#i know what a french accent sounds like and i know what an italian accent sounds like. he sounds fucking french

[moinsbienquekaworu]

I am also incurious about the world. I am. I do it too. I know. I do it. But I don't go on tiktok to confidently say that english is the current lingua franca because it's one of the easiest languages to learn!!!!

[dihalect]

met a cute-ish french dude at a mutual aid thing last week. brushed up on my french all week, so i might be able to impress him a bit when i saw him again today. and he's fucking italian

[katiascraft]

Hi!! I've been obsess with your works

Now, hear me out because your poll stroke an idea in me 👀👀

How about: Argentine!Reader x Oscar Piastri, and starts teaching him spanish so he can understand Franco's Interviews

Thank you!!

Ooooh yes yes yes!!! Here it is and I hope you like it 💌 thank you for your requests and support! I really appreciate it mwak mwak 😙 (sorry it’s a bit late but better late than never!)

——————————————————————————————

“Indirectas Directas” | OP81

Part 1 -> “Made in Argentina: The Series” (Oscar’s Version)

Parings: Oscar Piastri x Argentine!Reader.

Summary: you and Oscar have known each other since your best friend Franco Colapinto started competing in F3. You always had a crush on the Australian pilot. You have been friends for a while now but the friendship got closer since Franco got in F1 and you can see each other every race weekend. The butterflies starts for both of you. Do you really just wanna be friends? You teaching him “piropos” from your country may have subliminal messages.

Now playing: “IMÁN (Two of Us)” by Maria Becerra.

Word count: +1.2k.

Warnings: a few curse words. Pure fluff. Not a native English speaker so there could be (so many) errors. Not proofread.

Author’s note: alrightyyyyy I hope this is good! And I really recommend Maria! I love herrrr my queen!! I did my best with the piropos jajaja Don’t forget to like or reblog! And follow me so we can be friends :3 (and drink mate together!)

MASTERLIST

“Hola, todo bien?” Oscar said carefully and weirdly remembering what you taught him a few seconds ago. You nodded proud of his Spanish.

“Todo bien, ¿qué contas?” You said in your Argentine accent making him open his eyes wildly panicking. He loved your voice in Spanish; it was slightly higher pitched than in English. In English you have a deeper voice for some reason. Of course he asked about it and you explained it may be because of the pronunciation of the words. It's really so different from one language to the other.

“What the hell did you ask?” He said giggling a little, making you laugh too.

“I asked you what’s up” you explained and wrote down that phrase in the little notebook he brought with a pen. All mc claren branded.

The friendship between you two has become closer with each race. You were good friends before but not that close. It was something either of you couldn’t explain. Like your bodies were driven directly to one another unconsciously. You didn’t want to think too much about it. You didn’t want to overthink it.

His face was like ‘oh yeah right it makes sense’. He smiled at your handwriting so rounded and legible. Unlike his. His was a little messy.

“Yo estoy carrera hoy” he tried to answer it without asking how to. You laughed and he blushed. “This is embarrassing, it's really hard to connect the words” he said shyly and you found it so cute.

“It was close though don’t feel bad. Spanish it’s super complicated for non-Latin language speakers. We have like 20 tenses and shit. It’s a mess” you explained to cheer him up. He loved the fact you knew so much about languages because you also knew how to talk Portuguese and Italian pretty perfectly in his opinion. He has heard you even trying to speak French with Pierre last weekend. He was impressed.

“Yeah I get it now” he said grinning. “Must be nice to flirt in Spanish like I don’t know like you automatically sound sexier and more interesting” he said, making you laugh. “No really like I heard Carlos talking to an interviewer the other day and I think I am in love actually” he said, making you laugh even more. He loved making you laugh. Your laugh was like a drug to him. You looked way too cute doing so.

“Well I don’t know actually but in Argentina we have some top level flirting like really great phrases. Let me teach you some. Wait I’ll look for some on google so I can help myself remember” you said excited about it because you knew it was gonna be bizarre and funny at best.

“Phrases? Like roses are red and that kind of stuff?” He asked curiously and you nodded looking at your phone.

He couldn’t help but get distracted by the way you looked. Like every other race weekend you were wearing one of the million Argentina tees you have in your wardrobe. Your skin was glowing because of the sunscreen making your freckles stand out even more. You dyed your hair blond a few weeks ago and it looked incredible on you. He wouldn’t have expected that change but it looked so good on you. Anyway, he was convinced that anything you do to your hair will always look good always. Because you were beautiful. And he thought that was dangerous. You’re supposed to be friends right? And he knows Franco will kill him if he finds out he likes you. But he couldn’t help it. You were so interesting to him. You went everywhere with your mate and sang a lot of football songs he didn’t understand but you looked so happy singing them with Franco. Like he was captivated by your foreign beauty. So different from Australia or Europe or even the United States. You were loud and always laughing. Your bright smile always makes everyone so happy. All of the boys loved you. You were the life of every party. And you also knew so much about formula 1 it was impressive. Then you told him you were studying for an engineering degree and everything made sense. You loved the sport. And you were the proud friend. He loved that you were so passionate about everything. Even now that you have this teacher and student dynamic, you take it so seriously. He loved it. And he liked it even more because he knew that you were a teacher back in your country. And he could see how much you love to teach and you were actually really good at it.

“Alright I found the first one!” You said already laughing. “Okay ready?” He nodded, smiling, waiting for your magic voice to pronounce the weirdest shit but sound amazing.

“Mi amor, quien fuera cemento para sostener ese monumento” you said and started laughing because his face was a poem.

“What the hell?” He said laughing as well. “What does it mean? It really sounded terrible, " he said dramatically.

“It means: my love, who could be cement to hold that monument” he bursted out laughing.

“What? I don’t know if it’s geniuous or rude to be honest” he said sincerely making you laugh.

“Oh my god that was so cringe I love it” you said looking for another one.

“Don’t even try to make me pronounce that last one please” he warned you funny. You denied with your head.

“Okay I found another one listen: tu con tantas curvas y yo sin frenos. Try to translate it” you said because there were words you already taught him.

“Oh my god alright. Repeat it please?” You repeated it and he thought for a few seconds.

“Uh tu curvas y yo frenos?” He said confused. You giggled a little but applauded proudly.

“Yes! You're getting better Oscky” you said sweetly. “It was: you with so many corners and I have no brakes” you said, smiling funny.

“Oh like the curves of the body right?” You nodded at his questions. “Oh alright I get it! So is like double meaning”

“Exactly” you answered. “Alright last one: besar es el lenguaje del amor, te importaría comenzar una conversación conmigo?” You said blushing. Your subconscious chose this one without leaving you a warning.

“You said something with kiss right?” He asked and you nodded. He blushed too. You were like two teenagers blushing and giggling.

“I said: kissing it’s the language of love. Would you mind starting a conversation?” You explained.

“You wanna kiss me?” His words slipped through his lips.

“Maybe I do” your words slipped through your lips.

You were both so red. An awkward silence made its presence.

“Oscar, sorry to interrupt but Zac is calling us both. Hey y/n, you good darling?” Lando appeared out of nowhere so save yourselves from the worst silence situation you’ve ever been into. Lando hugged you kissing your cheek and you smiled at him. Oscar took his things ready to go.

“All good Land. Hope you have a good reunion. See you after the practices!” You said waving to him. And Oscar gave you a cheeky smile.

Holy shit you’re fucked.

[ferrstappen]

unscheduled school visit l Max Verstappen

a/n: hello! i got this quick idea while working on some requests/school work. hope you like it and pls pls feel free to leave feedback <3 it really motivates me <3

pairing: dad!Max Verstappen x female reader.

summary: the twins' teacher calls, the twins got in trouble. Max is in disbelief.

Max was a strict parent. 

Not in the way people may think, and not in the least similar to how his dad was with him, but Max always was concerned on how the twins were doing in school, only in first grade, but still. He was always working on instilling discipline and hard work to Luca and Mila, so in the future they can be whatever the hell they want to be. Max knew money was never going to be an issue, so it was up to them to take all the opportunities that meant.

