#'they say words wrong' and its different accents

[linogram]

the curse of linguistic prescriptivism

[szaryherbatnik]

Tough day rambles

In a world with a different setting id be a prophet or a person with cool visions, id be a person worthy of protection and trust and friendship. Here im just paranoid and i worry about the wrong things. Somewhere else when i dance on my way to a shop everyone thinks im full of joy and whimsy and they dont think im drunk or childish. Somewhere else i can be around people for more than 5 hours before i shut down for the rest of the day. Somewhere else i dont remind everyone im stupid and dumb and i dont describe everything i do and feel as "slight" and "little" and "a bit", im able to love romantically and dream of tenderness and give it and recieve it. Idk i just hate myself a lot.

[scentofpines]

in class today i felt so incredibly out of place again, why does it have to be so hard for me? and, i like this girl, but every single time we have class she mentions her "autism" while happily chatting with 3+ ppl at a time, completely effortless, while im sitting there, staring and trying to focus enough to even understand the conversation bc there is so much noise around me that i feel like i'm about to either explode or shut down completely and i feel like an alien trying my best to somehow socialize and understand what is going on and really to just get through this.

[techno-rat]

i loeve writing . unfortunately I also hate writing

[bmpmp3]

i keep choosing like the hardest songs possible to try to learn to make midis for vocal synth covers on. why do i keep doing this to myself. like is that reverb doubling back creating noise, vocal doubling, or a harmony. if its a harmony i'll explode on impact

[supernatural-bias]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ includes: scout, engineer, heavy, medic, sniper, and spy (i forgot demo i'm so sorry)

↳ warnings: bad translations, slight mentions of world war two and malpractice

↳ song: with a little help from my friends—joe cocker

masterlist | commissions | carrd

𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐭

• He would be so smug about it

• Puffing his chest out and everything

• His friends in the past- and even family members -have teased him for mispronouncing words or speaking too fast, and it’s made him a bit self conscious about the way he talks. But after hearing that you find it endearing, its a giant ego boost for him

• “Yeah dat’s right! Who’s awesome? I’m awesome!” Scout smiles as he flexes his arms in your face, subjecting you to what he likes to call a surprise gun show. You pretend to hate it as you shove his arm away, but chuckle all the same

• He’s already gloated before that he already knew his accent was the best. Boston is the greatest place in the world after all! But hearing it from you really just sent him over the moon

• Makes a point to talk to you a lot more now; as if he didn’t already

• “Yo! Hey did you see that kill out there? I totally messed dat Spy up! One wrong step and pow! He’s dead meat!”

• “I saw Scout. I was covering your flank while you did it, remember?”

• “Yeah yeah, but I just thought you’d like ta hear about it again.”

𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫

• Didn’t consider himself to have an accent until you pointed him out

• Sure, he says the occasional y’all and ain’t, but not enough to qualify as a whole different way of speaking

• It wasn’t until he dropped a hammer on his foot and cursed that he understood what you’d meant

• “What in the sam hill! Sweet hell!” He’d exclaimed, startled. Once the throbbing in his leg had subsided, Engineer replayed his words in his head, making a slight o with his mouth as he realized you were probably right. To some extent at least

• He was a born and raised Texas boy, so it makes sense that the culture rubbed off

• Doesn’t understand at first that you find it nice. Maybe he thought you pointed it out just because you could? He’s a bit distracted when it comes to anything but machinery, so he misses context sometimes

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲

• Surprised that someone like you who can speak English fluently finds his mannerisms attractive

• Gets frustrated sometimes when he can’t remember certain words in English. Heavy is a very smart man, so it aggravates him when he looks illiterate in front of his team

• That’s why hearing that you like his mother tongue caught him by surprise

• “But you don’t know any Russian?” He’d rumbled out as a question. When you shook your head no, still sporting a smile, his eyebrows furrowed further

• “Nah. But I like hearing it when it comes from you. It sounds more natural. Like you’re more comfortable than normal, you know?”

• You’re technically right. When Heavy slips into Russian, often whilst talking to Sasha or simply forgetting that not everyone on the team know how to speak it, he is more comfortable in his words. They flow better, and he’s flattered that you’ve noticed

• One hundred percent offers to teach you Russian in his spare time. He finds it slightly adorable how you stumble over words in your broken translations, but always manages to softly correct you

• He’s a really good teacher

𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜

• Positively thrilled that you like his voice

• When you tell him for the first time, he goes into shock for a moment before breaking out into the biggest smile you’ve seen. Somehow its a perfect balance between excited and malicious

• “Do you hear zhat Archemedies? Mein freund here enjoys my accent!” He cooes at his bird, chuckling in a way that would make anyone’s insides squirm

• Once you look past Medic’s initially devious reaction, it’s very clear he enjoys knowing this

• If anything, the ex-doctor would have thought that you’d enjoy the more stereotypically romantic sounding languages. Spanish, Latin, etc

• German has always been considered harsh or scary sounding, and it turned a lot of people away from hiring him after the events of World War Two, which he understood. Still, Medic finds himself absolutely tickled that you are drawn to his accent

• Finds himself slipping more and more into German while doing checkups on you now. When he catches himself, he translates most of what’s he’s said back to you. But sometimes he’ll simply forget, and it leaves you wondering if he’s offered you a glass of water or the opportunity to swap your bladder out

• You sincerely hoped it was the former

𝐒𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫

• Oh my god you killed him

• Sniper is very reserved. Living in his camper, hunting his own game for dinner instead of joining the others, literally pissing in jars, etc etc

• Being a man of few words comes part and parcel with that; which normally works out just find because Scout talks enough for ten people

• Hasn’t said much to you before. He mostly communicates in head nods or slight tilts of his coffee mug in your direction. Maybe a few ‘good mornin’s’ tossed around, but nothing more than that

• “You know, you should talk more.” You’d said to him one day while pouring a fresh pot of tea you had just boiled into your own mug. He preferred black coffee himself, but whatever floats your boat

• “You voice.” You elaborated after a sip. You must have noticed his confused look as you carried on. “It’s nice. Can’t imagine that you don’t have gals throwing themselves at you all the time because of it.”

• Suddenly very grateful he wasn’t drinking any of his brew at the time, because what you said surely would have made him choked

• He, in fact, had had a few ladies approach him in town before saying something along the same lines. Even a few fellas. But nothing made him blanch this strongly like you had

• Excuses himself as he walks out of the room suddenly, tilting his hat down to cover his face no one can see the furious red tint forming

• Sniper leaves you in the communal kitchen. Holding a steaming cup of liquid and looking very confused

𝐒𝐩𝐲

• Already knew before you told him

• To anyone else, it would have been passible as just curiosity. But Spy’s job is to know things, and it is an undeniable fact that you found his voice attractive

• Doesn’t utilize this weapon often. You are not a weak willed person swayed by just a few words, so when he needs something he pulls out all the stops

• Of course, that doesn’t stop him from being impressed when you eventually admit your little not-so-secret-secret to him. And of your own free will. He didn’t have to pry it out of you, which was a feat on its own

• Much like Heavy, he extends the offer of teaching you how to learn his language. Now that he no longer has this knowledge as a bargaining chip, he might as well seize the opportunity to teach you a proper language

• Considers using electroshock therapy to condition you faster, but nixes it pretty quick

• Again, like Heavy, he finds it cute how horrible you are at French. More amused than anything, but he can appreciate the way you practice verbs in your free time even when he isn’t leaning over your shoulder

• That you know of, that is

• Praises you often in french, letting excited phrases slip when you nail a particularly hard set of words

• “Merveilleux ! Tu t’améliores beaucoup, ma petite. Encore une fois.”

• While you don’t understand the full extent to his words, you smile and continue on, eventually realizing what he had said later in a fit of embarrassment

[unboundprompts]

Hello! I’ve never really used this ask thing before— so I’m sorry if I do this wrong. I love your prompts and other works and was wondering if you could help me figure out how to write and describe accents? My characters have very specific accents (Australian accents, British accents, etc.) and I’m having trouble figuring out how to show that. This is a fantasy setting so I couldn’t just describe their accents as an Australian accent and such y’know? I’m so sorry if this doesn’t make sense. Would you be able to help?

How to Write a Character with an Accent

-> How to Write Character Accents

-> How to Convey Accents in Fiction Writing

Make sure your character’s speech isn’t distracting

When writing dialect or a particular accent, it can be tempting to write a character’s dialogue using phonetic spellings. However, this use of dialect can distract your reader. If your character is French and is constantly saying “ze” instead of “the,” the reader will be focusing more on decoding the line of dialogue than they will on plot or character development. When writing fiction, your reader’s attention should always be on the story, and anything that distracts from that probably isn’t worth including.

Slang and Colloquialisms

Incorporate regional slang, colloquialisms, or idioms that reflect the accent. Each accent has its own unique phrases that can suggest the character's background.

Include Snippets of their Native Language

 If you’re writing a character who speaks a foreign language, one way to communicate their accent is to simply include snippets of their native tongue in their lines of dialogue. This will demonstrate the character’s native language and implied accent without resorting to the distracting eyesore of phonetic spelling.

Don't Stereotype

Writing different dialects indelicately can make you appear condescending towards non-native English speakers or people who use the English language differently than you do. One of the most common offenders is the use of “eye dialect,” which refers to using misspellings or nonstandard spellings in order to depict a character’s accent (for instance, writing “fixin’” with an apostrophe instead of “fixing” in order to demonstrate Appalachian or Southern accents). By focusing on the “otherness” of regional dialects and non-native speakers, a writer may give the impression that they are making fun of the way people speak. When writing different accents, keep eye dialect to a minimum.

Rhythm and Intonation

Accents often have distinctive rhythms and intonations. Pay attention to how the accent changes the flow of speech. For instance, British accents might have a more clipped and precise quality, while Australian accents can sound more relaxed and drawn out.

You might describe this in your narrative, saying something like, "Her words rolled out with a casual lilt, the vowels stretching like lazy waves."

Character Reactions and Context

Show how other characters react to the accent. If a character speaks in a heavy accent, others might lean in to listen, nod in confusion, or make a comment. This helps highlight the uniqueness of the speech.

Physical Description

Consider linking the accent to physical traits or background details. Describe the character’s upbringing or location, giving hints about their accent through their surroundings or lifestyle.

Example: “Raised in the bustling markets of Evermere, his accent was a musical blend of the old tongue, softening the hard edges of his words.”

Subtlety in Dialogue Tags

Instead of writing out the accent in every piece of dialogue, you can subtly hint at it through the dialogue tags. For example, “he said, his voice dripping with the easy lilt of the southern coast” can convey the accent without explicit phonetic spelling.

