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supernatural-bias · 2 years ago

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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

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karlachismylife · 2 months ago

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I am a little scared to write characters with different backgrounds, like Russian characters in the CoD franchise, because I'm afraid a Russian person will see it and be like, "What the fuck is this" and laugh at it maybe 😭 So I have to ask, do you ever find yourself judging fics based on how they portray the characters and the language? Like "this doesn't fit well" or "that's not how it works" type of stuff.. Are there any deal breakers, something you despise in fics, or maybe even advice for writing Russian characters... Thank you in advance, have a great day! 🩵

Hey comrade! This is a good question! And I can totally relate; not just to writing non-Russian characters, but even writing Russians from CoD is intimidating, because they are much older than me and witnessed a lot of historical and cultural changes in the country (even a whole another country if we think that at least Nikolai was born in USSR) that I haven't, and trust me, times haven't stopped being crazy here for the last 30 years or even more, so for me not having witnessed the 90s or being a baby in 2000s is a reason to be scared shitless writing for them, cuz fuck if I know how a person that lived through those times thinks.

All that to say, I think it's completely normal to feel awkward writing characters with backgrounds you're not familiar with, and also it's not a big deal if you get stuff wrong sometimes. I mean, isn't there like a whole bunch of fics about task force 141 and the "tapping out" ceremony that seems to exist in USA army only? People still enjoy them and no one was hurt by it. It's fiction and art, and first and foremost we want you to enjoy creating it; moreover, you are doing it and sharing it for free, so every decent person will always be grateful and supportive, and if anyone is coming at you aggressively for getting something wrong, you can tell them идите нахуй and block them. Mocking an artist that put effort and love into a piece of art is one of the worst things one can do.

(sorry this turned out longer than I expected so I'm hiding it under the cut). CW!politics and heavy themes, somewhat of a rant. I tried to summarize in the end and give a few tips so if you want to skip the rant, go down.

So me and my Paris (@nrdmssgs) came togther to make a list of stuff that might catch our eye or turn us off from reading a fic. Keep in mind that these are just opinions of two people! And I know for a fact that some Russians will not agree with me on some of these. So again, my main tip is not to overstress; we are genuinely glad when Russian characters get recognition despite all the negativity often surrounding them.

First, I'll just say, there are a lot of things that irk us in the games themselves. This goes not just for weird Russian accents or sometimes broken Russian altogether; I personally am very displeased with how freely (and wrongly, lol) they use the term "gulag" (ГУЛАГ) there. First of all, it is not a synonym to prison/camp, it's the name of the government agency that was in charge of running labor camps in USSR, so calling the camp itself this word is simply incorrect; second, it's a big tragic page in history, so throwing it around willy-nilly as some oooh scary prison place where characters in a pew pew game are put and can escape just feels insensitive to me. Generations of people whose countless families were hurt by this system are very much alive right now and it is a raw wound unfortunately, and the government is very much refusing to acknowledge this tragedy in its fullness. So there's that. There's also way too good-looking Makarov that spent who knows how much time in solitary confinement (we have people actively dying in solitary right now in much shorter time), there's Milena with a single bank account (show me one Russian oligarch that doesn't have their money shoved in 100 different places, uh-huh), there's Yegor Novak who is Ukrainan, but speaks Russian (yes, considering that he was born in USSR, he most likely speaks both languages, but erasing his identity is still problematic). So you see, there's a lot of shit to combat in canon already, and it's worth spending time looking into some of these things. Now to the fics!

I will say, I do notice of course when a Russian character is written by a non-Russian person that doesn't know much about Russian language/culture/mentality/history/whatever. And while I understand that it's hard and won't throw a fic away for not getting every little thing right, there is stuff that catches my attention.