He always tried to take them to museums when they joined races, often tried to switch languages, even encouraging other drivers and people in the grid who interacted with the kids to speak in their different languages. 

It was always fun to watch Charles speaking to Luca in French or Italian as Luca slowly tried to come up with an answer and was always met with a high five, or Mila asking Checo why Carlos had a different accent. 

The smile never disappeared from your face when you get home from running an errand or attending a meeting that couldn’t be held on Zoom, to Luca and Mila chatting about what they learned on school today or silently doing their homework on the family room while Max watched them, himself also getting some things in the meantime.

The point is the twins were smart, both you and Max putting all your efforts to gently and effectively find what they like, what they don’t. 

You know your kids. Both of you would put your hands on fire because of them. You trusted them because Max and you were raising them good and the twins were great beyond words could explain. 

So when you receive a call from school telling you to come over, you quickly reached Max who was on the sim, driving through Imola with his eyes closed. 

“Babe, school called and we have to go,” As soon as you announced the news Max turned around, seat and steering wheel lightly shaking. 

“What do you mean? What happened?” Max was instantly on his feet.

“I don’t know, Max. Their teacher called,” You told your husband as his eyes opened widely. 

“Their? Is it both of them?” Max was in complete disbelief of what he was hearing.

“It appears so. I’ll cancel a meeting and we go.”

You didn’t leave him alone for thirty seconds, you swear, but when you came back Max was on the phone, asking the teacher to put Mila on the phone. 

He knew his daughter too well. She was outspoken, assertive, didn’t think twice. Luca was more cautious, wise and maybe a little timid. 

“Pap, he was trying to pull Luca’s hair and stealing his crayons, and Luca was letting him because he didn’t want to cause any trouble!” an agitated Mila informed Max, speaking a broken dutch. 

“Are you okay?” Max calmly asked his frantic daughter. He knew she was disquieted, trying to sound more sure of herself than she actually was. 

“Yes,” she said in dutch, but in the back her teacher told her in a sweet voice to speak in a language they could all understand. 

“Okay baby girl, mama and I are on our way, see you in a bit,”

During the drive to La Condamine to reach the International School of Monaco, you discovered a side of your husband you had yet to see. It was fun. 

“She is not apologizing!” Max told you, eyes not leaving the narrow road.

“Max, she pulled the kid’s hair,” You reminded your husband, who softly shook his head in disagreement. 

“Yes, because the idiot kid was bothering Luca and pulled his hair! If anything that kid should be apologizing to Luca, his sister just defended him!” His lisp was more prominent as you reached the parking lot overlooking the several yachts.

Max noticed the other child’s parents already walking inside the school, there weren’t many students in the Early Years building. He pressed the gas harder than necessary, making the engine of the family Aston Martin roar like they were in the paddock. 

Your eyes rolled at his antics, but still it made your insides feel giddy at the thought of your husband being protective and loving. 

Luca’s arms were wrapped around you as soon as you walked inside. Kneeling to reach his height, your heart broke at the sight of his disheveled hair and wet cheeks, his beautiful eyes red. Luca tried to not sniff and stop the tears, trying to be brave when he felt your hands on his cheeks and kissing his forehead, asking if he was okay. 

At the same time, Max sat next to Mila whose eyes didn’t leave the other kid’s sight, whom you learned his name was Oliver. Max knew his daughter wanted to shed a tear, but didn’t let it show, so he just gave her a reassuring look before listening to the teacher who had the three of them in charge.

Curtly shaking hands with Oliver’s parents, Max politely ignoring the poor attempt of one of “the idiot kid’s” dad to start a conversation, obviously starstruck by your husband the World Champion. 

Yes, it was Monaco and everyone knew each other, and it didn’t take a genius to deduce the two Verstappen named kids on the class were the children of the Max Verstappen, but he was often away and it was mostly you who attended parent-related stuff, but now there was the chance to have a conversation directly with him. 

Oh well. 

The four got inside the car, Max adjusting the seats before getting in the driver seat. Mila and Luca loudly sighed, knowing what followed.

“I don’t know how to address this. I’m moved and proud that you look out and defend each other, but M, baby, pulling someone else’s hair is not the way,” you softly told your daughter. “and Luca, honey, I know it’s hard but when someone invades your space and is rude, but you can tell the teacher before it makes you feel bad and leads to this,” 

Max’s eyes followed the twins movements through the rearview mirror as you talked to them, soon reaching your home. You grabbed the backpacks and Max helped the twins get out of the car.

He reached Luca’s door first. When he was out, he left a kiss on his forehead and ruffled his hair, softly reminding his carbon copy that he was a little lion, still with lots to learn, but no one ever could make him feel like this. 

Then he reached Mila’s door. Her eyes now were a bit glossy, but he knew she was just like him, Mila would never show weakness. He reminded her that she can take some weight off, let her guard down with her parents before kissing her hair. 

You watched the scene unfold from afar, not knowing what he told them, but sure they were the right words.

Then giggles reached your ears, eyes immediately rolling. 

He was fist bumping Mila, giving her a nod of approval.

For God’s sake, this wouldn’t be the first time you’re called to school, that’s for sure.

[writteninlunarlight-years]

(Hazbin Hotel request) I would like to request headcannons for how Charlie, Alastor, Angel Dust, and Lucifer would be around a friend/partner who is bilingual and likes to sing songs in their native language to themselves/when they are alone (I hope this made sense my English isnt the best)

Charlie (Platonic/German)

You didn't necessarily hide the fact that you spoke a different language; you just didn't flaunt it.

When you were alive, you grew up in a bilingual household, your mother speaking German and your father English.

It was natural that you picked up a few words or two, mainly because your mother only spoke German to you.

The hotel was used to regularly hearing you cuss in German, so it was typical for everyone.

The day Charlie walked by your room and heard you singing in German was a spectacle.

She was so excited to hear the dialect and the articulations you used.

When you finished, she busted into your room and asked you to sing again, rightfully scaring you.

You inevitably agree because she is so adorable when she asks and sing for her once again.

From there, Charlie sits in your room nightly to learn new words and hear you sing.

Alastor (Romantic/French)

You were really reserved about your secondary language. Especially when you met Alastor.

Your parents talked to you in the language plenty, but you were afraid that you would sound robotic and he would judge you.

As time progressed and French accidentally slipped out, Alastor found you attractive; no one else in the hotel knew what he said.

One night at the bar, Alastor slid in next to you while talking to Husk and began speaking to you in perfect French. You did a spit-take and laughed.

When you two started dating, Alastor took it upon himself to teach you how to converse better with a Creole person.

After a long session with him, you returned to your room, singing softly under your breath a song your papa had sung.

Alastor shadows heard your perfect articulations and immediately got Alastor.

He was astonished to hear you singing so fluently as he phased through the shadows in your room behind you.

Once you finished, he immediately asked you for another song scaring you. One kiss and a song later, though, and you were content to share this part of your life with him.

Angel Dust (Platonic/Italian)

You grew up in Italy with your family for a portion of your life, which gave you an understanding of the language.

When you came to the hotel and met Angel Dust, you two became fast friends. He wanted to know what mob bosses from Italy were like.

You would teach him words that he didn't quite know and he would teach you about mob culture in America.

Angels porn star life would strian your friendship just do to his long grueling hours and your desire to help him out of his deal.

After a particularly heated fight between you two due to his boss, you stormed off and went to the bar.

Drinking your glass Husk gave you and thinking about the argument left you blue.

You began to hum a soft tune, eventually ending up entirely singing it.

When Angel calmed down, he felt bad for treating his friend poorly and went to find you.

That was till he heard your song and was immediately enamored.

He wanted you to sing to him every night after work instead of fighting from then on.

Lucifer (Romantic/Spanish)

Spanish was spoken around you from the day you were born. From your family to neighbors, even friends at school. It was natural you learned some of it.

You were always told it was the language of romance, and though you could see why, you also never thought too much about it.

When you met Lucifer and heard your accent, he was immediately curious about you.

He would talk to you for hours to hear your voice and even dream of it later.