[insidekatmind]

The Unexpected Encounter- Trent Arnold x reader feat.Jude Bellingham

London was a mosaic of lights and memories that hit you like a punch in the gut every time you walked its streets. This time, though, the city felt different. Maybe because you were back with Jude Bellingham, the guy who had managed to pick up the pieces of your heart after your breakup with Trent Arnold.

Years had passed since the last time you saw Trent. Your story had been intense but crumbled under the weight of expectations and the different paths your lives had taken. Jude, with his sweetness and unconditional support, had become your safe haven.

Jude had been called up to play in the Euros with England, and the two of you decided to arrive a few days earlier to enjoy some time together.

---

It was a quiet evening, and Jude insisted on taking you to an elegant restaurant in central London.

"You can't come to London without trying this place," he said with a smile, his soft accent making your heart melt.

As you entered, your eyes landed on a group of people at the bar. Your heart skipped a beat when you recognized that familiar figure: Trent. He was there with a few teammates, laughing and chatting as if nothing had changed.

"Are you okay?" Jude asked, noticing your sudden silence.

"He's here," you murmured, trying to stay calm.

Jude followed your gaze and understood immediately. "Trent," he said, his tone neutral but with a hint of surprise.

Before you could respond, Trent looked up and saw you. His eyes met yours for a moment that felt like an eternity. Then his gaze shifted to Jude.

Later, while Jude went to the bathroom, Trent seized the chance to approach your table.

"I didn’t think you’d come back to London," he said, his voice deeper than you remembered.

"Neither did I," you replied, trying to sound indifferent.

"And now you're with Jude?" he asked, his intense gaze making you uncomfortable.

"Yeah, we've been together for a while," you answered, trying to keep your composure.

Trent shook his head, a bitter half-smile on his face. "It's ironic, isn’t it? One of my best friends."

"I didn’t plan any of this, Trent. It just happened," you replied firmly.

"It always just happens, doesn’t it?" he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But did you ever think about how complicated this would be?"

"Is something wrong?" Jude's voice interrupted the conversation, and you turned to see him approaching. His gaze shifted between you and Trent, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Nothing important," Trent replied, though his tone betrayed irritation.

"If it’s not important, then maybe it’s better to let us finish our dinner," Jude said, his tone calm but firm.

Trent stared at him for a long moment before slowly nodding. "Enjoy London," he said, directing the words to you with a look that seemed to hold everything he couldn’t say aloud.

---

Later that evening, back at the hotel, Jude sat on the bed and looked at you intently.

"So?" he asked.

"So what?" you tried to buy time, knowing exactly where he was going.

"How do you feel after seeing him again?"

You sighed, sitting down next to him. "It’s not easy. It never was with him."

"I’m sorry if I put you in a tough spot," Jude said, taking your hand.

"It’s not your fault. I love you, Jude. Trent is part of the past. You’re my present, and I want you to be my future."

Jude smiled, pulling you closer. "And I want to be all that for you. But if there’s anything you want to tell me about him, we can talk about it."

You shook your head, looking into his eyes. "There’s nothing to say. It’s over with him. With you, it’s everything."

Jude kissed you softly, and in that moment, you knew you had made the right choice.

[factsinallcaps]

I have to know-- what's ur opinion on this

LOOK, I'M JUST GOING TO, RIGHT HERE, ANSWER THE MANY, MANY "BUT COULD YOU PRONOUNCE THIS A CERTAIN WAY IF YOU PRONOUNCED ALL THE LETTERS DIFFERENT THAN THEY SHOULD BE PRONOUNCED" MESSAGES I'VE BEEN GETTING

THE ANSWER IS NO, YOU CANNOT TAKE LETTERS-AS-USED-IN-ONE-WORD AND TRANSPLANT THEM TO PLACES IN OTHER WORDS AND EXPECT THEM TO BEHAVE THE SAME. THE W IN "ANSWER" IS THE SAME W THAT'S IN "WALL." THE "H" IN "GHOST" IS THE SAME ONE THAT'S IN "HELP." "T" IN "LISTEN" IS THE SAME ONE THAT'S IN "TANK," AND THE EXTRA "A" IN "AARDVARK" IS NO MORE SILENT THAN THE SECOND "O" IN "DOOR." TWO A'S IN A ROW MAKES A DIFFERENT SOUND THAN ONE A IN A ROW.

THE REALITY IS, IF YOU TOOK THOSE LETTERS OUT OF THOSE WORDS, AND PUT THEM TOGETHER AGAIN TO SPELL "WHAT," THEY WOULDN'T BE SILENT ANYMORE, BECAUSE THEIR PRONUNCIATION, OR LACK THEREOF, IS BASED ON THE CONTEXT OF WHERE THEY FALL IN THE WORD, AND WHAT THEIR ETYMOLOGY IS. IF YOU TOOK ALL THOSE LETTERS AND REASSEMBLED THEM INTO "WHAT," IT WOULD BE PRONOUNCED LIKE "WHAT."

A LOT OF PEOPLE KEEP ASKING THESE QUESTIONS BASED ON THE CONCEPT OF WHETHER IT'S "VALID" TO PRONOUNCE CERTAIN LETTERS SPECIFIC WAYS, BASED ON THE FACT THAT THEY'RE PRONOUNCED THAT WAY IN CERTAIN WORDS. UNFORTUNATELY FOR THEM, LETTERS HAVE NO INHERENT PRONUNCIATION WHATSOEVER. THEY'RE PRONOUNCED THE WAY WE PRONOUNCE THEM BECAUSE OF A COLLECTIVE AGREEMENT BY SPEAKERS OF ANY GIVEN LANGUAGE TO PRONOUNCE THE LETTERS USED IN THAT LANGUAGE'S ALPHABET IN MUTUALLY AGREED-UPON WAYS.

SOMETIMES THERE'S SPECIAL-USE CASES THAT COME FROM A WORD'S ROOT LANGUAGE-- FOR INSTANCE, "J" IS PRONOUNCED DIFFERENTLY IN SPANISH AND ENGLISH. THE WORD "FAJITA" EXISTS IN ENGLISH, AS IN ITS ORIGINAL SPANISH, AND THE J IS STILL PRONOUNCED THE SAME WAY AS IT WAS IN SPANISH

AND, CRUCIALLY, THERE IS ALREADY A MARGIN-OF-ERROR IN WHAT WE ALLOW RE: PRONUNCIATION. THIS IS HOW DIFFERENT DIALECTS AND ACCENTS FORM. MY APPALACHIAN COUSINS AND I UNDERSTAND THAT EVEN THOUGH I'M SAYING "WIN-DOH" AND THEY'RE SAYING "WIN-DER," WE'RE BOTH SAYING THE SAME WORD: "WINDOW," BECAUSE -OW AT THE END OF A WORD IS PRONOUNCED DIFFERENTLY IN MY ACCENT AND THEIRS. WHEN SOMEBODY WALKS UP TO ME AND SAYS "LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION" BUT THEY PRONOUNCE IT LIKE "AXE," I KNOW WHAT WORD THEY'RE USING.

I'VE MET PEOPLE NAMED, FOR INSTANCE, ROXHINA AND UXHINE, PRONOUNCED IDENTICALLY TO THE ENGLISH NAMES "REGINA" AND "EUGENE," BECAUSE IN THEIR FAMILY'S LANGUAGE, THOSE LETTERS WERE PRONOUNCED DIFFERENTLY.

I HAVE ALSO SEEN PEOPLE SPELL THINGS INCORRECTLY, IF SERVICEABLY, IN WAYS THAT IT'S EASY TO LET SLIDE BECAUSE IT'S CLEAR THEY WERE GOOD-FAITH EFFORTS TO COMMUNICATE THE MEANING OF THE WORD-- FOR INSTANCE, IN A BAR I SOMETIMES WORK AT, THERE IS A BOX LABELED "CHAMPAIGN GLASSES." THAT'S NOT THE CORRECT SPELLING, BUT ANYBODY WHO KNOWS HOW TO PRONOUNCE THE WORD "CHAMPAGNE" IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THE LABEL MEANS. THAT'S ALL LANGUAGE IS-- A GOOD-FAITH EFFORT TO CONVEY MEANING BASED ON A SHARED UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT WORDS MEAN AND HOW THEY ARE CONSTRUCTED.

ALL OF THIS WAS VERY EASY FOR ME TO ACCEPT! BUT IF SOMEONE FROM APPALACHIA, WHO SPEAKS THE SAME LANGUAGE AS ME, WROTE THE WORD "XHOWL" ON A PIECE OF PAPER AND EXPECTED ME TO UNDERSTAND THAT IT MEANT "GIRL," BECAUSE IN ALBANIAN "XH" IS PRONOUNCED "G" AND IN APPALACHIA "OW" IS SOMETIMES PRONOUNCED "ER," I WOULD NOT FEEL LIKE THEY HAD MADE A GOOD-FAITH EFFORT TO EFFECTIVELY COMMUNICATE THE WORD "GIRL."

SO MY ULTIMATE ANSWER HERE IS THAT I DISAPPROVE OF ATTEMPTS TO FIND ESOTERIC WAYS TO PRONOUNCE LETTERS OR SPELL WORDS THAT MAKES IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR SOMEONE TO MAKE THAT GOOD-FAITH EFFORT. WHETHER IT'S "YOU CAN SPELL FISH AS GHOTI, AS LONG AS YOU SAY ALL THE LETTERS WRONG," OR "YOU CAN PRONOUNCE 'WHAT' SILENTLY IF YOU DON'T SAY ANY OF THE LETTERS" I AM GENERALLY NOT IN FAVOR OF THESE FAKE-DEEP, DESPERATE-TO-BE-CLEVER ATTEMPTS AT SAYING "YOU KNOW, IF YOU DISRESPECT THE LISTENER AND/OR READER'S GOOD-FAITH EFFORT TO UNDERSTAND YOU BY MAKING AN INTENTIONAL EFFORT TO BE DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND, THEN ENGLISH HAS NO RULES!"

IF ANYONE IS INTENDING TO SEND ME A "WHAT ABOUT--" SORT OF MESSAGE TO THIS, REFER BACK TO THE BEGINNING OF THIS POST AND THEN KEEP READING UNTIL YOU DON'T SEND THAT MESSAGE.