The most obvious would be the language, of course. Russian is grammatically much more complicated than English and number one giveaway are mistakes in grammatical cases/genders. Even my good comrade here who knows Russian very well and surprises me with impeccable use of complicated constructions that show they understand some nuanced connotations/usage of words, even they often make mistakes with genders of words. And I can't blame them, for a native English speaker it is a new concept! But this, and also just the sentence structures, incorrect word choice (again, connotations are key) are always jarring in text. Usually I just skim over it and forget in the next sentence, sometimes it does make me laugh, but like. I'm not gonna make fun of anyone for making a mistake in a language, I appreciate when people make effort. But I do encourage everyone to send their Russian text to someone who can proofread it (me, for example, DMs and askbox always open). And if you really want to do it on your own, maybe don't just rely on google translate and such and try to do it with a dictionary and some base-level grammar lessons so you can make sure the endings of the words are alright, at least. Then we can talk about the difference between "blyat'", "blyad'", "blya", "blyadina" and "blyadstvo" :D

Another thing I do always have a quick upset sigh about is when people call borsht a Russian soup. No it's not, it's Ukranian. We do eat it a lot, yes, and it's not inherently bad or wrong to write a Russian character eating/cooking it, but it is nice when people do not add to the appropriation of Ukranian culture that's been going on since for-fucking-ever. Same goes for unfortunately many other cultures that Russian imperialism tried swallowing, so it's always better to google it and check. And just food in general, maybe spend a little time looking up what's the difference between pel'meny and varyeniky or what's okroshka. It's always an amazing experience when someone gets such details right! And an even better experience when you don't erase other Slavic or even Eastern European identities, brushing everyone under "Russian" rug. We are definitely nor a homogenous crowd! Moreover, not everyone born in Russia (and especially USSR) will be Russian. Looking into different ethnicities and nationalities that live here is just interesting if nothing else, but also very very important after centuries of opression.

I also have some non-serious beef with this magical "Siberia" western comrades love writing about, I touched on the topic here. An amazing impression is when people use less broad geographical names or look at less overused places. Did you know that Natalia "Raptor" Orlova is from Kamchatka? It's such a rich region with a lot to tell about!

What I do definitely dislike and it can turn me off from finishing the read at all, is insensitive writing of the characters themselves in terms of their background. It's complicated since I myself am not patriotic at all and I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it means "to be Russian", but it just. You can feel when a person thinks in stereotypes, you know? Like somewhere I saw something, I won't give a direct quote, but the main idea was that Russian/Slavic men all 100% have a breeding kink, and it was worded in a way that kinda felt like, hm, like a bit dehumanizing? Making them out to be these ooga booga barbaic cavemen? And yes, there is a lot to be said about Russian men, much of it very not good, and there is NOTHING wrong with writing a Russian character with a breeding kink, but it felt not nice to read that sentence, so just maybe after you write your piece do some introspection to make sure you weren't dipping into that kind of portrayal out of prejudice. If that's the effect you went for storytelling/your personal enjoyment cuz you like them ooga booga? I won't say a thing. Also the whole vodka/balalaika/ushanka/whatever bullshit, not entirely untrue, again, especially the vodka one, but if you write Nikto drinking kvas (which is non-alcoholic, okay, but still) or baltika beer instead of vodka, you'll make me happier, because it's like a signal "hey look I know a bit more about your culture that a James Bond movie intro showed me once". And in the next scene I'll forgive you even him riding a battle bear with vodka and balalaika in hand.

Coming back to the "barbarization" of Russian men in fics, it irks me a little when people lean too much into the whole Russian bandit/mafia stuff, and there are two characters that suffer from it, but each a little differently, the most. First is Nikolai, and while yes, he is a crime lord of sorts and he has that goddamn golden chain (which most Russian people or at least women find absolutely horrid and oh we do not come near men sporting those irl), I think people often write him... not intelligent enough? Too gruff and rough? He's an intellectual. Well-read, well-spoken, cultured. Level-headed. Whenever people write him too much like a 90s bandit, my heart breaks a little. But then again, I know Russian people that lean into the same set of stereotypes when writing him (but those same people have a lot of other uhhh xhenophobic tendencies that show when talking about other characters so I wouldn't rely on their views).

And then there's probably the biggest pet peeve of mine. Vladimir Makarov. Now, here is a big big disclaimer: YOU CAN WRITE WHATEVER YOU WANT IN YOUR FICS!!! We are already romantacizing military men that none of us (I hope) would approach irl; and if you want to write Makarov or Nikolai or whoever else in a certain way because that's what hits the spot for you, just do it. You want yandere Makarov or mummy issues Nikto or whatever else your heart desires? Go for it. I will be the first one defending your right to write it with a crowbar in hand, even if I myself would never read such a fic. So this here is entirely MY PERSONAL ISSUE. Deal? Deal.