When Lucifer finally confessed his feelings for you, the cherry on top was you confessing in Spanish.

Lucifer never asked how much you knew; he took what he could when you spoke.

However, the night he walked into your shared room and heard you singing a song in Spanish, he was whipped.

He begged for hours for you to just sing the same song repeatedly, a big cheesy smile on his face.

[ninyard]

The monsters and their ability to pick up languages is so interesting to me so here’s some random HCs about monsters + languages that are definitely not original at all:

- Neil learned French in Europe before him and Mary found their way to French-speaking Canada. He essentially had to semi-adopt the language discrepancies while he was there, and even though his fluency is in French from France, sometimes he messes up and pronounces things weirdly or differently (and Kevin frequently makes fun of him for it)

- Kevin has some rusty Japanese that he was forced to learn growing up. He can understand it pretty well, and can somewhat speak it to a lower level, but he can’t read or write it. He’s not fluent, and probably couldn’t hold a conversation with a native speaker, but he could understand his Japanese counterparts in the Nest when he needed to.

- In turn Kevin isn’t able to order in Japanese at a restaurant, but he could explain the rules of Exy to someone fairly coherently if he had to.

- This isn’t an original thought by any means but Neil and Kevin definitely speak in French when they’re by themselves just to make sure they don’t lose it.

- They sometimes make calls to each other on the court in French, and because of this, most of the team picks up very basic calls in French. None of them can actually speak it, but Andrew picks up a little more than the rest, having spent so much time with Kevin. Again, couldn’t hold a conversation, but every now and again he recognises certain words in their conversations.

- Neil is like a walking version of those White Guy Speaks Chinese And Stuns Waitress (he can understand her?!?) polyglot youTube videos. It becomes more of a hobby for him once he’s settled and the FBI are off his back, but the foxes are constantly shocked by how many languages he can speak. He is fluent in English, French, and German of course, with some conversational Spanish, but he can pretty much have a basic interaction in most of the languages of countries he’d been in. His Dutch is the worst, because he could never quite grasp the proper pronunciation of things, but one time he speaks to a waiter in Italian and Andrew can’t believe it.

- (RIP Neil Josten, you would’ve loved duolingo)

- When he goes to the Olympics he’s like a kid in a candy store. It’s like a subconscious bingo game for him to speak to someone from every country at least once.

- Aaron loves listening to music in German. He would definitely drag Nicky to a rave if they ever found themselves in Berlin.

- Katelyn asks him whenever they have their kid if he wants to raise them bilingual, but he decides not to because he only really learned German for Nicky and his brother, and doesn’t really speak it at all after he graduates.

- Neil and Nicky study Spanish together sometimes. It helps Nicky stay close to his roots now that his immediate family is pretty much out of the picture. It means way more to him than Neil even knows.

- Another unoriginal one but Andrew and Neil definitely do learn sign language in the future. I could talk about this one forever.

- When Kevin gets frustrated, he finds it hard to speak ANY language. He messes up words in English, forgets how to say things, and occasionally is the butt of the joke when he combines a French and English word accidentally.

- Kevin watches anime when nobody is around. He thinks dubbed anime is a crime.

- Andrew thinks he’s pretty good at German until he tries to have a conversation with Erik and realises wow native speakers talk a lot faster than we do. You wouldn’t know, because even if he just understands half of a sentence, he can usually piece together what is being said 90% of the time, and he would never admit out loud that he needs Erik to slow down when he’s talking so he can understand him.

- He is, however, REALLY good at accents. He has a talent for speaking gibberish but sounding as if he’s speaking fluent French. It drives Kevin up the wall when he does it, but he also hates when he can’t understand what Kevin and Neil are saying to each other.

And Bonus:

- Jeremy is really bad at accents. He is initially frustrated by Jean and his French, but once he understands that it is Jean’s first language (that the Moriyama’s took from him), he makes an effort to try and learn. He’s just really, really bad at it. Jean cringes every time he tries, because he speaks with a heavy American accent. Jean is not pretentious about his language, but he is, at the end of the day, French. So when Jeremy says bonjour in that hideous so-Cal accent, it’s in part endearing that he’s trying, but mostly like nails on a chalkboard.

[hocuspocusbabyy]

A little Ficlet from my archive of wlw… first time posting my Melissa content!

A breath of fresh air:

“You’re Jacobs aunt and the new French teacher at Abbott Elementary, Melissa and you bond over shared cigarettes and vices.”

Melissa stood next to her car facing the fence, away from Ava who was contently giggling at whatever stupid video she and Jacob were watching. She didn't see why Barbra had to banished her to the far side of the school for wanting one bloody cigarette.

Mel huffed trying to get her lighter to work from her spot behind the shed as she looked around, the empty streets dimly lit by the lamp lights bounding off the metal fence. It dawned on her that she was alone out in the Abbott Parking lot. Everyone else having escaped inside from the cold.

'What you doing over here all by yourself?' A familiar voice called, startlingly elegant the remittance of France still present within the dentals of her accent.

Melissa felt all the hairs stand on the back of her neck. The teacher whirled around to face them, the woman that had been giving her heart palpitations and a mega lady boner since the moment she’d arrived at Abbott four months ago.

Jacob’s Aunt, Jacob’s young, very attractive aunt - who was nearly fifteen years younger than her.

'Needed one,' Mel smirked awkwardly, holding up her unlit cigarette. 'Just can't seem to...' she gave her lighter a few flicks for effect, but it was futile.

'Here." Y/N produced a lighter and lit the flame, as Mel gratefully leaned forward and sucked on her cigarette until it caught.

'Thanks,' the redhead replied, finally feeling the blessed burn as the smoke hit her throat.

'So,' Y/n remarked, ashing her own cigarette, 'Jacob tells me you're a real Lotario.'

Mel looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. 'Who’s that?'

Y/n smirked. 'A slut, basically.'

The redhead grinned at Y/n 'Damn, you've just going call me out like that Hill?"

Y/N took another drag and smirked. 'So it's true then? You just go with a lot of men?'

'Go? As in a date? Nah, It's like, I've don’t take anyone out to the movies or shit like that, none since I was married… even when I was married.’ She shrugs inhaling again, ‘just kinda go with the flow,’ There’s an emphasis on that last part.

‘Everyone got a vice.' Y/n concurs. 'I for one have always enjoyed the pleasures of my fellow feminine species.” - how very French Melissa thought.

Y/n leaned against the wall alongside the teacher. 'I don't mind the company of women either. Never have.'

Y/n raised an eyebrow. 'Really?'

'Is that so surprising? An old gal like me chasing skirt?”

Y/n laughed aloud taking another drag of their cigarette, smiling appreciatively. 'So crude Schemmenti.”

Melissa made an acknowledging sound stubbing out her cigarette as you continued, ‘so what is your vice then?" Y/n asked, watching the Italian woman with interest.

"Work." Mel deadpanned.

"There are worse things to be addicted to I suppose" Y/n shrugged throwing down her cigarette and stepping it out.

"Yeah, but being addicted to sex sounds much more fun" Mel commented, smirking as she swore the woman beside her blushed.

"You know Janine and Gregory are definitely going to hook up”

Mel gave a disbelieving tisk, not wanting to give away her friend and colleagues years in the making relationship. "What makes you think that Frenchie?”

'Come on,' Y/n replied, placing a hand on her hip, 'Have you looked at them? It's bound to happen. I can't quite put my finger on it but I know there's something there.' Y/n continued, her eyes narrowing. 'There was this sort of connection between them the moment they laid eyes on one another. It's been a tumultuous back and forth ever since, someone you can’t falsify.’ Her gaze lingered upon the Italian, the soft curve of her hips as the lay push against the brick. Full and decadent. An essence to their words that did not reflect or belong to Gregory and Janine at all.

'I suppose you may have a point.'

'If they're not shagging now then they will be, I just know it.’

“Not who’s crude.” Mel joked, a dazing full smile lay upon her features.

Y/n simply shrugged. 'I only hope Jacob catches on and finds someone too, at least so he won't turn out a spinster like her aunt.'