TL;DR - ANYONE WHO SAYS SHIT LIKE THIS WAS ALREADY MOCKED IN THIS COMEDY SKETCH AND I ROUGHLY AGREE WITH MESSRS. FRY AND LAURIE

[wasyago]

how do you choose colors?? i love your color choices and wanna know how you do it

oookay, i don't actually know what i am doing with colors 90% of the time, but there are some guidelines that i follow, so, i hope this will be useful ":3

so. one of the main things that i use almost all the time is complimentary colors! a very cool very useful thing, good for everything. complimentary colors are the ones that are opposite each other on a color wheel. a proper color wheel, not the one that drawing apps use, because that one most of the time has the colors distributed wrong 😔

the thing about complimentary colors is that they make each other stand out more. so if you use them in equal amount and saturation they will fight for attention and don't look as good. another thing is that if you put gray on one complimentary color it will appear to have changed the hue to its pair. uhhh its hard to describe with words, but just try to fill a canvas with one saturated color and draw something gray on it, its an optical illusion of sorts.

so uhhhhhh, what im trying to say is, complimentary colors compliment each other (wow), so using them for accents and shadows and backgrounds will generally make both stand out and look better? idk, here are some examples so it hopefully makes more sense

and so you change the amount of color, it's saturation, hue, warmth, tone, other smart words, and it changes the feeling of the picture! as you can see i really like my greens and reds, they're almost in every picture, but it still looks different (hopefully). if you can't full on change the color of something, if you have a set design for example, bringing the complimentary color in shadows and highlights or background works too! try different things see what's for you!

and, of course, using complimentary colors doesn't mean you can't use any other color! its more like, complimentary colors establish this connection that's pleasing to the eye and everything else is whatever you want it to be! i also have no idea about using more than one pair, generally one is enough but technically it works?

i also try not to use more than 3 main colors for a piece, like, blue-red-yellow but no green, or green-blue-yellow and no red, and stuff. (key word is "try" of course lol) this has nothing to do with the color wheel, just uhh general color balance? but this is about um, "clean" colors. you can absolutely use all 4, if one of them appears different because of the lighting and stuff? again, its hard to explain color with words. plus it all depends on a style, its not a rule, that's just how i do it

and then all the things outside of theory, like, don't use black and gray for shadows, it looks dirty. a lot of artists don't use pure black at all, but i just can't help it i like it too much. i try not to use pure white for things like clothes and eyes and other things that are in-universe colored white. its fine for highlights but for everything else i usually use grayish yellowish color, it looks much more pleasing. things that are closer are more saturated and have more contrast, things that are far have less saturation and less contrast. things that you want to attract attention should have more contrast, and the other way around

aaand i think that's it? all that i can remember at least

[listofwhyyouloveher]

Gang x reader who is latina that talked Spanish in front of them for the first time. For example, the reader asked them to bring them something in Spanish and they didn't understand?? Also I love your works

Summary: The reader speaking spanish with the gang for the first time. Warnings: none Author's Note: short today, something bugging out w tumblr... oops PONYBOY CURTIS Pony actually asked you to speak spanish with him before he heard you saying it naturally. He needs to study for his spanish test and asked you to help him with pronounciation. Because of this you're now helping him everyday and testing his knowledge by asking him random questions. He thinks its super cool that you can speak more than one language and finds it really attractive because he really values intelligence. JOHNNY CADE Johnny isn't all that smart when it comes to different languages. He'll pick up on the basics like "hello," and "i love you" (which he never says in spanish because he feels like his american accent might make embarrassing) But everything else that you've tried to teach him just flew over his head. One day, you were completely zoned out and thought you were talking to your parents and asked him for a glass of water in spanish. He looked so confused and you had to explain it to him. he made more of an effort to learn your language after that. SODAPOP CURTIS

Soda took spanish in school too, but he has the most god-awful accent and he rarely uses it so he's lost most of his knowledge. He refrained from speaking spanish with you because he thought he'd mess up and say something wrong or embarrassing. He only started after you initiated it. He vaguely understood what you were saying and completed your task accordingly. You praised him for his understanding and he really enjoyed having you proud of him. he started learning just so you could smile and say that he was doing good. STEVE RANDLE Steve also took spanish with Soda, and he didnt goof off in class, he actually paid attention!! He's pretty good at spanish, he can hold a conversation on his own, which is technically how he met you. But he hasn't heard you speak spanish in a while, so when he does hear you ask for something in your native language he's so happy that you're comfortable speaking with him. He tries to initiate more conversations in spanish and also gets you to teach him a lot more. TWO BIT MATHEWS Two Bit took spanish but he was always goofing off in class and crumpled and threw more papers than he wrote on. He knows the most basic of the basic words, but other than that he's totally clueless. Especially when you talked to him in spanish because you can speak kind of quickly. He's a little ashamed that he cant understand you, and he's afraid to admit it, but you understood and just repeated yourself in english. He made it his goal to learn a little more basic phrases and actually understand you a little bit. DARRY CURTIS Darry's grades had always been at the top, that includes his spanish class. He was really good and could understand a lot. He was pretty keen on trying to be fluent but those plans fell through. He's not kept up his practice so he thought you would help him once and a while, but he's too shy to ask you to start speaking your native language with him. He waits for you to say something in spanish by mistake to respond and make it known that he's actually pretty damn good at spanish. After that, he's always trying to talk to you in your mother tongue! DALLAS WINSTON This man doesnt know shit and you know it. He never showed up to his spanish class, and when ever he did he'd just write obscenities on the chalkboard. The only spanish words he knows are "hola, chica" which he uses to very crudely pick up girls with that DAMN NEW YORK ACCENT. and cuss words, he knows a lot of spanish cuss words. Just to get on his nerves he'll just spew random cuss words in spanish when he feels like it. He once got you soooo pissed that you just started yelling at him in spanish. (do you guys remember that one clip of the goth girl yelling at this white boy in spanish at school or is it just me) he thinks its lowkey really cute and he'll rub it in your face that you don't 'scare' him. HES SUCH A DICKHEAD WHY IS HE SO CUTE RAHH

[romanoffsdarling]

Time To Say (Goodbye)

Pairing: Daughter-in-Law!Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s something that should have never started in the first place, something you should have stopped long ago. Why does something so wrong have to feel so right?

Word Count: 3,339

Warnings: G!P Wanda, cheating/infidelity, slight daddy kink, oral (R and Wanda receiving), possessive sex, angst. 18+, Minors DNI.

Author’s Note: Sorry if this is trash… I haven’t really written for G!P before.

“How did your date go?”

It’s an innocent question, borne out of genuine interest in your personal life, but you couldn’t stop the smallest of winces from flitting across your face. The feeling of burning eyes boring into the side of your head doesn’t help things, but you meet the gentle gaze of your daughter steadily, a wane smile curling your lips upward.

“It went fine,” you reply, placing your fork back down on the placemat. Lest she notice the shakiness of your hand. “I had a great time.”

“Will you be seeing him again?”

The husky voice, made even huskier by the accent slipping through the cracks, interrupts whatever your daughter had been about to say. A certain note of sharpness laid within it that you could pick out instantly, but your daughter seemed wholly unaware of. Instead, she offers you an encouraging smile too, clearly agreeing with her wife. Knowing that if you didn’t look at her, if you didn’t even try to create a semblance of normalcy, then your daughter, for all of her obliviousness, would pick up on something— that being the last thing you want.

Meeting darkened emerald with your own steady gaze is a test unto itself— staring into the eyes of Wanda Maximoff, your daughter’s wife, and answering a question about your dating life is one thing, but staring at the woman you’ve secretly been having an affair with?

An entirely different matter.

“I don’t know.” Honesty is the best possibility, right? Even though you think that scheme of rules had abandoned you long ago. “He was nice, but I don’t know if he’d want to see me again.”

Your daughter scoffs. “Please, he’d be an absolute idiot to not want to take you out again.” She shifts in her seat, gesturing towards her wife. “Right, Wanda?”

Wanda, who had been staring at you with an unreadable expression, seemingly softens, but you could see the war being waged within her eyes, as she smiles gently. “An absolute fool.” Emerald eyes trace over your face. “Only an imbecile would be able to let you go.”

You shift in your seat, well aware of the double nuance hidden within her words, but your daughter continues forward with the conversation, easily switching subjects to something that happened to her at work the previous week, and you’ve never been more relieved for a shift then right now.

Even though, as you begin to slowly finish your dinner, listening half heartedly to your daughters rambling, you could feel Wanda’s gaze still steadily boring into you. A heat building between the two of you that you know she wouldn’t let go of— no matter what.

You should have known that she’d corner you when your daughter was otherwise preoccupied upstairs, your own attention being on finishing up the dishes.

A warm body suddenly pressing you into the counter, heated lips tracing across your neck, almost makes you drop the plate in your grasp, but you’re able to steady yourself just enough to stop that inevitable disaster from occurring.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you went on a date?” The words are snarled against your pulse point, teeth digging into the sensitive flesh there. No doubt leaving a mark that’d you have for the next few days as a reminder. “That you let someone else ever think they’d be able to have you?”

A small sound escapes your throat before you can stop it. The feeling of Wanda pressed so firmly against your back: hands gripping your hips, a familiar bulge making its home against your ass, and the soothing tongue that’s gently lapping over yet another mark she had just made.

“Answer me,” she hisses, warm breath hot over the shell of your ear. “I want to know why the fuck you thought I’d ever let anyone else have you?”

You shake your head. “We can’t do this, Wanda. What we’ve been doing—” A gasp is wrenched from your lips when Wanda grinds her erection against you, her blatant need for you apparent. “It’s wrong. What we’re doing is wrong.”

Wanda huffs out a laugh. “That’s not what you were saying when I had you screaming on this very counter last weekend. In fact—” She steps closer, pulling you impossibly tighter against her body. “I think you wanted nothing more than for me to continue.”

Turning in her grasp, you’re soon face-to-face with Wanda’s smoldering gaze, the darkness from earlier making its appearance blatantly known. “My daughter, your wife, is upstairs right now.” You glance up, trying to hear any note of disturbance. Fortunately not finding any. “We can’t do this anymore, Wanda. I can’t keep betraying my daughter like this.”

“How many times have I told you that I’d divorce her for you? How many fucking times have I told you that I’m completely in love with you?” She steps forward, forehead pressing against your own, voice dropped to a heated whisper. “You’re the love of my life. No one, not even your daughter, will ever be able to compare.”

You flinch at the reminder of your child. “We’ve been over this. You love what I do for your body, Wanda. You don’t love me, I’m over a decade older than you, much more than that let’s be honest, and there’s nothing you can say that’ll change that fact.” You run a frazzled hand through your hair. “Why can’t you accept that?”

“Because you mean everything to me.”

“And she means everything to me.”

A snarl curls her lips upward, clearly displeased by the turn that this conversation had taken, but you’re well aware that Wanda wouldn’t simply let this be— that she wouldn’t just let you go. Not after everything you’ve been through together.

While you firmly believed that Wanda didn’t love you in the manner she said she did— however much it may cause your heart to flutter whenever she said it— you do believe that she felt a bone-deep attraction to you. That she craved you in the same exact way that you did for her.

