slowly but surely coming back to you.

“I--” You bit down on your lip, a rush of pleasure running through you at the realization that Seonghwa was still probably watching this entire thing, even for the sake of making sure you weren’t too brutalized. You hoped he was enjoying the show and wasn’t holding his hand over his mouth in horror. You truly were enjoying yourself.

As an incentive, Yunho moved against you again, this time groaning himself, the sound music to your ears. You whined and started to move your hips back against him. “I’m… innocent…Yunho…I swear…I didn’t…do it!”

“You have the motive,” Yunho growled, “It’s on record you hated the girl. You were seen in the area she was found in and you have no alibi. If it’s not you then why are you a suspect?”

“Hhhnnnnnn,” You whined, “It’s because! Oh fuck Yunho, just like that, yeah yeah! I’m San’s lover!”

With the admittance to your connection to this case, you came loudly, high finally found. You drooled a little, feeling the spit dribble down your chin and along the glass. “Yunho,” You whimpered, as the detective pulled back, letting go of your legs. You slowly melted to the floor, legs like jello.

Yunho tucked himself back into his pants and straightened himself up. He did run his hand through his hair, not helping the matter. It only made him look more like he had just had sex. “Alright, Seonghwa, I got you an answer. Now it’s your turn to find out what it means.”

“But--?” Even post-orgasm, your cunt ached for Yunho’s cock inside of you.

Yunho smirked, cutting you in the best of ways. “Don’t worry, I hear Seonghwa is pretty long too. He’ll finish what I started. Be a good little slut and show Seonghwa exactly how good your cunt can be for him.”

Good Cop~ Seonghwa's part

#ateez smut #jeong yunho smut #atz smut #yunho smut #jeong yunho x reader #topaz's work #ღatz #teezers birthday fics 24

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lsunstreakerl · 3 months ago

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Something very tragic about o!darkbull is that Max is probably better than every alpha that’s on the grid in that universe.

I wonder if anyone ever finds his karting history, if he or the world ever gets to acknowledge that yes he did use to race, and he was good at it to. Maybe one of the best.

Could be a funny pr nightmare moment, but more likely to get swept under the rug.

oh he absolutely is better than everyone else. he's frequently told charles that if it was him in the ferrari, they'd be winning championships, and it drives charles insane because he knows there's some degree of truth to it.

occasionally charles lets max use the sim rig (or max just uses it anyways when charles isn't home) and he's constantly beating the old times.

even if it did come up, it's regarded in more of a tragic "shame he turned out to be an omega and can't do anything now" in more of a derogatory sense. like a "what if?" but instead of the what if being "what if he still raced?" it's "what if he was an alpha?"

no one ever considers an omega racing, even though max theoretically still could.

#o!darkbull

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nctp1nk · 5 months ago

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☾⋆⁺₊🎧✧ NCT PINK . . . 2016 - 2019

In the early days of NCT PINK, from 2016 to 2019, they were all about shaking things up with their music and "bringing something new" to Kpop.

But, you know, it wasn't all smooth sailing.

There were serious hurdles with what the public thought of them and even some drama within their own fanbase. Nctzens being dramatic online? Who's shocked.

2016: A Controversial Debut

NCT PINK made their debut in 2016 with the energetic song "BOOMBYAH," highlighting their daring style. Despite this, their introduction was met with hesitation from NCTzens, who were not keen on a female subunit in the mainly male NCT group.

Netizens would use derogatory terms to describe the members and criticize their stage outfits, sparking intense debates online. The girls were mainly picked on for their looks as their talents were undebatable, but their interesting styling choices consistently called for discussion on Twitter and fan forums.

After "BOOMBYAH," the group released "CAKE" later in the year. Despite its catchy tune, the song encountered significant criticism, with detractors disapproving of its concept and execution.

The backlash was so intense that their promotional activities abruptly ended just two weeks into the supposed month-long promotional period. This decision would prove controversial, causing PINKzens, all 27 of them, to protest the mistreatment of NCT PINK, but most of their attempts fell on deaf ears.