‘Oh come on’ the redhead sniggered, ‘you a spinster? How ridiculous. You’re far too young and gorgeous to be referred to in such a way.’

‘You don't believe me? all my relationships have ended in utter failure because I am reserved to becoming an old spinster,' Y/n sighed dejectedly, dramatically. 'Perhaps I should just accept my fate and adopt a bunch of cats.'

Mel smirked, a little laugh escaping her lips as he turned to Y/n if you wanted to play coy, she’d take the bait. ‘Look I don't know much but I do know, no matter when or how it happens, you just gotta be open to it,' she whispered, ‘and when you've done that, well maybe then you can get some cats.’

Y/n looked at Melissa for a good long moment, letting what she had just said sink in. After a bit, she nodded in agreement before revealing a sly look.

‘You think I’m gorgeous?’

‘Caught that did you?’ Melissa shook her head, flashed a charming grin, ‘besides I'm sure even old spinsters get a good fuckin' every once in a while."

‘Oh sure. I'm sure I'll be able to fit in a good rendezvous or two between all the cat feedings.’ Y/n delighted, their bottom lip curling upon their teeth.

‘Yeah, see, there you go,’ Mel laughed. ‘I'd definitely wanna show a fine cat lady like you a good time.’

Y/n found herself grinning, and looked down shyly. Maybe she was lying a little, plenty of people flirted with her, but never any as spectacular as this particularly teacher. What was a white lie in favour of a future?

Y/n turned towards Mel reaching out and grasping her wrist, taking her other hand and idly drawing circles in the Italian’s palm. 'Is that an offer?'

Melissa gave another, surprisingly nervous laugh, smile brilliant and charming. 'Well that depends on your answer Frenchie.’

Y/n hummed as if she were contemplating what they were going to do. When really she was just trying to contain her excitement because holy shit Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti was going to kiss her.

No time for nerves Hill.

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as the redhead stepped in front of her, moving in close. Y/n bit her lip, holding in a gasp as she felt tender fingertips and a set of perfectly manicured nails just barely graze the soft and sensitive skin beneath her left eye. A hot palm pushing against her skin, brushing away her hair and pulling in. Y/n needed bit down harder to prevent a gleeful shout from escaping as strong hands grasped into her hair.

There was a moment, a bare seconds, void of anything other than the woman before her. Vision becoming little but hues of red remittent of Italian soils that Y/n would gladly be lay to rest in. The soft apex of the teachers lips falling down upon her own, moving in a perfectly smooth motion.

Melissa Schemmenti’s lips could only be found among worldly things, the simplest of pleasures. Between old library pages, morning rain and bath water as it fizzled down a drain. A kiss worthy of its benefactor, a kiss she couldn’t help but reach up and steal again. A rememberable of smoke thick upon their teeth, as they devoured one another.

[37sommz]

000.⠀⠀NOW PLAYING: soul's anthem [6.9k, angst]. ✼. view: masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request. ✼. synopsis: michaela has a decision to make. ✼. notes: back to our regularly scheduled programming following the daniel news. angst bc i'm incapable of writing anything else <333 been on my writing grind recently and i'm starting to get attached to my babygirl mick <3 ✼. warnings: mattia binotto, general language, beginning of a breakup?, zak brown jump scare, free fred from breaking his favorite drivers' hearts </3

✼.⠀OCTOBER 30, 2020 — imola, italy    ›    practice day.

Michaela leaned against the garage wall in her race suit, water bottle in hand with her eyes fixed on the busy paddock of the Imola circuit. The candy-apple red of her Alfa Romeo car gleamed under the Italian sun, starkly contrasting the sea of Ferrari fans dressed in their iconic Rosso Corsa. The air was buzzing with the scent of burnt rubber and racing fuel, the sound of running engines echoing through the grandstands as the second Free Practice session drew to a close. As the buzz grew louder, she found herself lost in thought.

Fred Vasseur, her team principal at Alfa Romeo, approached with a stride that seemed more determined than usual. His eyes met hers, and she knew the conversation they were about to have would be pivotal for her career. "Michaela, I know you're tired, but we need to talk." His French accent was soothing despite the tension in his voice. She nodded, pushing herself off the wall and disposing of the plastic bottle with a tired sigh.

They walked to the quietest corner of the garage, where the smell of oil and the distant chatter of mechanics couldn't intrude. Fred leaned in, his voice low and urgent. "Binotto wants to see you tonight after you've finished your press duties. It's about your future with Ferrari." The words hung in the air like a question she hadn't prepared for. She felt a mix of excitement and dread. This was the moment she had been waiting for, but she could not shake the nagging feeling that she was not truly ready for what the conversation would entail.

The rest of the day was a blur of interviews and autographs. Journalists whispered and focused on her movements as she passed, their eyes filled with curiosity. The tension grew with each step closer to Binotto's makeshift office on the Enzo e Dino Ferrari paddock. Her heart raced as she stepped into the sleek building, surrounded by the history and prestige of the Scuderia. The walls were adorned with trophies and photos of legendary drivers, their eyes seemingly watching her every move. The faces of Fangio, Lauda, Schumacher, and Raikkonen stared back at her as if taunting her with their tales of stories and successes for their adoring Tifosi.

Michaela took a deep breath, the air thick with anticipation as she waited for Mattia Binotto, Ferrari's Team Principal, to appear. The door swung open, revealing a man who looked more like a distant fan than a master of the motorsport world. His smile was warm, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. "Michaela, thank you for coming," He said in his flourished Italian, gesturing to a seat. She took it not before she wiped her sweaty palms against her blue jeans. The room was dimly lit, the only sound the faint tick of a clock that seemed to echo the beat of her heart.

Binotto sat across from her, leaning back in his chair with a confidence that made her nerves spark with anxiety. "We've noticed your progress this season," He began, his words measured. "Your podium in Tuscany was... unexpected, but not unwelcome."

There was a pause, a beat too long.

"But," He continued, "We're still not convinced you're ready for the pressure of a championship-contending seat." The room felt colder, the walls closing in around her.

Michaela's eyes widened in shock, her throat dry as she swallowed hard. "What do you mean?" She managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

Binotto clasped his fingers, a gesture that seemed more suited to a boardroom than a Formula 1 garage. "You've shown potential, yes, but we need a driver who can handle the pressure of fighting for the title week in, week out." His eyes searched hers as if looking for something she was sure he wasn't going to find. "And frankly, we're considering other options."

Michaela felt the wind knocked out of her. Her mind raced with thoughts of the countless hours she had spent on the track, pushing herself beyond limits she never knew existed. All the sacrifices, the early mornings, the late nights in the simulator, the physical pain she'd endured - it all felt useless. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the armrests of the chair. She took a moment to compose herself, the sting of his words lingering like the taste of blood in her mouth.

"What other options?" She asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Who could be your other options?" She pleaded, eyes still wide in disbelief. Her fingers formed air quotations around the word 'options'.

Mattia's smile never wavered, a mark of his seasoned experience in the business of breaking bad news to talented drivers. "It's not for me to say right now, but rest assured, we are exploring all avenues." He paused, letting his words sink in. "But, don't get me wrong, you are a valuable asset to the Ferrari family. We just need to make sure that when we make our decision, it's the right one at the right time."

Michaela felt the weight of his words like a bomb strapped to her chest. Despite her historic podium finish, she was still seen as an 'if' and not a 'when'. She took a deep breath, her thoughts racing. This wasn't the conversation she had hoped for, but she knew she had to keep her emotions in check if she wanted to leave this meeting with her reputation intact. "I understand," She said, her voice surprisingly calm, catching herself off guard. "But I'm not going to settle for anything less than what I know I can achieve."

Binotto nodded, his expression indiscernible. "That's the spirit," He said, his smile never reaching his eyes. Michaela could feel her world spin as she tried to keep herself from throwing up her last meal. "But you must understand that Ferrari is more than just a team. It's a legacy. A responsibility. And we don't take our decisions lightly."