Instinctually.

Carnally.

Like the very basis of your beings were meant to be united in an intrinsic way— hence the passionate love affair that you’ve been part of for the last two years.

“Get on your knees.” The command shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, not with how worked up Wanda clearly was, but you still couldn’t stem the shocked expression from making an appearance on your face. “You heard me, baby. I want you to get on your knees for me.”

“Wand—”

A snarl interrupts your rebuttal, surprisingly strong hands gripping your biceps in an iron hold. “No,” she hisses. “This is not the time to argue, this is not the time to make up fucking excuses on why we shouldn’t do this, we only have a little while left before she comes back down here. I’m not going to waste the time I have with you by fighting over something we clearly both want.” Wanda tugs at your arms, showing you clearly what she wants. “Get on your knees. Now.”

Knowing that there’s no use in denying her any further, not with the way your own arousal is currently painting you thighs beneath your dress, you follow her command, eliciting a contented sigh from her. With slightly shaking hands, you quickly make work of both her belt and shimmy her tights jeans down her legs, instantly being met by her hard length.

“Come on, baby,” Wanda coos, threading her fingers through the strands of your hair. “You know what I want.”

Without preamble, or any form of warning, you take Wanda completely into your mouth— from tip until your nose brushes across her pubic bone— delighting in the harsh gasp she lets out, the hand not in your hair steadying herself on the counter behind you. The taste of Wanda, her familiar scent, entrances you completely, surrounding you wholeheartedly. Bobbing up and down, mindful to keep your lips completely sealed to deter any possible noise from escaping, the feeling of Wanda stretching out your throat due to her girth is a heady drug you’ve grown addicted to.

“Fuck,” Wanda curses, hands tightening in your hair. Dragging you up and down her cock, forcing herself further into the back of your throat. “You’re doing so good, baby. Taking me so well. Better than anyone ever has.”

Your nails dig into the backs of her thighs, tongue lashing across the sensitive head, tasting the pre-cum that’s been steadily escaping since you started, the familiar salty, and somehow slightly sweet, flavor making you suck even harder. The action causes Wanda’s hips to jerk harshly, gagging you due to how deep her cock goes, but only a filthy groan is what she gives you in form of an apology— darkened emerald eyes watching you with rapt attention.

Feeling the way she’s beginning to jerk, the way that her hips were beginning to stutter in their momentum, causes you to become aware of how close she is to cumming. Which is why, when Wanda pulls out of your mouth entirely, a small hiss leaving her lips due to the difference in temperature, you’re fairly confused.

With a hand on your neck, Wanda drags you upward, lips descending to filthily meet yours in a twisted embrace. Her tongue meeting yours in a tangle, getting reacquainted with one another, before her teeth nips at your bottom lip when she pulls away. A thin trail of saliva connects you both, so close to one another you weren’t even sure whose air you were breathing anymore.

“You’re so perfect for me,” Wanda murmurs, slender fingers trailing down you face. “The perfect girl for daddy.”

Your thighs clench together at the nickname— one that isn’t used often, as you’re still embarrassed by it at times, but you’ve slowly come to terms with it, how hot it makes Wanda feel, and the erotic thrill it sends down your spine whenever you utter it in the heat of passion.

Wanda’s hands snake down to the back of your legs, placing you so you’re seated on the cold, marble countertop, dark emerald eyes tracing over the expanse of exposed skin that’s at her disposal. Hiking up your dress until it’s situated around your waist, Wanda drinks in the sight of your bare legs, until they settle on her prize. A heated expression taking over the briefly surprised one.

“Not wearing any panties, baby?” A slender finger trials down your slit, parting your folds and barely dipping into the wetness she finds there. “Naughty girl.”

“Only for you.”

A wordless cry is ripped from your throat when Wanda descends onto your clit with a ravenous hunter, tongue lashing against the bundle of sensitive nerves. Drinking you in as if you were her favorite drink, hands making sure you were kept wide open for her. When she lowers herself further, giving her the perfect angle to dip her tongue into your opening, a small keen escapes you. Brief panic settling within your chest as it echoes across the kitchen— not that it stops Wanda in the slightest. In fact, at the confirmation that she was making you feel good, she sped up her movements. Working further and further into your tunnel, small noises of her own, muffled by your cunt, showcasing how affected she is by your taste and the feel of you.

Your climax washes over you quickly, both by how long it’s been since she’s touched you, and the fervency in which she’s currently doing so. Barely being able slap a hand over your mouth before you scream out your release, gushing into Wanda’s waiting mouth, hips flexing and bucking against her solid hold, you feel the tremors make their way down your spine, sending a pleasant chill through you.

Wanda only pulls away once she’s helped you through the aftershocks, face slick with your wetness, but the familiar fire once again scorches you through you at the look she levels you with.

“I need to have you,” Wanda murmurs, standing to settle between your still parted legs. Her cock, that looks almost painfully hard, resting against you, rubbing slightly against your clit, as she situates herself. “We don’t have a lot of time left. Not enough for me to worship you the way you deserve to be worshiped.” She looks almost put out by that. “But, I’m still going to fuck you in a way that only I will ever be able to replicate. Make you mine in the way that you’ve made me yours. Think you can handle that, baby?”

As an answer, you loosely wrap your arms around her neck, tugging her into a brief kiss. You’re well aware you didn’t have enough time left, that idle chitchat would only shave it sway, which is something Wanda seems to register at last. Within the next moment, she’s buried to the hilt in you, your walls stretching to accommodate the familiar length. Tucking your head into her neck, to muffle some of your moans as Wanda begins to thrust, you grapple at her back, nails digging into the leather of her jacket, as Wanda seems to lose herself in the feel of you.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh permeates the air, an occasional grunt or moan intercepting it, and you’d normally be concerned by how much noise you’re making, especially since your daughter is still in the house, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when Wanda fills you so completely, when she plays your body like her favorite instrument.

“Keep fucking me, baby,” you whine, grappling her shoulders, a small tremor making itself known. “I’m so close.”

You were drunk on pleasure as Wanda kept driving her hips forward, one slender finger roughly rubbing your clit in time with each thrust. It’s of no surprise that you find your release quickly after, gushing over Wanda’s cock.

Something that causes her to groan, no doubt feeling the way your inner walls began to constrict around her, trying to milk her for everything she’s worth.

“I’m not going to last much longer, baby,” Wanda gasps, lowering her head to your shoulder. Hips flexing as she tries to stem her climax to extend her pleasure just a bit more, to keep feeling you for just a bit longer. “Going to fill you up.”

With a stuttering thrust, a sharp groan escaping her, Wanda bites down onto the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, as her climax hits her— jets of her cum painting your inner walls white, warming you up.

Once her own shuddering dies down, when she’s resting limply against your body, your hands gently tracing down her still quivering back, does her voice finally break the silence between you. “I don’t know if I can give this up.” She pulls you back, emerald eyes pleading with you. “I don’t know if I can give you up.”

A bitter smile twists your lips upward, the reminder that Wanda wasn’t truly yours, and that you weren’t truly hers, leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“It’ll be best for everyone,” you reply, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ears. Heart cracking at the way she leans into the gentle touch. “You owe it to yourself, and my daughter, to try and make your marriage work.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It will.” It’s an affirmation, one you didn’t particularly put your entire heart behind. Something you didn’t want to dwell too much on. “Anyone would be lucky to have you, Wanda.”

Tears gather in emerald eyes eyes, her head dropping to rest against your chest, as sadness swells between the both of you.

“The only person I want to have me is you.”

You press a kiss to the top of her head, closing your eyes to abate your own tears. “I know.”

“Are you going to come up and visit us during the holidays, mom?”

Your daughter’s hopeful face twists the knife deeper into your heart, but you offer her a gentle smile in return.

“If my schedule allows for it.” You open your arms to accept the final hug she wanted to give you, thankful that you had half a mind to clean yourself up further after you tryst in the kitchen. “I’d love to come visit, you know that.”

At her happy squeal, she finally detached from you, shifting to fully stand on the other side of your doorway, where Wanda had been silently waiting for the last ten minutes, emerald eyes never straying far from you, and you offer her one last smile.

“Drive safe you two,” you warn, what you hope is a good natured expression on your face. “I want you two to be intact when I see you next.”

Your daughter laughs brightly at that, already moving to unload all of her bags in the car, leaving just you and Wanda standing on the porch. A tension falling between you two instantly.

“It was nice to see you, Wanda,” you say, trying to be diplomatic about this entire thing. “I hope the journey back won’t be too long.”

Wanda’s lips thin. “Don’t—” She turns to look back, making sure your daughter is still getting situated in the car. “Don’t treat me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re saying goodbye.”

You shake your head, a bitter feeling welling within your chest. “Aren’t I?” At the clear look that she’s about to rebuke your statement, you continue. “We’ve both agreed that you need to work on your marriage, Wanda. That you need to try and fix what’s been broken. To do that you can’t see me, and I can’t see you. It’d only end us right back where we started.”

“No,” Wanda hisses, making sure to keep her voice low. “I can’t not talk to you, can’t not see you, I won’t be able to survive.”

Your hand twitches at your side, wanting nothing more than to reach out and caress her cheek. Take away the anguish, the grief, that’s slowly settling over her beautiful face. “You’ll have to, Wanda. For the time being you’ll have to.” Taking a step back, deeper into the house, you almost sob at Wanda’s innate need to follow you. “We’ll see each other again. Once we’ve gotten one another out of our systems, once we’ve learned to be near one another without being together, we’ll see one another again.”

Wanda’s anguish is palpable to you, the pain shown so clearly within her emerald eyes, but you can’t back down. Not from this, not when you’ve finally found the strength to do what you should have done from the start.

The honking of the car in your driveway pulls your attention from her to your daughter’s impatient face. “You have to go.” You don’t turn back to her, knowing that if you saw her pain again you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself. “You have a long drive ahead of you.”

There’s a brief best of silence, wherein Wanda clearly waits for you to look at her, to do something, but you can’t. Not now. So, after another moment, she makes a noise low in her throat, almost like a wounded animal, and barely mutters out. “Goodbye.”

Something begins to rot in your chest, but you only allow a sad smile to twist your lips.

“Goodbye, Wanda.”

And, with that, she steps away from you, getting into the car, and driving off, disappearing down the road and out of your life for the foreseeable future. It’s only once you’re sure they’re gone, when you’re safely hidden behind the closed and locked door of your house, that you allow the tears to come, for your own anguish and grief to come to the surface.

You know what you did was the right thing. That it’d be better for yourself and Wanda for the long run, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Nor did it stop you from wishing that she’d come back.