2017: Even More Challenges

In 2017, NCT PINK introduced "PANDORA" to mend their public perception with a more futuristic concept. However, the launch encountered a boycott from a portion of their fanbase for the previous treatment of the "CAKE" release, resulting in some of the lowest album sales in NCT history.

NCTzens will still bring up these sales in unit wars to this day. Nearly ten years later.

Later that year, "BLOW A KISS" came out. Although the song started to gain a more welcoming audience, NCTzens wrote the group off as merely imitating their male peers, labeling them as "127 wannabes."

Nonetheless, "BLOW A KISS" represented a turning point, slowly changing public opinion.

2018: Holy Shit Finally A Good Moment

The debut of "How You Like That" in 2018, under the NCT Empathy project, represented a pivotal moment for NCT PINK.

How You Like That would be the highest performing single from the Empathy project, even getting a second round of promotions after the group project concluded. It currently sits as the 3rd most viewed NCT music video at 191,251,299 views.

This was the turning point the girls had been clawing at for years. The public liked them, people wanted to see them, and they were getting brand deals instead of being shunned, winning music awards, besides just clapping in the background. They finally felt like they were a part of NCT.

Amazing year to be a PINKzen. You just had to be there.

2019: The Year No One Remembers

In 2019, NCT PINK released the songs "ROLL UP" and "UH-OH," both of which achieved commercial success.

However, the group began to focus more on involvement with other NCT units, like NCT Dream and NCT 127.

This shift resulted in internal fandom conflicts, as separate fan groups, Pinkzens, 127zens, and Dreamzens, argued over member loyalties and which unit should take precedence.

This would unknowingly set the tone for their fan dynamics for the rest of their careers.

#(ᓀ‸ᓂ) music !#fictional idol community #nct addition #nct fanfic #nct female subunit #fake kpop girl group #fake kpop idol #fake kpop oc #fictional idol group

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katyspersonal · 1 year ago

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Were Marika and Radagon always the same being from the beginning or they were separate people who got fused later on?

Oh boy, I've almost missed this ask in the tidal wave of Sephi spam from THOSE TWO LITTLE PRICKS!!!!!!, but yes thank you for the question! My theory on the matter is:

This for me ties into a couple of things: 1) the idea that when something bad happens with a (demi)god, they are likely to develop an alter as defence mechanism that I mostly base on the theory that Trina and their purple 'sleep' flame happened as response to Miquella being scorched by Frenzy (more here: ( x )) and 2) theme of 'astral projections' that have transcendental knowledge compared with the 'rest of the person' which is more plain!

Recently I've also discussed theme of "if you want to defeat the thing, become the thing" like with dragons, but I decided to discard the idea that Marika willingly inflicted curse of the giants onto herself! But existence of Radagon is exactly what I think happened with Marika - a curse of the giants!

I think that "they say Marika has slain the Fell God" is taken at face value here, they 'say' it because it happened very long time ago and there are almost no witnesses left rather than a rumour! Sure, I still "await for the return of my Lord" (for the one who will precisely re-translate Japanese script), but I am happy with this for now! Yet, 'their flames will never die' refers to Marika having taken up that curse in the moment she killed the Fell God! This is why she was able to pass the curse mark onto the last Fire Giant that survived: because now the curse was her, taken from the Fell God by slaying him.

But, although she was able to get rid of the flame by giving it to the Fire Giant, the impact already left its side-effect on her very being! I still need DLC to confirm or deny whether Trina exists for 'unhappy reason' as I can't tell whether more info on them was cut due to time limitations or rewriting, I am just using it as an extra backup for now! Regardless, it is safe to say that since Fire Giants are all male and Marika was a female, it caused the conflict and so Radagon turned in to exist as male. So yeah kill gods carefully of you'll get cursed with dysphoria idk I am bad at philosophical conclusions

^ I also think that the curse left its mark on Marika genetically, and her children would show traces of it from time to time! Radahn is the biggest evidence of it in my eyes! He started to learn gravitational magic so he could still ride Leonard, which means that he was growing massive even before learning it! Other demigods have no problem staying very human-sized so I think his massive size is not an effect of his massive power, but traces of Giants' 'genes' showing!