I see it a lot here on tumblr (mostly in x reader fics) and it actually bothers me a lot, but when people write Makarov as this edgelord dark mafia boss. It just misses the point so much. He's an ultra-nationalist, a head of a PMC. They are not mafia, I would honestly argue that they're much worse. I get that they cast a very attractive man to play reboot Makarov and honestly the og Makarov too; I get that villains are the hot thing to be attracted to (sorry if I sound bitter, this is a separate problem I have with fandom and it doesn't matter rn), but Wagner (PMC that Konni is heavily based on) is a real life horror that is still existing even though there have been like structural changes. And they killed a lot of people and had enough power to threaten to overthrow the government so very recently. Rusich (another nationalist military group) is still active and doing horrible things and proudly reporting them online. Smaller far-right pigs are out in the streets doing horrible things. And a lot of it is (not so) subtly encouraged by the government. A lot of it is actively used by the government to gain more power, kill more people, instill more fear. It's a reality we live in, and to me seeing Makarov portrayed with none of that nationalism in sight and with all the allure of a dark romance novel mafia boss is... honestly, painful. Feels like a slap in the face, to be honest, and while I understand that this is the kind of nuance you can't just realize out of nowhere if it's not something you live around and that it's all fiction, it just is really, really hard to read for me. He is not just a complete crazy Joker-type freak, he's not a cool sexy mafia boss, he's a fucking nazi terrorist that can and will be paid by certain people in power to do their dirty work.

In the same route, but luckily I haven't seen it anywhere besides a certain group of Russian CoD fans (which is even more terrifying considering the political implications), but anyone who writes Barkov as a hero/in a positive light - fuck you. Just fuck you. He has interesting/attractive traits as a character, yes, I'm not saying you can't write about him, looking into him from different perspectives, simping for him if you want; but again, just spend some time reading up on recent history and politics that inspired the whole Urzikstan situation0 - and do it all with nuance. Or with a disclaimer that you don't support genocide at least, lol, cuz I'm telling you, I've seen people that made me scared.

However, once again, if you really want exactly that - ignore MY PERSONAL opinion and write it. I am just a gorilla on tumblr, my opinion is not the centre of the world. But what I do consider not a taste issue, but a deeper issue, is writing REAL PMCs and the likes of those in positive light. If anyone with a "Wagner OC" sees this post, just know, I would probably spit in your face irl. Making made-up Makarov go kiss kiss uwu or whatever irks me personally, but I can close the tab and let the author be; I'm sure many people have same opinion about Graves whom I write much more affectionately than some would prefer. But the real shit? That's a hard line.

A quick addition, back coming back to the "barbarization", just portraying Slavic characters being oh so very mesmerized by the !!!wonders of western civilization!!! is funny. There are definitely moments like this, but not as much as you think. Believe it or not, we actually don't live in bear caves.

This got way too long and dark, so let's finish on a lighter note. Russian characters celebrating some very non-Russian holidays (like Thanksgiving or catholic Christmas, even though the second one is not as bad) is funny, when it doesn't have much explanation (like them celebrating it with someone who actually does). "Suka blyat'" is funny, because it's often used where a simple "blyat'" would suffice.

Summarizing, here are general semi-short tips how to write Russian characters:

get your Russian proofread by someone who actually speaks it or at least don't fully rely on google translate. check your cases and genders!

especially if you use cusswords. it's an amazing characterization tool if you manage to use it right, so putting effort into it is always worth it

don't lean into stereotypes. they are partially true, but we kinda can tell when you do that intentionally and with nuance and when you don't know anything beyond them

be mindful about characters' identities and spend a little more time to make sure you are not writing someone else's stuff as "Russian". for the lack of better analogy, it's like mixing all Latin American identities together and writing them all as uhhh Mexican. we don't want to claim others' culture and others most definitely do not want to be erased again

be careful about the "barbarization" of your Slavic characters. sure, someone like Maxim "Minotaur" Bale won't strike you as the most intellectual individual (love you Max), but be intentional with it and don't just make every Slavic man go ooga booga but in Russian

didn't touch much on Russian/Slavic women, but be careful around the whole "money-hungry" stereotype

read up on political shit surrounding your characters. whether you like it or not, Russian people have been shaped by a lot of recent/current political happennings, so missing out even on general understanding of what your character witnessed/what their political views are can ruin a lot of characterization