[songbirdseung]

payphone / sim jaeyun

thank you for 1k! where molding back a broken heart starts with you standing at a phonebooth in a foreign country trying to figure out what the hell to do and thinking where it went wrong. pairing stranger!jake x reader genre angst at first but turns into fluff. strangers to friend, possibly lovers

usually you'd feel very claustrophobic being in a tight enclosed space and feel anxious when people look at you regardless of expression but right now you had a different task that was highly more important that your own feelings right now.

you still had two whole months being in this country whose language you don't speak, with people you don't know nor trust but you were desperate to leave behind a memory, a person. because quite frankly being in his own home country didn't help you with trying to move on due to the fact that whenever and wherever you looked, something reminded you of him and that stupid smile you love so much.

it's weird, really. why are you in a phone booth when you can easily use your phone and do much more with it than a telephone attached to a wire in a box? easy answer: your phone died.

so, here you were. in this clear glassed box surrounded by people that are giving you looks as they pass by. since your tear-stained face with never ending tears flow out along with frantic and desperate movement would cause anyone to look.

some people tried to help but gave up when they realized you didn't speak their language but gave you enough reassurance and comfort your ex could ever give.

"damn it!" you shove back the phone into its switch hook as the automated voice came through for the nth time. sighing at the realization you no longer have any loose change to use.

a stupid idea but the only idea you had left was to start softly banging your head on the glass and calling yourself stupid for even making the decision to surprise your long-distance boyfriend.

"you okay in there?" a warm soft voice with a charming aussie accent along with a knock on the glass gets your attention. turning your head to be met with worried brown eyes looking at you. clearing your throat as you wipe your tears away, "uhm..you want an honest answer?"

"that's why i asked" okay, maybe that small chuckle was too much for your just broken heart could take.

"then…no"

"can i open the door or could you get out so i could help you in any way?"

never in a million years would you blindly follow nor interact with a stranger, let alone a stranger that was a guy… but that;-'s just you being anxious and suspicious. although, for some reason, this stranger felt like a warm hug or maybe it's just your emotions going haywire and your actually out of it. either way, you made the decision to step out of the booth and sit in a cafe with this stranger.

hands down, the best decision you made this whole month because know you understand why people say a stranger can understand you way better than anyone else in your life. this man who you are sitting across from right now, he felt like a warm room after being in the cold for hours on end. he just sat there, listened to you and sometimes even offering sweet and comforting words that would reassure you that maybe not everyone and everything is horrible.

if your ex barely gave you the bare minimum, this guy was giving you beyond that. no, you weren't exactly falling for this guy just like that. you've been through too much to do that to yourself. it was just a friendly acknowledgement that this person is a gem and that you can't let it go. there was no need to polish this one, he was already too perfect.

you sat at that cafe for hours, it started off with you crying to a whole stranger to leaving the cafe with a new friend, sim jaeyun… maybe there is a reason to stay in Seoul for the two months you had left.

-

"you're telling me your douchebag of an ex tried to get back together you with?" jake gives you a look that says "you better not have said yes" which makes you laugh and nudge him

"don't look at me like that"

"just tell me you didn't get back with him, woman!" he nudges you back and steals your cup of m&m's "these are mine now, by the way" while popping one in his mouth as he waits for your answer, eyebrow raised with an attitude and all.

"of course I didn't, doofus" trying to snatch back your beloved snack but to no success.

banter and bickering with jake was now your favorite thing. it's been two days since he found you crying in a phone booth, being a lovely, kind and friendly person but now he's teasing you and play fighting with you as if you two have known each other you whole lives.

"no offense but did you really think your long-distance relationship with him would work despite his track record?" he sits down, still holding your chocolate hostage.

"i was young!" trying to defend yourself, rolling your eyes at him as you at down next to him on the picnic blanket.

"it was only a year ago" okay, who is this diva? because he's giving you a deadpan "are you for real?" look. "just admit you're stupid, yn" shaking his head as he continues to eat the candy, looking at the ducks in the river in front of them.

"i'm not stup-"

"you think ducks can eat chocolate?" you see him holding one piece of the m&m's, rolling it with his pointer and thumb. "jake, you'll kill it!" he chuckles and eat the candy "it was just a question"

it makes you scoff and chuckle at him "look who's stupid now?" soon after that question, you feel your upper body meeting the grass next to you along with jake's defensive tone.

you never had a friendship like this. all your girl friends were the loving, caring, soft type of friends who love to sugar coat and beat around the bush when it comes to comforting you, you know the usual. they usually are gentle with you and are soft spoken but with jake? nope. say bye bye to that because the man will literally tell you straight up that you were doing something dumb. but again, for some odd reason, he was more real and comforting than anyone you've known. he can be a pain in the ass and hella competitive when you two play games but overall, he's such a fun guy to be around.

-

"have you dated before, jake?" you watch him put down his ramen and look up at you. there was something in his eyes that held something you couldn't really figure out. maybe a sense of longing?

"no- well, i mean- i've been a few dates set up by my friends in australia but I never actually had a girlfriend, why do you ask?" now paying full attention to you, waiting for where this conversation leads to

"i was just curious because i just can't believe a guy like you doesn't have a girl" you hear him sigh and see him shrug

"it was never really a priority"

"that's it? what about the girls you dated?"

"i don't like blind dates, i prefer to find "the one" naturally, you know?" you nod, telling him you understood and got him mindset on dating and relationships.

the conversation on his love life continued until he whined and whined, asking you to stop and let him finish his lunch. jake wasn't entirely secretive with you, he's actually been very welcoming and open to letting you know him and bringing you into his life. although, like any other person, there were things he like to keep to himself.

-

the next two months were a whirlwind of shared experiences and growing affection. you and jake were practically inseparable, exploring seoul's vibrant streets, from bustling markets to serene temples.

one day, you embarked on a culinary adventure, attempting to make kimchi. what started as a fun activity quickly turned into a chaotic mess. red pepper flakes flew everywhere, turning the kitchen into a colorful battlefield. jake, ever the comedian, couldn't resist capturing the moment, teasing you about your culinary skills.

"you call that kimchi? it looks more like a crime scene!" he joked, doubling over with laughter. you playfully swatted him, but couldn't help but join in the fun.

another memorable moment was a karaoke night. initially hesitant, you let jake's encouragement push you out of your comfort zone. as you belted out your favorite tunes, your shyness melted away. you even attempted a duet with jake, a hilarious performance that had the entire karaoke bar roaring with laughter.

late nights often found you on a rooftop, stargazing and sharing your hopes, dreams, and fears. hours would pass as you connected on a deeper level, the city lights twinkling in the background. it was during these quiet moments that you realized how much you valued jake's friendship, his honesty, and his unwavering support.

the quiet hum of the city faded into the background as you and jake settled into a cozy evening. a bowl of popcorn, a soft blanket, and a heartwarming movie filled the screen. the familiar comfort of his presence washed over you as you leaned into his side.

a shared laugh, a knowing glance, a gentle touch—these were the moments that painted your time together in vibrant hues. the simplicity of it all was breathtaking. no grand gestures, no dramatic declarations, just the quiet understanding that grew between you.

as the credits rolled, a comfortable silence enveloped the room. you turned to face jake, his eyes soft and contemplative. a warmth spread through you, a realization dawning upon you. the bond you shared was something truly special, a friendship that had blossomed into something more.

the days that followed were a whirlwind of shared experiences, laughter, and quiet moments. you explored hidden alleys, savored delectable street food, and lost yourselves in the vibrant tapestry of seoul. each day was a new adventure, a fresh memory etched into your hearts.

as your departure date drew near, a bittersweet feeling settled over you. the thought of leaving seoul and saying goodbye to jake filled you with a sense of longing. on your last night, you wandered along the han river, the city lights reflecting on the calm waters.

"i'm going to miss you," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.

jake turned to face you, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "i'll miss you too. but hey, this isn't goodbye, just see you later."

[bobafetts-princess]

Surprise: The Sequel

Pairings: Ghost x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2800

Warnings: PiV, we wrap shit up in this one, a little butt stuff, spit kink, biting, cursing, choking. Reader is a little subby here. This is a fic centered on the reader ovulating and being really horny. Heed warnings accordingly.

Author notes: Yes, this was written when I personally was ovulating and I needed an outlet. Please enjoy 😊

Companion piece to Surprise

“My back fucking hurts,” you grumble to yourself, not really meaning for anyone to hear. But Soap, with his fucking bat ears, does.

“Wan’ me to massage it for yah?” He drawls in his thick Scottish accent. He’s been eying you all day and you can’t figure out why. You’re not dressed any different, you didn’t do your hair any different. You didn’t flirt with him, at least anymore than normal. Soap is the type of guy you can flirt with without realizing it. He’s soft and easy-going with a big personality and the ability to make anyone feel special.

“Mind your business, Soap,” snaps Simon-Ghost-Lieutenant (you’re not really sure what to call him anymore) as he comes in the door. You’re sitting at a desk, writing reports on your latest mission and Soap is at his desk on the left of yours, writing his own.

“Aye L.T. But I do feel like her business is my business,” he chuckles and Ghost flicks him a look as he gets up.

“Why’s your back hurt, Blue?” Ghost asks, hand gripping the back of your chair.

“Not sure, L.T.,” you say but then a cramp hits your lower belly. It’s not your period, definitely not your period, that was two weeks ago. So this means- “Damnit,” you curse under your breath.

“What’s wrong?” Both men ask at the same time, Soap moving to stand by Ghost. Another cramp hits your stomach and you have to stifle a groan.

“Nothing important,” you tell them both but they don’t believe you. But Price walks in, looking for an update on the reports and the subject is dropped. He’s standing over your shoulder and you don’t miss the way he keeps looking down at you, the easy way he smiles at you.

“Looking good today, Blue. Did you do something different with your hair?” Price mentions and you know he doesn’t mean it to be creepy. He’s genuinely trying to be nice and give you a compliment, you don’t get many when your literal job is to commit crimes for the sake of queen and country. But you know the real reason he’s looking at you different.

Your ovulation cycle hits harder than your menstruation cycle, the older you get. Your cramps are worse and men tend to notice you more. They flirt with you easier, they check you out with more purpose. Your skin clears and has this tone to that makes you look perpetually flustered. It’s all very flattering but also, quite annoying. Biology is doing its work, but you don’t want it to. The thing that drives you most insane is that you preen under the attention. You like being noticed when you’re ovulating. You like the way Ghosts eyes are dragging across your hips. You like the easy smile Johnny gives you when he’s flirting. You like the way Price’s eyes struggle to stay in their rightful place.