Michaela nodded, the uneasiness in her belly swirled and rose to the point of nausea. "I'm aware," She replied, her voice laced with a rueful determination she hadn't felt in a long time. "I've worked my entire life for this moment. And I won't let anyone, not even Ferrari, tell me that I'm not ready."

Binotto leaned in, his eyes searching hers once more. "Your passion is commendable, Michaela. But passion alone does not win championships." His tone was softer now, almost patronizing. "You've proven you can handle a car, but the question still stands, can you handle the weight of the Ferrari suit?"

Michaela felt a flash of anger, but she swallowed it down, reminding herself of the stakes involved in a room with one other witness. "I know what it means to drive for Ferrari," She replied, her voice firm. "And I'm ready to prove it."

Binotto leaned back in his chair, his expression unchanged. "Good," He said. "Because if you wish to be considered for a seat next season, you'll need to prove it not just to me, but to the entire team, from the mechanics to the sponsors."

Michaela nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "I'll do whatever it takes." She said with a conviction that she hoped was as convincing as it sounded.

The silence grew heavier before Fred Vasseur coughed gently. "Michaela, I think it's important to remember that your contract with Alfa Romeo is also ending this year," He reminded her, his voice a stark contrast to Binotto's coolness. "We've had a good season, and I know you're looking for a new challenge."

Michaela nodded, her eyes flicking to Fred, then back to Binotto. "But I thought Ferrari was the next step for me," She said, her voice filled with an unspoken question.

Fred cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Ferrari is a tough nut to crack, but you're not without options," He offered, trying to ease the tension in the room. "We are interested in retaining your talent for next season. You need to weigh your options carefully. If you leave us, there's no guarantee you'll ever get in a Ferrari seat."

Michaela felt the sting of his words pierce at her resolve. Was he hinting that she was being too ambitious? She took a moment to process the information, her eyes darting between the two men. The Ferrari dream was slipping through her fingers, but she knew she would never give up without a fight.

"What's the deal?" She asked, her voice still firm despite the doubt creeping in.

Fred leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Alfa Romeo is willing to offer you a multi-year contract. We believe in you, and we'll support you as you continue to grow as a driver. But if you want to drive for Ferrari, you may need to wait. And waiting could mean sacrificing your career trajectory." His words were a stark reminder of the cutthroat nature of Formula 1 for any driver, much less a driver trying to dispel any doubt about the potential of female drivers.

Michaela felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on her. Her mind raced with scenarios, each more daunting than the last. Could she really wait another season or two, hoping Ferrari would give her a chance? Or should she take the security of a contract with Alfa Romeo and continue to try to prove herself in a car that was intentionally uncompetitive? Her thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of her phone in her pocket. Guido Marotta, her manager, flashed across her screen like a beacon of hope amidst the turmoil. After receiving a 'go ahead' from Binotto and Vasseur to pick up the call, she answered with a tentative greeting.

"Michaela," He said urgently when she picked up. "I've got a call from Zak Brown with McLaren. They're interested in you for 2021. It's a seat with potential, and they're willing to pay big."

Michaela's heart skipped a beat at the mention of McLaren. The British team was on the rise, with young talent in Lando Norris, the very same Brit she had beaten to the Formula 2 champion two years ago. Regardless of her friendly rivalry with Lando, McLaren was a team that could offer her a real shot at fighting for victories, if not immediately, then certainly in the near future.

"What are they saying?" She managed to ask despite the wave of shock that settled over her. Her voice a curious mix of excitement and hesitation.

Guido's response was quick and to the point, a mark of his personality that made him such an efficient manager. "They're impressed with your performance, especially the podium in Tuscany. They think you're ready to step up to the next level. And they're willing to offer you a multi-year deal that would put you in a car capable of fighting for podiums."

Michaela's eyes widened as she processed the information, her heart racing faster than the Formula 1 cars she drove at top speed. A seat at McLaren would mean leaving the Ferrari family, but it was an opportunity she couldn't ignore. She could feel the eyes of both Binotto and Vasseur on her, each waiting for her to make a mistake, to show her hand. She took a deep breath, her racing heart pounding in her chest. "I need to think about it," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor of excitement.

Bintto nodded, his expression unreadable. "Take all the time you need, but remember, the paddock is a small place, and opportunities like this don't come around often." Guido's words were a warning, a subtle reminder that she was playing a game with very high stakes.

Michaela ended the call, the silence in the room thick with the unspoken tension. She looked up at the two men in front of her, their faces a map of the politics she had so long tried to navigate to no avail. "Thank you for the offer, but I need to consider all my options before making a decision," She said, her voice steady despite the tumultuous storm in her mind.

Fred nodded solemnly. "We understand," He said, his eyes reflecting a hint of disappointment. Binotto remained expressionless, his gaze unwavering as he studied her as if taken off guard.

Michaela stepped out of the office, her legs shaking beneath slightly. The cool evening air of Imola hit her like a slap in the face, jolting her back to the unfair reality. The paddock was alive with activity, teams, and drivers preparing for the final practice session of the weekend tomorrow morning. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, the noise of the surrounding environment fading into the background as she weighed her options. The decision before her was impossible: stay with the Ferrari family and hope for a chance that might never come, or take a leap into the unknown with McLaren, a team on the rise but without the guarantee of any tangible success.

Her phone buzzed again in her back pocket. This time, it was her boyfriend, Olivier. She had hoped he would be there for her, to help navigate the stormy waters of her career. But his texts had been sparse and unenthusiastic. Work had taken him away from the track more often than not, leaving her to face the pressures of Formula 1 alone.

Michaela took a moment to compose herself before reading the message. It was a simple question about her plans for the night. The distance between them had grown over the past few weeks, and his new job as a race analyst kept him busy and detached from her personal little racing world. The lack of support was palpable, and she found herself resenting him for it.

With a heavy heart, she texted back that she had an important call and needed some space to think. Olivier responded with a curt 'Okay', and she couldn't help but feel a glimmer of anger. The callousness of his reply only further reminded her of Jenson's words during that night they shared in his hotel in Tuscany.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a familiar engine roar, snapping her out of her brooding. The McLaren MCL35M, piloted by Lando Norris, was being looked at by a group of papaya-clad mechanics. The sight of the orange car brought a bitterness to her tongue, a taste of rivalry from their time in Formula 2. But now, the prospect of racing alongside him in the same team had an allure she hadn't anticipated.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the paddock as she made her way back to her own garage. Her mind was a tornado of thoughts and emotions. The podium finish in Tuscany had brought her career to a new level, but it had also exposed the cracks in her relationship with Olivier. The fight for the top was becoming as much about proving herself to the sport as it was about proving herself to him.

Michaela stepped into the Alfa Romeo garage, the starkness of the white walls contrasting sharply with the Ferrari red that had surrounded her just minutes before. Her team greeted her with nods of respect and understanding; they knew the stakes of her meeting with Binotto and Vasseur. She took a moment to appreciate their kindness before retreating to her personal space to call Travis.

She held her uncle's opinion in the highest regard. As she explained the dilemma presented to her by Binotto, Vasseur, and Brown, she could already feel Travis' incoming response.

"Michaela, I know you're going through a tough time," He said, his Australian twang cutting through the line. "But remember, you're worth more than any contract they throw at you. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." His words echoed in her mind as she sat on the cold, metal floor, her back against the wall of her small driver's home.

Michaela nodded to herself, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She knew he was right. Her entire career had been about proving herself, about fighting against the odds. But this was different. This was Ferrari. The pinnacle of motorsport. The dream she had chased since she was a little girl watching her heroes race in the very same series. "I know," She murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. "But it feels like no matter what I do, I'm never going to be enough for them."

Travis' voice grew stern. "You're more than enough, Mitch." The use of the childhood alias she would use to enter karting races when she was much younger drew a soft laugh from her. "You've got talent that could outshine anyone on that grid. Don't you dare let them tell you any bullshit otherwise." His crass words were a balm to her bruised ego, a reminder of the fire that had driven her to this point.

Michaela took a deep breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. "What should I do?" She asked, her voice shaky.