I am also considering the ideas that 1) Morgott might have had a fire of his own as result of it, that he sealed into blade, since unlike with Mohg his fire doesn't link to interacting with Formless Mother 2) Rykard might have had natural affinity towards fires as side-effect of such 'genes', that only made his research of fire sorcery easier, and it simply was coincidental that fire reflects heresy

3) Maybe the third eye imagery that is only so far seen in Godwyn's Prince of Death form and Trina's side of Miquella is the secret less obvious effect, that only manifests after something bad happens to them? Since the cyclopic eye is the mark of the Fell God! Again, I need information on Trina first, but so far this works! So yeah. 'Evil eye'.

(Screenshot of Godwyn's model from Zullie's video: ( x ))

I also take the script occasionally from this ( x ) document, but yeah. In Japanese, it is a bit more blatant that he is her other self literally, not metaphorically! She also uses 'omae', a pretty derogatory way to refer to someone. She looks down on this side of herself, which is interesting, but also why? And why Radagon disagreed with her idea to scatter the Elden Ring and let the history sort itself?

This is what made me think of how the separation aspect of them played out! I believe that they are able to exist within the same body, as we can clearly see through the cutscene, but also to split. The thing is? There are precedents of it in the game as well! Sellen and Dung Eater both are under the situation where their real bodies, and real selves are in imprisonment and are suffering without being aware of their astral projections. Their astral projections, however? They are quite aware of where their bodies are and what is going on, but can think independently. The 'body' and the 'mind' are able to exist in separation in The Lands Between. Let's also not forget the case of powerful illusions like the ones of Rennala and Mohg, who are basically the auto-receivers that were set to kick your ass lol x) It is also my idea on why it is named The Lands Between to begin with: because this is where physical and mental blend together, to the point both are equally tangible and perceivable!

Basically? When Marika and Radagon are split, it is very much like this. He would be her 'physical body', living and thinking on his own, not aware of Marika's opinions and plans, whereas Marika would be same as those astral projections that told Tarnished 'oh by the way my actual body is imprisoned in this or that location'. Knowing more and planning more, being aware of what the 'body' thinks and experiences without the reverse being true, however, being limited until the 'body' is returned to the owner. So that's why Radagon would not think and feel exactly the same as Marika: not only he was able to live his own life, but also he understands less than the "transcendental" part which makes astral projections. Marika maybe had the plan to scatter the Ring and let it all sort itself out, so the conflict would let only someone capable of levelling with her lost Godwyn to raise at the top and come and replace her. She generally thinks very far ahead, as the 'higher self' that she is, which Radagon can't do and he just studies and understands the things as they are.

So yeah.. In the conclusion, I think it was the curse of the Giants but specifically the side-effect of slaying the Fell God, yet she sealed the curse she inherited from the act in the last survivor too late and her 'genes' already got traces of it! Radagon is valid but by all laws that strangely split people in the Lands Between he is her "lesser" half that thinks on more grounded plane. We could, again, see from Sellen and Dung Eater that 'body' and 'astral projection' are able to fuse back into one entity, yet Radagon and Marika are still in the conflict?

I like to think it came from Marika herself despising this more "human" side of herself.. Sure, she is not alien to human flaws herself, as someone that set many unfair laws in motion just because of her fears and set the world into war from her grief, but you can't just SAY that hahah; She wants to be perfect, invulnerable, all-powerful, and Radagon is just "not that", not yet. I am pretty sure a big part of it is Marika's very pragmatic view on relationship, whereas Radagon *gasp* had the nerve to truly love Rennala! She only can truly become one with him when his flaws and vulnerabilities are eradicated and he is the same cold, calculating, clever, machiavellian entity as herself, literally just her but male. And, well... this hasn't been this way so far, so in turn, the two are at the conflict. He thinks of the other people and the world, and doesn't believe it is right to betray the Greater Will and the mortals born under it like that, when she decides to just let the world suffer and burn. Ironically, her "lowly" half had more sympathy and reason than her "dignified" half, after all.

This is all very interesting to think about, but so far a lot of this lingers on the conclusions I still need to confirm or deny via DLC! Anyways it was interesting to think about and put together!

#elden ring #marika the eternal #radagon of the golden order #elden ring theory #elden ring headcanons #elden ring reference #ask replies

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