“Nah, just brushed it this morning, that’s all Captain,” there’s a flash of something in his eyes when you call him by his rank but you can’t unpack it right now. You stand, surprising Price and mumble “I’ll be back,” before you bolt.

Ghost waits an appropriate amount of time before he follows, shoving back his chair with some lame excuse so he can follow you.

He finds you in seconds, heading down the hallway in the general direction of his quarters. As a lieutenant, he gets his own space and as he watches your hips sway he’s thankful for it.

“Blue,” he calls out and you still.

“Not now, Ghost,” you say but you don’t move. His long strides catch up to you in no time and his hand presses into your back.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, and you sigh.

“I’m ovulating,” you tell him, pressing into his hand and relishing the feel of his warmth.

“What’s that mean?” He knows that’s your fertile period and you can get pregnant but he’s not sure on the specifics.

“I’m so horny,” you whine, twisting your neck to look up at him and he wants to dip down and run his nose alone the soft skin there. It takes your words a second to click but when they do, he’s shoving you down the hallway and into his room, locking the door behind him.

———————————

Ghost has you on your knees and you’re taking him. Your pussy is slick with your orgasms and your back is slick with sweat. You’re dropped down to your chest on the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out. It’s not helping though, because every one of Simon’s powerful thrusts pushes you up the bed.

“This fuckin’ pussy,” he snarls from under his mask. Since that day in the shower you’ve had this tryst going on regularly and it’s been satisfying for the both of you. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he grunts as his hand presses into your shoulders to hold you down. “Love when you submit to me,” he says but you think you can take it a step further. You move your hands from the sheets to behind your back, gripping your forearms as your face presses into the bed. Simon groans deeply as he slides his hand down your back to press down on your forearms. “Look so pretty takin’ my cock like this, Blue,” he snarls and you know he’s getting close. You’ve already cum several times, so you’re not concerned about finishing when he does, but Simon is. His hips ratchet up a notch and you hear the distinctive sound of something in Simon’s mouth. You’re about to peek over your shoulder to see what he’s doing when his thick thumb presses up against your asshole. You gasp and still underneath him as he presses circles into the tight ring.

“I’d love to watch you take me here,” he grunts before he pushes his thumb in. Your whole body tenses but you’re pinned. His hands are still pressing your own into your lower back and his finger in your ass is up to the first knuckle. You’re going to lose your mind, you can’t even scream because your face is pressed into the mattress. He continues pressing until he’s got his whole thumb in your ass and you’re gone. You’re so full, so thoroughly worked over that you when Ghost-Simon-whatever you’re calling each other these days, picks up his thrusts you’re blind with pleasure.

He’s putting you through the mattress, his hulking body pressing yours down. You break first, your body clamping down as you cum. He’s so heavy, so thick, and you’re so overwhelmed but Ghost isn’t done yet. He’s growling deep in his throat, snarling something about what a good little slut you are for him and you know he’s right at the edge of breaking. You feel something sharp against your shoulder and it takes you a few seconds to realize he sank his teeth into the soft flesh. He’d apparently never pulled his mask down after he’d wet his thumb and you feel his tongue soothe the sharp sting his bite left. You lay like that for a second, Ghost’s body laying across yours as you both pant with the exertion. Simon’s tongue licks a hot trail across your shoulder and up your neck, stopping at your ear.

“You’re a good fuck, Blue. Y’know that?” You laugh aloud because any kind of compliment coming from Simon Riley is noteworthy.

“Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself,” you flash a grin at him as he peels off of you, moving to dispose the condom. He comes back and his mask is still pushed up to his nose and his grin would’ve knocked you over if you weren’t already laying down.

“Not so bad, eh? Do I need to split you apart on my cock again so you know how good I can be?” He chuckles, dark and dangerous as he crawls on the bed and stares down at you. His huge hand finds your throat, squeezing and reminding you just how dangerous he can be. But the only thing you feel right now is another how streak of lust through your nerve endings. Your nipples are tight and when he flicks them, a sharp gasp escapes your mouth. Ghost takes the opportunity at hand and pulls you up to him by the throat, shoving his tongue in your mouth. It’s not the first time you’ve kissed but it’s one of the only. You can feel him hardening against your thigh and you can feel how slick you are. His fingers squeeze as he trails his lips down your neck, over where his thumb is digging into the soft flesh.

You’re aching, ready to be filled again, when Ghost speaks in your ear.

“I want to taste you, Blue,” he grunts but you shake your head as best you can with his hand wrapped around your throat.

“Later. Want your cock,” you tell him and he nods, releasing you to get another condom. You desperately want to tell him not to use one, but you are smack in the middle of ovulating and the risk of pregnancy is much higher than if you weren’t. You’re not in a place where you can have a baby and you don’t think Simon is ready to be a father, he may not ever be. But god, the idea of dripping with his cum all day? It’s got you clenching between your legs.

Simon has the condom on, cock swinging between his thick thighs. He’d only managed to get his pants down to his knees the first time and the second time won’t be any different. He’s got a long sleeve shirt on bearing the British Army flag on it and even without all his tac gear he’s huge. Tall and bulky, with a menacing edge to him, you can see why people are terrified. But right now, all you are is horny. He slides between your thighs, lifting your hips and placing a pillow underneath them.

“Gonna take me?” He asks, circling a finger over your clit. You nod but he’s not content with that. “I asked you if you were going to take me, I expect an answer,” he growls from under his mask, pulled back down now.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” you breathe as he presses the head of his cock into you.

“Yes, Lieutenant, what?” He snaps, one hand on your tit, the other on the base of his cock.

“Yes, Lieutenant,-“ you gasp as he pushes into you.

“Go on,” he prompts, almost all the way in now. “Or I won’t fuck you. You can lay here and be my pretty little cock sleeve,” you clench around him, wishing he’d wrap one of those big hands around your throat again.

“Yes, Lieutenant, I’m gonna take all of your cock. Please, I want to take all of your cock.”

“Good girl,” he growls, low in your ear as his hand wraps back around your throat. His thrusts start slow but it doesn’t take long before he’s hitching one thigh up his back, the other pressing you down and pushing you to your limits. He’s more vocal this time, grunts and growls as he sits back on his heels to give himself more leverage. He’s got to be sensitive, it’s the second time in less than 30 minutes, and it shows. His fingers tighten every couple thrusts until you nearly can’t breathe but you know he wouldn’t hurt you. The other hand finds your tits, groping them and pulling at your nipples. He presses the thumb of the hand around your neck into your jaw until your mouth pops open. He pulls the mask above his mouth, leaning down, his eyes wide with question and you nod at him, sticking your tongue out in invitation. He gathers in his mouth before he leans down, spitting directly into your mouth before he closes your jaw and speaks.

“Swallow it.” You do as he asks, opening your mouth again and sticking out your tongue to show him. He groans deeply, gathering his spit again and spitting on your tongue. This time though, he keeps his thumb pressed into the hinge of your jaw so you don’t close it. “That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, his accent thicker as he pounds into you, “take everythin’ I fuckin’ give ya, don’t ya?” You nod desperately at him, mouth still open, tongue still covered in his spit. “Fuck yeah, ya do. I’m goin’ to cum, I know you’re close.” You nod at him again, pussy tightening as he spits into your mouth again, closing your jaw and telling you to swallow.

“Next time you’re gonna swallow my cum jus’ like that,” he tells you before he leans back, pressing a thumb against your clit. It only takes one, two, three swipes of his thumb before you’re over the edge, crying out his name and clinging to the hand still wrapped around your throat. He follows right along with you, slumping his heavy body against yours. “This will never get old,” he says as he rolls to the side slightly, still laying on you but not quite with his full weight.

“Yeah,” you agree, out of breath and worn down. Finally sated.

“Is it always like this when you ovulate?” He asks, picking himself up and disposing of the condom, for the second time. You nod as he comes back and picks up your underwear off the floor.

“It gets worse as I get older, like evolution is telling me to get a move on.” You stand as Simon holds your hand and helps you into your panties. “My cramps get worse and I get almost unbearably horny,” you tell him as he hunts down your tac pants and helps you into those too. He chuckles as he finds your sports bra, slipping it over your head.

“Maybe you should pop out a kid or two,” and your jaw drops.

“Yeah, sure! I’ll drop my whole life and have babies! Ruin my career, my tits, everything I’ve worked for just to give evolution the middle finger!” You exclaim, annoyed he’d even suggest it. But he’s fully laughing, searching for your shirt under the bed.

“I’s a joke, love. You don’t take those as well as you take my cock,” he husks, finding the army green tank and slipping it over your head. “Besides, it would be a shame to ruin these perfect tits,” he tells you, standing behind you and cupping said perfect tits. Fuck, you didn’t think you could go again but the way his thumbs are brushing over your nipples right now is making you question that. “Well, we better get back to writin’ our reports. Price’ll wonder why we’ve been gone so long,” he says, slapping you on the ass and striding out the door. You’re left panting and annoyed, but you follow after a reasonable amount of time and when you make it back to your desk, Soap is standing next to it looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Aye, lass. Y’look good today. Exceptional even,” he drawls, and if you weren’t rolling your eyes you’d have noticed his own flick over to Ghost to gauge his reaction.

“Get off my desk, Johnny.”

“Will do, but would ya like t’have a drink with me tonight?” He’s leaned down, in your space, his bright eyes full of mischief.

“No.” You tell him, you’re not really annoyed with him but you are frustrated because Ghost left you horny and every bit as distracted as you were before he fucked you stupid. Your hand flashes out and connects with the inside of Soaps elbow, knocking him off his balance. Ghost chuckles from behind you at his own desk.

“Might wanna leave the girl alone, Johnny. I think she could kick your ass,”

“Ooh I might like that,” Johnny says, not fazed at all that you hit him. Ghost has to suppress a groan at the idea of watching you and Johnny wrestling for dominance. He’s pretty sure you would win and the idea of you fucking Johnny stupid the way he fucks you stupid has him hardening in his pants.

“Johnny,” you start, your voice all sugar sweet and sticky. “Can you do something for me?” Your tone is full of promise and Johnny’s eyes droop as he mutters a gentle ‘of course, lass’

“Go get me some Tylenol and coffee, Johnny,” you say, smacking him upside the head. Simon barks a laugh from behind you, and Johnny looks graciously indignant.

“Aye, lass. Whatever you want,” he’s no actually offended, but he played the part well. Off he slinks, to retrieve the items you’ve asked for and Ghost feels a rush of relief that he’s not the only person in this compound that cares for you.

[yuurei20]

Hi! I've seen some posts going around about Epel's accent and Vil correcting him. From what I gathered Epel has a pretty farmland accent that can be basically indecipherable so Vil being hard on him for it is both 'this is kind of casual' and 'i have no idea what you're saying' but could still be kind of elitist/classist. But I see some people saying Vil is just correcting Epel because he's swearing a lot?