"You need to trust yourself," Travis said firmly. "You've come too far to let someone else dictate your future. If Ferrari doesn't see what you're capable of, then maybe it's time to show them what they're missing out on."

Michaela's eyes drifted to her reflection in the shiny Alfa Romeo emblem on the wall. She saw the little girl with her first go-kart, the teenager fighting tooth and nail in every race, the woman who had just earned her place on the podium. A sense of determination swelled within her. "You're right," she murmured, wiping a rogue tear from her cheek. "I can't wait around for them to decide my worth."

Her resolve strengthened with every beat of her heart. The decision was clear: she had to take the risk with McLaren. They were offering her a chance to prove herself in a competitive car, and she knew she could step up to the plate. The thrill of the challenge coursed through her veins like adrenaline. The very same adrenaline that filled her with anticipation every time she stepped into her car and onto the track.

With a newfound sense of decisiveness, she called Guido back, her voice clear and direct. "Set up the meeting with McLaren," she said. "I'm ready to explore my options."

Guido's response was swift and business-like. "Good call, Michaela. I'll get it sorted."

Michaela ended the call with a sense of relief as if she had just taken the first step in reclaiming control over her destiny. She took a moment to appreciate the quiet of the garage, the rhythmic buzz of tools, and the murmur of engineers discussing setup changes a comforting backdrop. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic storm of emotions playing out in her mind.

✼.⠀NOVEMBER 01, 2020 — imola, italy    ›    race day.

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity, with a flurry of meetings and phone calls that left her little time to reflect on her personal life. The final practice session and qualifying passed in a blur, her focus solely on the job at hand: securing the best possible grid position for the upcoming race.

Michaela found solace in the roar of the engine, the vibration of the car beneath her, and the way the tires whispered secrets of grip and speed to her. It was the sweet hum of mechanical perfection that drowned out the rushes of doubt and anxiety. She pushed her Alfa Romeo to the limit, setting a time that was surprisingly close to the Ferrari of Sebastian Vettel.

The qualifying session was intense, with drivers jostling for the top position, but she remained focused. Her mind was a cage, shutting out everything but the track ahead. When she climbed out of the car, her heart was racing, not just from the exertion but from the thrill of the chase. The team congratulated her on outqualifying both her teammate Kimi, and Sebastian, their smiles genuine, but her thoughts were already racing to the next battle: the race itself.

The night before the Grand Prix, she lay in her hotel room, the TV playing the highlights of her podium finish in Tuscany as they discussed the future she wasn't any more sure about than they were. The commentators' voices grew distant as she stared at the ceiling, her mind racing with thoughts of Ferrari's elusive offer and the tantalizing prospect of McLaren. She picked up her phone, the screen lighting up the dark room. Olivier's face popped up on the screen, his expression one of forced cheerfulness. Michaela scoffed to herself as she remembered their one-year anniversary was approaching in less than three months without as much as an acknowledgment from the Frenchman.

Their relationship had been strained at best since her podium finish, his lack of support stinging more than any of the criticisms from the media or the whispers in the paddock. The distance between them was palpable, and the thought of their upcoming trip to Monaco, which was supposed to be romantic, now felt like a chore she couldn't escape.

Michaela's mind was a tumult of emotions as she stared at the screen. The text from Olivier was innocent, asking about her day and her preparations for the race. But it was his detachment that was eating away at her. Her historic podium finish in Tuscany should have been a celebration, a moment they shared together. Instead, he had been glued to his phone as he picked her up from the airport, congratulating her with a peck on the cheek before retreating to answer his emails.

Her thoughts drifted to Jenson, his words of support and understanding after the race resonated in her ears. The night they had shared was a brief escape from the pressure, a spark of comfort that had quickly turned into a fire of guilt and confusion. But as she sat in the quiet hotel room, she couldn't deny that his words had planted a seed of doubt in her heart. Was Olivier really the one for her? Or was she just clinging to the familiarity of their relationship out of fear of being alone in this high-stakes world?

Michaela threw her phone onto the bed, frustration building within her. She needed to focus on the race tomorrow, not the tangled mess of her love life. The pressure was immense, but she had faced worse. The race was her sanctuary, the one place where she could truly be herself, free from the scrutiny and expectations of others.

The next day, the grandstands were a sea of Ferrari red, the air thick with anticipation. As she stood out on the track in her Alfa Romeo racing suit, the Italian national anthem playing out, she felt a pang of regret for the dream that seemed to be slipping away. But she pushed it aside, reminding herself of her uncle's words. This race was about more than just points or positions; it was about making a statement.

The lights went out, and the engines roared to life. She dropped the clutch and the car leaped forward, her eyes fixed on the first corner. The opening laps were a dance of strategy and skill, pushing for position without making contact. As the race unfolded, she felt the car come alive beneath her, responding to her every input with a ferocity that matched her own.

Michaela's mind was singularly focused on the task at hand, the tire strategies, the car's setup, and the ever-changing track conditions. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles tightened with the intensity of her focus. She knew every inch of this circuit like the back of her hand, every bump, every nuance that could be taken advantage of to shave off a tenth of a second.

The race was a battleground of pace, a silent war of speed and precision. The scream of engines, the smell of burning rubber, the taste of adrenaline—it was all familiar to her now, a chorus of sensations that played out in her mind like a well-rehearsed choir. She pushed her Alfa Romeo to the limits, every turn a declaration of her intentions to the Ferrari team watching from the pits.

As the race approached its final stages, the tension grew. The lead drivers were locked in a fierce battle, but it was the midfield fight that had the crowd on the edge of their seats. The McLaren of Lando Norris in 10th and the AlphaTauri of Daniil Kvyat in 8th were dueling, with her car sandwiched in between. The podium was still a distant hope, but a solid points finish was within her grasp.

Her heart raced as she saw the gap to Kvyat shrinking, her eyes flickering between the track ahead and the mirrors. The Russian was known for his aggressive driving, and she knew she had to be ready for anything. The moment came on the 58th lap, as Kvyat made a daring move around the outside of a tight corner. She braced herself, her muscles tense as she waited for the inevitable contact that never came. He'd gone too wide, opening the door for her to act quickly.

Michaela didn't hesitate, seizing the opportunity with the finesse of a seasoned veteran. She shot down the inside, the roar of the Alfa Romeo's engine echoing through the narrow corridor of the track. The move was clean and decisive, and it earned her a well-deserved spot in 8th place. The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps, the excitement palpable even through the thick barriers. Though she was much too far to challenge the Ferrari of Charles Leclerc in 7th, Michaela knew with that move she had made her statement.

The final laps were a blur of concentration, her eyes never straying from the road ahead. She crossed the line, her heart pounding in her chest as the cheers grew louder. The podium may have eluded her this time, but she had shown Ferrari that she was no mere junior driver to be overlooked.

The podium ceremony went ahead without her, the Mercedes duo of Valtteri and Lewis accompanied by the Red Bull of Max, took to spraying champagne and soaking in the applause. Meanwhile, in the pits, the Alfa Romeo mechanics were already debriefing, their heads bowed over data screens, their expressions a mix of pride and determination. The team knew she had given it everything she had.

Michaela climbed out of her car, the adrenaline wearing off to reveal the exhaustion that had been waiting in the metaphorical wings. She took off her helmet, her sweat-dampened hair sticking to her forehead and curling up from the heat. The TV cameras and journalists swarmed around her, eager to capture her reaction to the race. She took a deep breath, forcing a smile, and faced the barrage of questions on her trek back to the garage with the poise of a woman who had, in fact, spent her life in the spotlight.

"How does it feel to be back in the points?" One journalist shouted over the others.

Michaela paused, her smile wavering slightly. "It feels amazing," She said, her voice carrying over the business of the paddock. "But I'm not just here to collect points. I'm here to win." The words were a declaration of war, a challenge thrown down to Ferrari and everyone else who had ever doubted her. As she fielded more questions, her eyes caught sight of Olivier who stood tall amongst the unfamiliar faces.