Russia is fucking huge and does not consist just of Moscow and abstract "Siberia". the amount of cultures, confessions, nature stuff etc in the country is insane. not all Russians are orthodox Christians, but also - many of them are. and also - church was under fire in USSR so this is a separate layer of cultural shit you might want to consider

read Russian literature if you really want to write Russian characters a lot, it'll help you catch a feel of some very specific things like our yearning. it's a very specific thing that if you get right will give me a reading orgasm

same goes for Russian songs. also just don't underestimate the role of music in Russian life!

try to look up Russian "pop culture" (it feels kinda wrong to call it that, but I dunno how else to call it). if you can make your Russian character make an appropriate reference to a movie or say a Russian saying we actually use, it'll be amazing. but it's like level impossible i think so don't give yourself a headache over this, this is just that extra spice that will have me scrolling through your profle suspecting you're actually secretly Russian yourself

watch Soviet/Russian movies to get a better understanding of the vibe, not just what Hollywood portrays!

looking into architecture can be an interesting way to approach a character. we went through many different unique architectual styles, so if you're describing a character's home, it'll be a very cool move to specify what kind of apartment building they live in, for example

but most importantly remember: it's art you do for yourself first and foremost. don't take any of it as a strict guide you'll be punished for straying away from! we REALLY appreciate you writing for these characters, and you showed you put more thought into it than some of Russian comrades I know <3

and if you have specific questions, never be afraid to ask me or anyone else you know can help.

I hope I didn't scare you even more with this all, lol, I genuinely do appreciate you coming to me for advice, it means a lot when people show interest and effort. If you feel comfortable enough, send me/tag me in your fics, I'll be glad to read them and share with comrades that will enjoy them! From Russia with love ❤️❤️❤️🦍

#juju's replies #gorilla in the snow #cod #call of duty #nikolai cod #nikto cod #makarov cod #russian #writing tips #fuck these tags man i'm too tired to be arsed lol

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insidekatmind · 5 months ago

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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.

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factsinallcaps · 10 months ago

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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

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wasyago · 2 years ago

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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

#yagotalk #how to yago

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listofwhyyouloveher · 9 months ago

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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

#shroomsroom #the outsiders x reader #clara'sroom #dallas winston x reader #steve randle x reader #dally winston x reader #johnny cade x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #darrel curtis x reader #darry curtis x reader #ponyboy x reader #ponyboy curtis x reader #pony curtis x reader #two bit matthews x reader #two bit x reader #two bit mathews x reader #sodapop and reader #sodapop x reader #soda curtis x reader

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crimson-kisses · 5 months ago

Text

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.

108 notes · View notes

romanoffsdarling · 2 years ago

Text

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.

#wanda maximoff x reader #avengers imagine #mcu imagine #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #time to say (goodbye)

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le-chevalier-au-lion · 2 months ago

Note

19 and 23 for rosquez :D

rosquez: 19 (spanking) + 23 (size difference)

There’s an unblinking intensity to Marc’s gaze that tells Valentino he should be in appeasement mode right now or start getting ready for trench warfare.

“You’ve got such a cute dick,” he drawls, his Italian the most Marche it’s ever sounded.

Valentino bristles. Takes his hand off both of their cocks and manages to not shake at the loss of contact, considering he’s on top of Marc, rutting against him, and he would know. It only serves to make Marc laugh, his braying, honking laugh.

He shakes his head, and there’s something unkind in his smile—if he sees you bleeding, he bites harder still. “Don’t be like that. I just called it cute.”

“What the fuck,” Valentino says, flatly.