Thank you so much for this question! Reading through just the EN adaptation of Book 5, I think I can understand why people might be annoyed by Vil’s wording: in English, he says outright that Epel should “speak properly,” as if his natural dialect is somehow improper and objectively “wrong.”

But his original line is closer to, “Speak more politely”! (The translations in these images are just more literal rewordings of the original dialogue, not meant to be corrections or improvements over EN’s localization)

I think the game was aware of the risk it was taking by having Vil give such an order, which is why it has Epel immediately jump to that assumption himself, so that Vil can explain it is not Epel’s hometown pride he has an issue with, but rather the outdated mindset that comes with it.

While softened on EN, Epel is quite misogynistic in the original game. He also repeats the same insult three times, possibly as an example of his limited vocabulary, which is another of Vil’s projects.

While Epel does say that Vil has told him not to use the accent specifically, Vil explains that he just wants him to consider the time, place and occasion for it.

Question: But then why does Vil order him to drop the accent entirely if the only problem is that he’s speaking rudely? Surely he can just speak politely while keeping his accent?

Answer: There is another layer to this that is more difficult to explain in English, but I shall try!

The Japanese language has multiple verb forms that change depending upon who you’re talking to at the time. “Meshiagaru,” “taberu” and “kuu” are three different ways to say “eat,” for example, depending on how polite you want to be.

In the beach scene (and anywhere we get his Harveston dialect), Epel immediately shifts into casual/impolite verb forms.

I searched for the most formal interaction involving characters speaking in the Harveston dialect that I could find (where the mayor is apologizing to Marja), and even there, the character was using casual/informal verb forms.

So that is what Vil is actually getting at: he wants Epel to use polite speech around his senpai and teachers, but Epel’s original dialect might just not adhere to that system.

The Harveston dialect clearly has its own ways to denote politeness, which must make sense when you’re there, but outside of Harveston what is a harmless and natural way of speaking becomes offensive from the perspective of everyone else (when Marja adapts her speaking patterns so that the visiting NRC students can understand her, she uses polite forms).

Not able to have a student from his dorm obliviously insulting everyone around him through his verb forms, Vil bans Epel’s accent entirely, presumably so that Epel can grow more accustomed to interacting with people from other countries and then learn to judge for himself the times, places and occasions outside of Harveston where that degree of informality is appropriate :>

(Omake: I conferred with an American friend who told me it sounds like this is the opposite of how things are in the US, where sometimes it is assumed that people from more rural communities use more polite speech (using "sir" and ma'am") than people in cities, so they visit cities and are surprised by forms are expression that are considered rude where they come from. This is the same, but backwards! Epel is going from a laidback rural village to a more populated location where polite speech is expected of everyone, and is experiencing culture shock as a result.)

[crimson-kisses]

Duetsche Zunge

Characters/Fandoms/Pairings: Yandere! Gilbert Beilschmeidt || Prussia [Hetalia] x Fem!reader Warning: This story will contain xplicit yandere themes, proceed with caution [includes non consensual acts, toxic relationship, physical violence & the like] Author's notes: I honestly took some inspiration from @shini--chan 's works. Her every piece is marvellous, especially Gilbert's character. She has made me mad and intrigued over that man, I say. Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, and try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.

Gilbert would be absolutely thrilled and intrigued if his darling already knew German—it would spare him the frustration of teaching her everything from scratch. He would be amused and think the way she spoke. Her pronunciation or tone was absolutely adorable.

But of course, being who he is, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from challenging her, testing the level of her knowledge and fluency. He’d be curious to know what her taste would be in German literature, music, or cinema. Would she favour Goethe’s romanticism, or perhaps the darker allure of Kafka’s surrealism? Would she hum along to Beethoven or lose herself in the melancholic strains of Schubert?

He would likely discover these preferences by observing (read: stalking) her, a brow arched up elegantly as he leaned back on the walls of the library. There, he would watch her conversing with others academically, seeming more like a statue of a scholar or a professor with his disguise of black-rimmed glasses and dark eyes, watching the way her lips curved around sweetly spoken words.

However, being a perfectionist, he could quickly identify any gaps in her knowledge—a slip of grammar, a wrong word here and there, or even a misstep in interpretation. Perhaps she’d confuse a complex construction for a simpler one or misuse an idiomatic expression.

Noting down the mistakes with a stern frown and a disappointed click of his tongue, Gilbert would sigh, unable to tolerate even the smallest errors. He’d push her relentlessly, unwilling to accept anything less than perfection. Papers, after papers, books after books, would pile up around her as he corrected her trembling attempts, his calligraphic writing starkly perfect beside her shaky efforts.

For someone who appeared so rugged, he was surprisingly methodical, almost reverent, when it came to written words, as evidenced by the piles of his ancient diaries filled with neat, precise entries.

It was definitely a cruel mixture of his ego and intense love toward her that drove him to hone her fluency to a level of perfection he alone could crave. Writing, reading, speaking, and even singing—he demanded mastery in every form of expression, shaping her abilities into something he could both admire and control.

But he wouldn’t stop at just German. This rigorous approach extended to other languages in which he excelled, such as French, Italian, and even Russian (though his dislike for a certain Russian man might make things a bit more complicated).

Each session would become a gruelling trial that demanded discipline, focus, and sheer willpower. He’d test her French with its elegant nuances, pushing her to appreciate the subtleties of verb conjugations and melodic flow. Italian, with its passionate rhythm, would become another challenge, the sharp sounds of “c” and “g” perfectly flowing from her lips, just as he demanded. And then, of course, there was Russian—harsh, guttural, and complex—he would revel in hearing her stumble over its sharp consonants, unable to help himself as he smirked with a mix of ego and possessiveness.

Whether it was the elegance of French, the flow of Italian, or the intensity of Russian, Gilbert would make sure she mastered every word, every subtle difference in accent, every cultural nuance, until she spoke each language with an expertise that reflected his possessive influence.

Gilbert would also push her to master ancient languages like Latin and Greek. His admiration for the roots of Western civilization would bleed into his obsessive teaching, as he demanded perfect fluency in these classical tongues.

He’d make her translate passages from Cicero or Horace, test her knowledge of Homer’s epics, and measure her understanding of Plato’s philosophy. Every misstep in conjugation or syntax would be met with sharp reprimands. Yet, at the same time, he would find immense satisfaction in hearing her articulate the beauty of ancient prose, especially when she finally grasped the elegance of Latin’s rhythm or the precision of Greek’s structure.

It would be a sight to watch the man who seemed so restless—always planning, calculating, and never stopping—suddenly appear like a scholar carved from marble. His focus was unwavering, his attention to detail sharp as a blade, whether it was through his quiet admiration or relentless demands, Gilbert made it clear that he wouldn’t stop until she was flawless—not just in language but as a reflection of his obsession with her.

The words on the paper danced as your eyes blurred, hesitant gasps escaping your quivering lips. Each tap of the thick ruler against the desk matched the frantic rhythm of your racing heartbeat. A deep sigh reached your ears, making you tense as a tear dropped, blotting the writing beneath it.

“Wrong. Do it again,” he said, his voice steady but firm, just above a whisper. You could feel the heat of his breath against your ear as he leaned in closer, his words curling into your senses like a soft yet dangerous caress. His forearms, toned and defined, flexed with each controlled motion as he tapped the ruler once more against the wood.

The veins on his arms stood out, a clear testament to the power that lay beneath his skin. His shirt, rolled up to his elbows, emphasized the muscular tone of his arms, the fabric taut as he moved with practiced precision.

“Your knuckles must be throbbing, don’t you think so?” His voice was low, almost velvety, though the slight edge in it made your skin prickle with a sense of haunting despair.

Of course, German would always be Gilbert's top priority. Whether it was the ancient words from his old Teutonic Knight days, the forgotten Prussian of his youth, or the more modern German that had evolved, he would be relentless in teaching you.

He would smirk, watching your hesitant expression, those furrowed brows and strands of hair sticking to your flushed face as you tried to keep up with his rapid-fire lessons. Every time you stumbled, he’d feel a rush of satisfaction, knowing he was pushing you—testing your limits.

And just as you began to feel like you might grasp it, he would pull you further, introducing an even more archaic form of the language. You'd be faced with Prussian words, forgotten phrases from the past, or the formal German of his time as a powerful state, and he'd watch as you struggled to keep up.

But Gilbert never took pity. To him, this wasn’t just about learning words—it was about learning what they meant, what they represented, about becoming part of a deeper history that only he understood intimately.

Naturally, he expected you to speak German at all times when addressing him. After all, he was Prussia—the proud embodiment of his nation's strength and culture, and to him, the language was not merely a means of communication, but a symbol of power, authority, and legacy. He found the way you spoke it utterly captivating—the way your lips shaped the words, how your expression would soften or harden depending on the tone.

Every mistake, every mispronunciation, only seemed to drive him further. He would often reply to you in German despite your slipping into another language— he would become cold, refusing to acknowledge you fully. His childish spite would rise, and he'd deliberately turn his back, offering you nothing but a sharp glance.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snapped, frustration mounting as you tugged at your hair, your words coming out in a burst. The tension in your chest was unbearable, and yet, Gilbert didn’t even flinch. He leaned back in his plush leather chair, the soft creak of the leather under his weight barely audible. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, curling into a satisfied smirk. His eyes, gleaming with amusement, never left you as he observed your growing frustration, watching you unravel with quiet delight. He loved seeing you like this—on the edge, teetering between control and chaos, and utterly at his mercy.

He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you. It was as if your words were meaningless to him. He had no intention of addressing your frustration, no intention of actually listening to what you were saying. He was too busy savoring the sight of you. The sharp tone in his voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, effortless—teasing, almost mocking, a rhythm he knew all too well. Of an ancient German dialect that almost made his words hard to understand.

"Careful with the bread," he murmured, his voice low and cutting through the silence like a blade. "Don’t make it too tough."

You froze for a moment, the absurdity of his words washing over you. He wasn’t listening. Not to you. Not to the frustration in your voice, not to the growing anger burning in your chest. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on you with that predatory calm, like a cat watching its prey squirm. And all the while, you could feel the weight of his attention, suffocating and demanding, making your blood boil even hotter.

Your hands, already trembling from the intensity of the situation, clenched into fists. You turned away quickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Your mind raced, and you felt the overwhelming need to take out your frustration on something—anything. The dough in front of you.

You slammed your hands into it, pressing harder than necessary, your fingers digging into the soft dough with surprising force. It was as though you could feel his presence behind you, even though he said nothing more, watching you knead the dough with a strange, mocking stillness in the air. You wished it was his neck beneath your hands instead, the pressure of your palms imagining the crushing sensation of him being the one to break under the weight. The thought alone made you grit your teeth.