Their gazes met briefly, his expression one of surprise, perhaps even a hint of admiration. But it was the way his eyes searched hers that had her stomach flipping. He had watched the race with the same intensity as everyone else, but she knew he had felt her struggle, her determination, her triumph. She knew he understood the weight of her words.

Michaela pushed through the media scramble, her heart racing faster than the car she had just stepped out of. She needed to talk to him, to explain everything, but she wasn't sure she had the words to bridge the growing gap between them. The garage was alive with noise and activity, but she found him amidst the chaos, his eyes still glued to the screens that replayed her daring move.

Olivier's face was a mask of professionalism, but she saw the flicker of pride in his gaze. He knew the significance of her performance today, not just for her but for the future of their relationship. She approached him, the noise of the paddock fading away as they stood face to face. "I didn't know you were coming," She said, trying to keep her voice steady. Instead of answering her right away, he drew her sweaty body into his.

The embrace was tight and warm, a welcome contrast to the coolness that had settled between them. "I had to see you," He murmured into her ear, his breath tickling the baby hairs on her neck. "You were incredible out there."

Michaela leaned into his arms, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. "Thank you," She whispered, her voice cracking. "I needed to hear that."

Olivier pulled back, his expression honest. His Sky Sports windbreaker adorned his broad shoulders. "I know things have been tough for us, but you can't doubt yourself. You're one of the best drivers out there."

Michaela nodded, feeling the sting of tears threatening to spill over. "But it's not just about being the best," she said. "It's about being in the right car, with the right team, and having the right support."

Olivier's grip on her tightened. "And you have that," he said firmly. "You've got me, you've got Travis, your family, and you've got a whole team behind you. That's what matters."

Michaela searched his eyes, looking for the truth in his words. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to believe that maybe she did have everything she needed. But the doubt remained, a stubborn shadow in the corner of her mind. "I don't know if that's enough," she confessed. "The McLaren offer is real, Olivier. And I can't ignore it."

He sighed, his grip loosening slightly. "I know," he said, his voice shallow with defeat. Michaela was aware he was biased, like most former drivers, to the allure of the Ferrari name. "But you have to do what's best for your career."

"And what about us?" She asked the question hanging in the air like the scent of burnt rubber from the track. Olivier looked away, his eyes darting around the garage before returning to hers.

"We'll figure it out," He said, but his voice lacked conviction. The words stung, but she knew she couldn't let her personal life sway her career choice. The Ferrari contract remained out of reach, and the McLaren offer grew more inviting with each passing moment.

Michaela turned away from Olivier, her mind racing. She knew she had to sit down with Guido and discuss the future. The decision was hers, and she couldn't let anyone else make it for her.

"Michaela, congratulations on a fantastic race," Guido's voice boomed over the background noise of the paddock as he approached her. His eyes were sharp, assessing the tension between her and Olivier. A perceptive man, he was more than aware of the tension between Michaela and her distant boyfriend. "Your performance today was exceptional."

Michaela nodded, her eyes never leaving Olivier's. "Thank you, Guido." Her voice was laced with a mix of exhaustion and determination. "Can we talk about the McLaren offer now?"

Guido looked from her to Olivier and back, sensing the unspoken tension. He cleared his throat, his expression shifting to one of professionalism. "Of course," he said, gesturing towards a quieter corner of the garage. "Let's get you out of the suit first."

Michaela nodded the weight of her decision momentarily forgotten as she allowed herself to be led away. She knew that she had to prioritize her career above all else, but the thought of leaving Ferrari, the team she had been groomed for, was like running away from the safety of the known.

Once in the relative quiet of the team's hospitality area, she peeled off her racing suit, revealing the sports bra and fireproofs beneath. The smell of the track clung to her, a mix of burning rubber, fuel, and victory. She took a deep breath and accepted the sports drink Guido offered to her while trying to steady her racing heart. Guido waited patiently, his eyes never leaving hers.

"McLaren is a serious offer," he began, his voice low and measured. "They're not just looking for a driver; they're looking for a star. You've got the potential to be that star, and they know it."

Michaela took a sip of the sports drink, the cool liquid soothing her dry throat. "But Ferrari is my dream," She said softly. "I've worked my entire life for this."

Guido's expression grew serious. "I know it's tough," He said. "But Ferrari's indecision is not a reflection of your talent. You've earned your place in this sport, and you can't let anyone make you feel otherwise."

Michaela nodded, the gravity of his words resonating within her. "What happens next?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Guido leaned in closer, his gaze intense. "We play hardball," He decided. "We tell Ferrari that you're exploring all options, and we let McLaren know that you're serious about the offer. It's time to make them realize that you're not just waiting around for a seat; you're actively pursuing your future."

Michaela nodded a newfound resolve setting in her features. "Alright," She responded, "Let's do it."

Guido set to work immediately, his fingers flying across his phone as he called in favors and set up meetings. Meanwhile, Olivier hovered in the background, his usual confidence replaced by a palpable uncertainty. The tension between them was as thick as the smoke that sometimes hung over the track.

Michaela took a moment to breathe, her thoughts racing as fast as the cars she'd just competed against. The idea of leaving Ferrari, the team she had grown up dreaming of, was heart-wrenching. But the opportunity to race for McLaren, a team on the rise with a proven track record of nurturing talent, was too good to pass up without serious consideration.

Her conversation with Guido was cut short by a sudden commotion in the garage. The team manager looked up from his phone, a flicker of concern crossing his features before they smoothed out into a mask of neutrality. "I'll handle this," he said, leaving her with a nod.

Michaela took a moment to collect herself, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of the Alfa Romeo livery. The thought of leaving Ferrari felt like a betrayal of her childhood dreams, but she knew that sometimes dreams had to evolve. She turned to find Olivier hovering awkwardly by the door. His eyes met hers, a silent question hanging in the air.

"We're going to play the field," she said, her voice firm. "Guido's going to talk to Ferrari and McLaren. We'll see who values me the most."

Olivier nodded, his eyes lingering on her. "But you know what you want, right?"

Michaela's gaze was unwavering. "I want to win," she replied. "And if Ferrari doesn't see that in me, then maybe it's time to move on."

Olivier nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of her words. He knew the Ferrari dream was a powerful one, but he also knew that she deserved to be in a car that could truly showcase her talents. The silence stretched between them, the echo of the race engines still resonating in the garage.

"Look, I'm sorry I haven't been more supportive," he finally said, his voice cracking slightly. "I know you're going through a lot right now, and I haven't been the best."

Michaela felt a pang of guilt for the fight earlier. She knew that Olivier was caught in the crossfire of her ambition and her need for validation. "It's okay," She replied, her own voice filled with a tired emotion. "It's just been a tough season."

Olivier stepped closer, his hand brushing hers briefly. "I'm here for you," he assured her. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you."

Michaela felt a wave of warmth at his words, but it was tempered by the doubt that still lingered. "Thank you," She said, her voice small. "But I can't promise that my decision will be easy for either of us."

Olivier nodded, the unspoken understanding hanging heavily in the air. They both knew that their relationship was on the line, that the glamour of F1 had a way of making the personal feel small and insignificant.

Michaela watched as Guido walked back towards her, his expression unreadable. The tension in the garage was palpable, and each team member was aware of the gravity of the situation. "Ferrari wants you to stay," he said, his voice low. "But they're not willing to make any promises for next season."

Her heart sank. "And McLaren?"

Guido's eyes held a flicker of excitement. "They're eager. They're willing to give you a multi-year contract, and they're confident that with the right support, you can lead them to a victory."

The prospect of being a team leader, of being valued and believed in, was honorable. But she couldn't ignore the pull of Ferrari, the team she had practically dedicated her life to. "What about my relationship with Ferrari?" She asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Guido's expression was a mix of empathy and business insight. "Ferrari is a legendary team," he acknowledged. "But they're also a business. Sometimes, you have to make decisions that are best for your career, even if it means leaving your dreams behind."

Michaela nodded the weight of his words sinking in. She knew that he was right, that she couldn't put her entire future in the hands of a team that wasn't ready to commit to her. But the thought of leaving the Ferrari family was like a knife to her heart.