Marc leans up to nuzzle against the side of his face, straining off the bed to reach him. Mostly against his own will, Valentino lets him, Marc’s broad, petulant lips dropping down slyly to kiss the column of his throat.

He’s distracted, then, when Marc takes them both in his dry, leather-rough palm and starts tugging. A shiver rips through him, and there’s this high-pitched, leaden thing pouring out of his mouth.

“But it is a pity,” Marc mutters. Appeasement mode, Valentino tells himself, but his thoughts fizzle out, and he jerks against Marc’s cock, rubbing them together, the slide sand-papery and humiliating. “A pity you won’t get to use it.”

When Valentino tries to sway away, a scowl knocking its way out, Marc chases him. Puts his other hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. The room narrows down, annoyingly, to Marc—Marc like a noose on his nape, Marc stringing him along by his dick, Marc’s thighs keeping him unbalanced and spread out, Marc’s fucking obscene cock bumping against his stomach.

His lungs burn, ache. Valentino’s head spins like he’s hitting every bump on the asphalt after a highside.

“You shouldn’t worry, though, it’s still very nice to look at.”

Valentino hisses, digs his nails into Marc’s shoulders mean and deep. It’s his own accent, lilting mockingly at him. And his own—

His own words.

He remembers it, in jerky, out of focus flashes. Laguna Seca, the prickling, hot humiliation sitting at the bottom of his throat that he swallowed past to joke about the new model. The fucking restroom of a dingy bar in Montrey after, Marc pressed against a grimy wall, wide-eyed, dizzy like he’d been slapped when Valentino finally ripped his clothes off and got a look at his cock.

He’d pushed him down, he thinks. Made him give a blowjob and jerk himself off if he wanted to come.

“You aren’t afraid of cock anymore,” Marc huffs. There’s meanness in how he grabs Valentino’s hand and presses it against his waxed balls.

Valentino chokes on his own tongue. He can’t find the words to translate the cottony, churning thing in his stomach—doesn’t want to. It wasn’t like that with Uccio or Sete or Collin. They weren’t—

Younger than him. Bigger than him. Maybe better than him.

He thinks he was sort of incredibly stupid, over a decade ago.

“Christ,” Valentino spits out. "Are you done trying to pick up a fight?"

Wrong question. Marc’s eyes glisten, and his smile is a dull, serrated razor blade pressed right against his throat. Valentino is hard, leaking, twitching in those small, mortifying jolts for just a little bit more. “You should suck me off.”

He sounds serious; Marc has always been great at returning the insult. Valentino—embarrassingly, with a whine caught in his molars, through a haze of molten heat—goes down on his knees.

#rosquez #marc marquez #valentino rossi #motogp #motogp rpf #rpf #chev fics #chev fills a prompt #sorry i couldn't fill both writing this was DIFFICULT #for some reason both of them together weren't clicking #anyway fingers crossed you still like this #warnings all around for general toxicity and zero communication skills #marc is trying to gauge how they're going to be going forward in the worst way possible #and valentino needs to deal with how stupid he was

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lnqr · 20 days ago

Text

Heart In the Wrong Hands - Chapter 3

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A/N: Definitely didnt take me 2+ months to write a new chapter... NOPE! But its double the length of the last chapter.

anyway heres chapter 3 :) I originally wanted this to go really slow but I think its going to be a faster paced story purely based off the fact that im struggling to find the motivation to write all the world building and slow stuff. I WANNA GET INTO THE GOOD BITS.

Still dont have a schedule but will try to update more regularly.

Also I made an Ao3 account so if anyone prefers to read on that plat form, click here

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Start - Prologue

Previous Chapter - Chapter 2

Read more? - Master post

Warnings:

Time-period typical sexism

Mentions of past domestic abuse (from chapter 1)

Cannibalistic thoughts

Thoughts of past murder (From chapter 2)

Swearing

Please be careful with what you read. You are responsible for your own media consumption

Word count - 2643

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~ Y/n Pov ~

“Is this satisfactory Virgil?” You force a shaky smile onto your face. Hopefully he buys it, hopefully he thinks it's okay and you'll be let off the hook lightly. You had rinsed and scrubbed for at least 3 hours, your knees ached from the hardwood floor.