Gilbert’s smirk never faltered, his eyes still on you, studying every move you made. He had already won, and you both knew it. You were powerless against his presence, against his control. His lessons weren’t games. They were training. And you were exactly where he wanted you.

Though he often found amusement in the banter between you, even encouraging it at times, Gilbert wouldn’t take kindly to any attempts to push things beyond their limits. Swear words or throwing personalized insults his way would undoubtedly irritate him. He thrived on the playful back-and-forth, enjoying the challenge of testing boundaries, seeing just how far he could push you before you snapped.

But as much as he revelled in this dynamic, there were unspoken rules that, if broken, would have severe consequences. Gilbert was not one to tolerate disrespect, not even in jest. His pride, especially when it came to how others viewed his authority, was something you learned to tread lightly around.

He had a way of making you feel small when you crossed that invisible line. It wasn’t outright aggression, no—it was more subtle, calculated. His silence, his smirk, the way he’d cock his head and stare at you with those piercing eyes—each glance felt like a silent reprimand. His lessons weren’t games. This was training. And training wasn’t just about learning skills or techniques—it was about understanding power dynamics, submission, and control. For Gilbert, discipline was an art. You had to earn his approval, prove you were worthy of the lessons he would give. Disrupting that delicate balance, however, meant harsh consequences.

The playful back-and-forth, while it could go on for hours, was never just for fun. He was sharpening you, moulding you into something he could admire, something that would never question his authority again. When you got too comfortable, too confident, Gilbert would make sure to remind you that this was his world and you were merely a participant in it. A slip of the tongue, a crass word, a sharp insult—that was all it took for him to remind you who was truly in charge.

And when you crossed that line? He’d make sure you knew it wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Gilbert would drop his usual teasing tone and replace it with something colder, something darker. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The shift in his demeanor alone was enough to make the air feel thick with tension. You’d find yourself walking the thin line between fear and desire, unsure of where one ended and the other began, but knowing that if you made the wrong move, there would be consequences.

The toothbrush and the mouthful of toothpaste threatened to choke you, your mouth wide open as a strong grip held your head in place by the hair. Gilbert probed the depths of your mouth with firm, deliberate strokes, bringing you to the brink of nausea. Foamy spit dripped from your lips, guttural moans of pain echoing through the washroom as tears framed your face. Your attempts to reason with Gilbert fell on deaf ears. All it took was one bad day for him (you couldn’t really tell with the man), and your profanity-laced outburst had earned you this punishment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slightly relaxed his grip on your hair, allowing you to violently spit out the bitter toothpaste that had been building up in your mouth. You instinctively reached for the tap, desperate to rinse the foul taste away, but were met with a firm hand that stopped you short. “No water for that filthy mouth of yours,” Gilbert sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “Next time, I won’t hesitate to feed you a bar of soap and using the toilet brush.” You almost threw up.

While he didn’t outright disdain other languages, Gilbert was quick to show his disapproval if you focused on them too much. A subtle sneer or dismissive remark would betray his jealousy. In his eyes, your enthusiasm or preference for another tongue was a challenge to his authority, a dilution of the bond he sought to forge.

He wanted German to be your priority because it was his, and he needed to hear it from your lips as proof of your connection. It wasn’t just about teaching—it was about domination, ensuring that his influence extended into every word you spoke and every thought you had. And, of course, his pride demanded it. After all, why would you need anything else when you had him?

Nonetheless, he adored your voice, no matter what language you spoke. Whether stumbling over unfamiliar words or weaving through proses, there was a softness in the way you sounded that captivated him. It wasn’t something he’d admit easily, but your voice was his favourite melody, one he could listen to for hours without growing tired.

Of course, German is sacred to him—a reflection of his very being. It wasn’t just a language; it was his legacy, his culture, and the soul of the people he had once represented. The language of warriors and poets, of triumph and despair, it was a thread connecting him to his past. He expected you to embrace it—not out of mere interest, but as a testament to your devotion to him. And he always cherished it hearing from you.

You sat beside Gilbert, stiff and uneasy, as he delved into a thick book titled 'Geodesics in Curved Spacetime'. The topic was so far beyond your comprehension that you couldn’t help but think, What the fuck even is this?

It was one of those days when he insisted you sit close, your hands folded on his thigh, while one of his palms gripped it firmly, the other flipping through the velvet pages of the Russian text. His hold on you was both grounding and possessive, the weight of it reminding you that there was no escape from his whims.

The subject seemed to irritate him more than intrigue him; his brows furrowed, and the occasional sharp exhale signaled his growing frustration. He’d call you over at times like this, either to steady his nerves or to force you into reading it aloud, despite your stumbling attempts.

Sometimes, he would pause to explain a concept in German, his voice steady and commanding, expecting you to follow his train of thought no matter how lost you felt. On other occasions, his enthusiasm would bubble over, and he would yip and yap, his words spilling in rapid, fervent analysis that left your head spinning. You could only nod along, hoping he didn’t notice your bewilderment.

Most often, though, his focus shifted to something more intimate. He would pass you a well-loved novel—its pages slightly worn, its binding soft to the touch—and order you to read aloud. His fingers would trail lazily along your arm as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, the tension leaving his features with every word that left your lips. In those moments, you felt like an extension of him, your voice the tool that brought his favorite stories to life. His grip on you would loosen, his breaths growing deeper and steadier.

Those were his calmest days, and your beautiful voice, the rhythm to his immortal heartbeat, seemed to be the only thing capable of soothing his restless spirit.

Refusal—or any form of misbehavior—when he asks you to speak his language would never be tolerated. Utter refusal would be met with the coldest of glares, a silent warning that would send a shiver down your spine. Testing him with silent treatment or petty acts of defiance would only irritate him more.

His expectations are simple but non-negotiable: learn the proper German etiquette. Speak clearly, directly, and without hesitation. Your words must be precise—no unnecessary embellishments or mindless chatter. He values sincerity, respect, and most of all, discipline.

When spoken to, you are expected to answer promptly, politely, and with the right tone. You must use Bitte (please) and Danke (thank you) when appropriate— if you don’t, he’ll remind you, and the lesson will be harder than you anticipate. There is no room for laziness in his world, especially when it comes to how you communicate.

Gilbert tapped his fingers on his forearms as he stared at you from across the table, his piercing gaze unwavering. You sat with an unsightly scowl, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed on the food in front of you. The tension in the air was thick—your earlier attempt to escape had been swiftly thwarted by his firm grip on your arm.

"And what do we say?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with impatience.

You shot him a defiant glare, the sting of your pride burning brighter than your hunger. Your teeth gound together as you glared at the plate of Sauerbraten, the tender beef marinated in rich spices paired with the tang of red cabbage and potato dumplings. The smell alone made your stomach growl, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

"D..." You grit your teeth, barely able to utter the word. His unblinking stare burned into you as if daring you to try him. "Danke."

"Ah ah," Gilbert bent forward, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Full sentence."

You clenched your fists, the taste of defeat sour in your mouth. There was no escaping him now. "Danke... für das Essen."

"Good girl." Gilbert’s voice was soft, but the approval in it was unmistakable. He straightened in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Jetzt können wir essen!"

Of course, being the rather egoistical individual he is, Gilbert would revel in hearing you address him with titles in German. Whether it was Herr or Mein König, the words rolled off your tongue like honey, fueling his insatiable desire for your complete submission. He would demand such titles not merely out of tradition but as a way to solidify his dominance over you-reminding you that he was the one in control, always.

And if you hesitated or refused, you'd soon find yourself either kneeling at his feet or bent over his knees, forced to beg in the very language he adored.

The sight of you, voice trembling and face flushed, was intoxicating to him. He couldn't help but feel a massive thrill corroding his bones as your tone wavered with such an adorable desperation, the words escaping your pretty lips like a melody crafted just for him. Gilbert always loved the way you sounded, gasps, grunts or so, your voice like a finely tuned instrument only he could master.

You were his little songbird, and sometimes he liked to take that metaphor literally. He wouldn't mind having you sing as he played his flute, guiding you with gentle nods or sharp corrections if you didn't get it quite right. On calmer evenings, he'd rest his head on your lap, your soft hands threading through his silver hair as you hummed or sang him a lullaby. Those moments of quiet surrender were his personal heaven.

Every word you spoke in German was a delicacy he devoured straight from your lips. He also expected your words to reflect affection and politeness. Loving phrases, respectful tones, and perhaps even a few nicknames of your own design.

Nothing overly cheesy, of course, but Gilbert wouldn't hide his cheeky grin if you hyly called him something intimate. A soft Liebling (darling) murmured in the warmth of your shared bed would earn you a teasing remark right before he captured your lips in a sealing kiss.

In the bedroom, his expectations only deepened. He wanted to hear you whisper his name like a promise, gasping out mein Schatz as he thoroughly claimed you. Every word, every sound you made was proof of his hold over you, a mark of the loyalty he craved so desperately.

And in those moments, he'd remind you just how much he loved your voice - the voices that only he could truly bring out of you, the ones he wants to hear from you, the one thing that could ever bring peace to the storm within him.

Your dress spread around you like the petals of a flower, delicate yet trapping, as gilbert’s hands—rough and unyielding—skimmed over the bare skin of your legs. you shivered beneath his touch, every nerve on fire as you tried to suppress the sob rising in your throat.

“Was ist los, Maus?” (what's the matter, mouse?), his voice coiled around you like smoke, soft yet suffocating. his body leaned in, the weight of his presence making it impossible to move, let alone think. “Hast du etwa vergessen, wie man schön bittet?” (have you perhaps forgotten to ask nicely?).

your mind swirled, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. had he done something? the strange heaviness in your limbs, the faint haze clouding your senses—was this another one of his games?

“B-bitte,” you rasped, voice trembling as you fought to form the word, “bitte, G-Gilbert, ich—”

his grip on your hips tightened abruptly, the sharp press of his fingers stealing the rest of your sentence. his crimson eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a twisted mix of hunger and amusement.

“Das ist besser,” (That is better) he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Nicht perfekt, aber es wird reichen.” (Not perfect, but it will do)

tears pricked at your eyes, your chest heaving as you forced out another plea, desperate to appease him. “gilbert… bitte… verzeih mir,” you choked out, your voice breaking as his thumb brushed against the curve of your waist, deceptively gentle.

“ah, Liebling,” he said, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “Das ist mein gutes Mädchen.”

he pulled you closer then, his control as unrelenting as the heat radiating from him, leaving no room for escape. you were his—mind, body, and voice—and he made sure you understood it.

With every searing touch and word.