Virgil narrowed his eyes and carefully examined every single inch of the white suit coat.

“This is acceptable I suppose. But only because you have other jobs to do.” He carelessly tossed the coat aside and onto the floor. He would no doubt make you clean it AGAIN.

“The kitchen and living room need cleaning, the bed sheet needs to be changed, we need clean laundry and dinner needs to be cooked. Oh and groceries, we need more bread, milk, eggs- you know what I’ll just be merciful and write you a list,” he waved his hand dismissively before walking off to the kitchen.

Well at least he’s not leaving it up to your memory this time. Usually you would be given a verbal list of 10-20 items and he would always complain that you didn't get him this, or forgot that even though you were 90% sure he hadn’t asked for it in the first place.

When he finally came back he was holding a loooooooooong list. The paper dragged across the floor and your eyes followed it from his hand down to the ground.

You were in for a long shopping trip.

~ Alastor Pov ~

Alastor strolled down the streets of New Orleans seemingly unplagued by the night's prior events. On the exterior he was the definition of prim and perfect. Hair straightened to perfection, back straight and arms tucked behind his back with his chin held high.

Inside, however, was a different story in its entirety.

He couldn't shake the feelings from last night. They were foreign to him. Fear was not something he felt, it just wasn’t. He wasn't scared per say, more so concerned, protective.

His mind had played a trick on him, he had seen you. He knew he had seen you. But it wasn’t you, so why did he keep worrying? Why did you plague his mind?

Interesting…

Alastor sighs and is about to take a seat on a bench when he notices a woman.

Oh, isn't this a treat

~ Y/n Pov ~

The streets were rather empty at the early hour. You were strolling the streets, list in hand and counting the egg cartons in your bag. Two. They only had two and Virgil had asked for three. That wouldn’t do by his standards and you knew that well, but the best thing to do was gather all the other groceries in hopes to dampen the blow.

You pulled the list out from your pocket and mentally checked off the items you'd already gathered. All you had left was… some beef and veal from the butcher, and some potatoes, sweet corn and tomatoes. Not too much but, you'd been up since 6am and had stayed up till 2 am cleaning Virgil's jacket. Least to say you were exhausted.

“My, what a delightful surprise, Y/n wasn't it?” came a familiar, smooth transatlantic accented voice from behind.

Now where have I heard that voice before…?

The voice sounded rather empty, as if it usually had an filter or soemthing over it.. static? Radio! It was the voice from the radio, what was his name..? Albert? Al… Alastair? Alastor! That’s who’s voice it was.

Sure enough when you refocused and turned around you saw the man you had met the night prior waving at you with a charming smile.

“Well don't keep a man waiting for a response dear.” he replied in a tone far too chipper for this hour of the morning. How did he have so much energy?

“Ah, sorry, good morning Mr Alastor.” You smiled at him absentmindedly. He seemed to be in a far better mood than Virgil, then again that wasn't exactly difficult.

“And a lovely morning it is. How are you doing on this fine day?” He grinned, leaning forward slightly towards you with his hands clasped behind his back

“Oh, I’m fine, nothing special. Just the usual.” You responded and the subtle eye twitch you didn’t notice would’ve told you he knew otherwise. He had heard the abuse after all, and it didn’t escape him that you walked with a slight limp.

He leaned in further raising a brow and looking down at the list in your hands.

“quite the list there. Is this all for that insufferable fiancé of yours?” This time you did notice the twitch of his eye. It didn’t surprise you that he wasn’t fond of Virgil based on their interactions the night prior.

“Well, yes. It’s the least I could do for him after spilling the wine on his coat like that… I’m not even sure what knocked me. Doesn’t matter though it’s still my fault.” At your words Alastor’s seemingly ever present smile seemed to falter a little. You couldn’t figure out why.

~ Alastor Pov ~

Oh the poor girl. Had I known he’d react like that to her I wouldn’t have pushed her..

What?

No, surely that wasn’t right. Of course he would’ve. Why should he care for this girl? He wanted to annoy Virgil, get under his skin (metaphorically and literally) and if this girl was a way to do that…

“Say darling, may I accompany you on your endeavours? I’m sure it must be quite dull by yourself” he said and without even waiting for an answer he plucked the list out of your hands before you could even register his question.

“Seems you have quite the long list for the man. Say, have you got the meat yet? I need to head to the butcher as well for my own meals.” (Although he much preferred hunting his own) He chuckled as you blinked and opened your mouth to speak before clearly changing your mind.

“Wonderful! I’ll lead the way. Have you been to Creole Cuts? They have a fine selection of meat there-“

~ Y/N Pov ~

Finally coming out of your confusion you looked down to see the list Virgil had given you was no longer in your hands. When you looked back up you noticed Alastor was walking away with YOUR list in his hand as he eccentrically waved his hands around as he spoke about… butchers?

Clearing your mind enough you turned to chase after him, not running (because that wouldn’t be proper) but still walking decently fast.

“Sir? I believe you have something of mine. Could I… have my list back?” You managed to stammer out. Your hands shook slightly, still gripping the heavy shopping bags. You were speaking out to a man… surely he wouldn’t respond nicely but you had to, if you didn’t get the list back then you would surely mess up Virgil’s order and he would be even angrier.

“No need dear. I shall be accompanying you so I will hold onto the list. Besides, you have heavy bags already.” He spoke, not even facing you nor offering to help with the ‘heavy bags.’

“But-“

“No buts, I have made up my mind and will be joining you. Now as I was saying..” he continued to speak but you tunned him out. God this man could talk, but you supposed he needed to to work as a radio host.

With a sigh you followed him, simply listening as he talked about his favourite butcher. It wasn't your regular one but that was alright, any would do. What would not do however, is to be seen with him so openly in public. You just had to hope that since it was early morning you wouldn't be spotted. He hadn’t exactly left you with any other options.

Were all men this insufferable?

~~~~~~~

This man did not stop talking for even a second. You had long since lost track of what he was saying, too focused on his voice.

What?

His voice?

Why were you so…. Mesmerised focused on his voice?

“Ah, just in time for opening. Well get the freshest there is. Come along now,” Alastor's cheerful voice broke you from your spiralling thoughts. Probably best not to dwell on it.

You followed him into a brick building with a wooden sign above it, ‘Creole Cuts.’ Creole hmm? Well that would certainly explain the colour of his skin.

“Alastor! My friend, it has been far too long. Where have you been?” a short plump blonde woman called out to him. She was seated on a tall wooden stool behind the counter but hopped down and made her way around to give Alastor a hug which he reciprocated.

“Mimzy, darling! It really has been a good minute hasn't it? I've been around, busy with my radio and other hobbies.” his small wink didn't escape you but you didn't question it. “And what about you? Hanging around ol’ Rosie’s shop are ya?”

“Well after her speakeasy got discovered a few days back the lady needed a place to stay and some cover. Least I could do for an old friend. Sides, she's great company,” said another woman who came out from the backroom, carrying a few bags of meat in her hands. She was tall but not quite as tall as Alastor. She had a wide brimmed sun hat atop her head despite being indoors and hiding most of her short blonde hair.

“And who might this little lady be, Al?” asked the first one, who Alastor had earlier addressed as Mimzy

“Ah yes! My apologies. This here is Y/n” Alastor spoke as he walked around to your side and placed his hand on the small of your back making your body tense at the strangely intimate touch from a man who is mostly a stranger. “She's the fiance of my boss. Met her last night at some fancy party at the Callahan manor. The poor doll was sent on a shopping trip with a list the same length as this building. So, I kindly donated my time to accompany her on her errands.” he spoke as if this was some charity work.

“Oh dear. Well what's on the list I can provide?” spoke the tall blonde woman who seemed to be the owner. And Alastor had said this was… Rosie’s shop? So… Rosie, her name must be Rosie.

“Oh! Yes, can I grab 2 beef sirloins? And a veal cutlet please.” you asked and started reaching for your wallet. If Alastor wanted to chat with these people then he could go right ahead. You however, did not have time for that today, not with the workload Virgil had provided you.

Rosie seemed to be good at reading you and could tell you were in a rush so she simply hummed a nod and grabbed a bag to start packaging your meat.

“When you’re done with Y/n’s could you grab me my usual from the back?” Alastor asked as he stepped up beside you.

“Ah, couldn't you get your own last night?” Rosie asked with a knowing smirk. Did this girl have a death wish? Speaking back to a man like that? Had you even suggested Virgil was incapable of doing whatever she was referring to, you wouldn't be able to sit up for weeks. Now that you thought of it, how come a woman was working as a butcher?

Before you could ask Alastor spoke up. “Such a shame Franklin didn't make it back from the war. Are you still managing alright?”

“Nothing I can’t handle Al. Besides now I own the shop myself and you know how much I enjoy this line of work.” Rosie smiled back.

Interesting. She must've had a husband who died in the war. Must have co-owned this shop and now with him dead she owned it herself. A strange woman, but respectable. Not many women worked, they just weren't meant to. Much like yourself many were taught to be house wives, the lady of the house, clean, cook, serve. The fact this woman, Rosie, had broken free from that normal was impressive.

After handing you your requested meats, you placed them in your bag and Rosie made her way to the back to grab whatever Alastor’s ‘usual’ was. If it was out the back and not on display it must be something unique. Then again, Alastor himself was unique from what you knew so far.

Your gaze landed on the other girl, Mimzy. She was watching you like a hawk, eyes boring into the side of your head. When your gaze met hers you immediately looked away from the intense quizzical stare.

A few minutes passed and Rosie returned with the meat for Alastor already packaged. You fiddled in your purse for the money Virgil had given you and handed her the desired amount. You couldn’t help but notice Alastor was paying significantly more for his despite the smaller quantity.

Must just be imported or already prepared.

That's what you put it down to and gave it no further thought.

After the three said their goodbyes, Alastor ushered you out with his hand on your lower back. He pulled your list from his pocket and read through it.

“What else haven't you got off this list yet? He asked

“Just the produce. I was going to head to the market on Bourbon street. Virgil says he doesn't trust any others” you replied, more focused on his hand on your back rather than his words.

“Hmm, suppose we’ll head over there then.” he said as he removed his hand from your back. Bourbon street would be busy no matter the time of day and he knew just as well as you what it would look like if he left his hand on your back as you walked. No, rumors would do neither of you any good so he kept his hands to himself.

~~~~~~~

Buying the produce went surprisingly smoothly. You were both spotted but not by anyone you knew personally. You wouldn't be surprised if the word got around but you hoped that since there was no touching involved it wouldn't form into gossip and reach Virgil.

You thanked Alastor for his unwanted company and started to head away but he grabbed you by the shoulder and spun you to face him. Your throat went dry as you looked up at him.

“Alastor..?”

“Surely you don't intend to walk home alone? My car is not very far from here, please, allow me to drive you.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t thank you though”

“Nonsense! I insist.”

You wanted to argue it but ultimately decided arguing with a man in public was far from a good idea. A worse idea than an engaged woman being driven alone by an unclaimed man.

So you agreed and Alastor drove you back to your house. The drive was spent in a comfortable silence despite the sin you believed you were committing.

When you arrived Alastor was quick to turn off the car, get out and walk around to your side to open the door before you even had a chance. He extended his hand for you to take with a smile. Reluctantly you took his hand and he helped you out of the car. You thanked him again before quickly retreating into what should have been the safety of your own home.

~Virgil Pov~

Virgil drove down the street only to see a disgusting sight. His grip on the steering wheel tightened. That black bastard was touching his fiance. His Fiance.

He watched as Alastor’s hand lingered on yours as he helped you out of his car. Why you had been in his car? Virgil didn't know. What he did know was that you had clearly met with this untrustworthy man without his knowledge.

This would not do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: For those who ask, I know Rosie wasn't alive when Alastor was, I just wanted to use a known character. I personally dont like using or making OCs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #alastor #alastor fanfiction #alastor x reader #human alastor #fanfic #fanfiction #my writes

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songbirdseung · 6 months ago

Text

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."

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #engene #enha #enhypen x reader #jake #sim jake #sim jaeyun #jaeyun #jaeyun x reader #enhypen jaeyun #jaeyun fluff #jaeyun imagines #jake sim #enhypen jake

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