Guido's phone buzzed, interrupting the tense silence. He checked the screen and his eyes lit up. "It's Zak Brown," He said, holding up the device. "He's ready to discuss the terms."

Michaela took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it, the moment she had been working towards her entire career. The decision was hers to make, and it was a heavy burden to bear. She nodded at Guido, giving him the go-ahead.

Olivier stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. She could see the conflict in them, the love and the fear of losing her to the sport that had consumed her life. He knew the gravity of the situation, that her career was at a pivotal point, and that she couldn't afford to wait for Ferrari's indecision.

Michaela's mind raced as she took the phone from Guido. Her hand was slightly trembling as she answered the call. "Zak," She greeted, trying to keep her voice even. "Thank you for the offer."

Zak Brown's voice was enthusiastic on the other end. "Michaela, we've been watching you all season, and we're impressed. We believe you're the missing piece to our championship puzzle. How do you feel about joining us at McLaren?"

Michaela paused, her heart racing as the words sank in. The offer was everything she had ever wanted: a competitive car, a team that believed in her, and the chance to prove herself on the world stage. But it also meant leaving the familiarity of Alfa Romeo and the tantalizing closeness of Ferrari.

Olivier stepped aside, giving her space, but his eyes remained on her, a silent plea for her to choose what made her happy. He knew that her heart was torn between the safety net of Ferrari and the thrilling unknown of McLaren.

Michaela took a deep breath and spoke into the phone, her voice clear and determined. "Zak, I would be more than honored to join the team."

The call didn't last long after that, with Guido taking over to discuss the finer points of the contract. Meanwhile, Olivier remained a silent presence, his eyes never leaving hers. As she hung up, she could see the mix of emotions playing across his face: pride, fear, and a hint of sadness. As Guido discussed options for their next meeting, Michaela stepped closer to Olivier. She reached up to hold his face in her hands, their eyes exchanging words they weren't quite comfortable enough to say out loud in the middle of the garage.

"Look," She began, her voice tender. "I need to do this. For me."

Olivier nodded, his eyes searching hers for any trace of doubt. "I know," He said, his voice gruff with emotion. "But I'm afraid of losing you to this sport." His lips pressed into an uncertain line as they stood in silence for another beat more.

Michaela leaned in and kissed him gently, the smell of the track still on her skin. "You won't," She promised, hoping it was true. "I'll make it work."

Olivier's arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly. "I believe in you," He murmured against her hair. "But I can't help but worry."

Michaela leaned into him, absorbing his warmth. "I know," She whispered. "But we'll find a way."

Guido cleared his throat, bringing them back to reality. "Michaela, we need to finalize the contract with McLaren," He reminded her, his voice firm but not unkind.

Michaela nodded, taking a step back from Olivier. "I know," she said, her voice steady. "Let's get it done."

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[crimson-kisses]

Duetsche Zunge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jetzt können wir essen!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With every searing touch and word.

[o0anapher0o]

I also need a minute to go feral over Armand’s accent.

How is everyone on this show so good at those!?!

We don’t even need to talk about Jacob, but Sam and Bailey were doing a great job, too. I know Sam get’s some ribbing for his French (which is honestly not terrible, it’s just not as good as Jacob’s), but the way he does Lestat’s accent is actually really fantastic. The way it waxes and wanes  and changes throughout the show is very deliberate and effective.

And now Assad, too?

Because Armand’s accent is a mess. It’s all over the place and I love it! It makes so much sense. The guy hasn’t even spoken his native language in 450 years. English is probably Armand’s like 15th language, that he picked up reading the minds of tourists and soldiers from all over the world. Of course it’s a bit of this a bit of that with some French in it and some Italian and some whoever knows what.

And it’s such an obvious thing now that it’s there, it’d be so easy to say ‘yes of course that’s what he sounds like’, but how many actors would put in the effort to play with that and how many shows would give them the time and space to do that rather than just tell him to do a generic RP accent and leave it at that.

[foureyedfella]

☆Before I go on a hunt for my stylus, I thought I should drop some hc on what languages each boxer knows! (Especially since I consider it somewhat important in my art for them ^_^) I have a bad habit of needing every headcanon to have art attached to it but I can't do that every time 😞

☆ But anyways heres the headcanons!

Glass Joe

☆ French 🤯 is his first, with his second being Italian and third being English. Throughout his time in the WVBA, he really pushed himself to try and learn the languages of his colleagues

☆ He has a good grasp at German, and is kinda killing it with Russian! Can understand spanish, will not attempt to speak it (thanks, Don.) Can pick up a couple, and I really mean a couple, things in Turkish and Hindi. Biggest problem right now is Japanese, really trying to grasp it

☆Literally had to go out of his way to learn English with an Irish accent for Aran, he was STRUGGLING 😭

Von Kaiser

☆ Crazy enough, he speaks German. He picked up a thing or two listening to the other boxers, but as far as having stuff stick, not quite!

☆He does know French though, gotta understand his pookie

☆Kaiser and Joe actually learned eachothers languages just so that the other party could feel comfortable enough speaking their first language :]

☆ Can understand English, barely speaks it (Disco Kid mentioned the "coca cola yipee!!" Video to him and he's still recovering)

Disco Kid

☆ Got English on deck ❗ and I mean that entirely. From New England? He's got you! You from mid US? He's got you!! You from the south? HE'S GOT YOU!!!

☆He has some family in Louisianna so he can call it out a mile away

☆ doesnt know much of anything else, he actually only knows enough Spanish to get him his usual order at a Mexican food truck 😭

King Hippo

☆ He understands everyone. And everyone understands him. No questions asked.

☆ In my doodles I just like making it so that his roars or growls are completely understood by the other boxers so I'm letting it carry onto my headcanons lol

☆ we love a non verbal king❗

Piston Hondo

☆ I'm dropping the bit yes he knows Japanese, Korean, and a bit of Mandarin

☆ Like Joe, he also wants to get to know more languages because of his time in the WVBA! He is more inclined on learning to understand the languages rather than speaking it, brother cannot break his nonchalant mysterious image by tripping through his words 😞

☆ Can understand some Hindi, English and Spanish from his time at the major circuit

Bear Hugger

☆ English and French

☆ I love you so much Bear Hugger, but his noodle is not grasping other languages.....

☆ if a conversation is long enough he starts learning certain phrases, but it's like a memory wipe when the conversation ends

☆ With that said, he's got the spirit to still carry conversations with the other boxers he's got willpower!! If something is just not going through he's busting out a translator

Great Tiger

☆Hindi, Bengali, and Chinese

☆ To the surprise of the unfortunately dense boxers, yes he speaks english and is literally a language spoken in Mumbai 😭

☆ Apart from trying to learn a bit of Japanese, brother is uninterested in learning more from that he is an unbothered queen

☆ Also just has a translator on deck

Don Flamenco

☆ Spanish (Andalusian, Carribean, and Mexican)

☆ Andalusian is his primary one (I mean you hear that joint strong in game lol)

☆ I believe that he went around quite a bit during his childhood, with his family being pretty big (trust me theres some stewing drama..) so he has family in Puerto Rico (which is why he is familiar with Carribean Spanish) and Mexico that he would visit often

☆ **Side note but this tended to kinda ostracize him because he was considered either "too good" and or pretentious for the Island and Mexico or missing the mark in Spain, let the man live :( **

☆ Knows English, but like just enough to get by, will cringe and die having to speak it (because of how he sounds not because of the language 😭). He believes his suave aura goes down tenfold speaking English

☆ Joe once told him his english was actually cute and Don was gonna explode

Aran Ryan

☆ English and Irish Gaelic, he and his family are fighting to keep the language alive damn it!!!!

☆ Also knows some Scottish and Polish

☆ When he first got to the US (in my art that's SPO Aran era :P ) he ended up having to practice to soften his accent because it was so strong people were not understanding and it was super embarrassing for him 😭 (Narcis Prince's pompous ass had Aran stressing to learn FAST)

☆ Learned to understand Russian for Popinski, he was tired of passing his phone back and forth and decided to lock in!! (Gotta stay in touch with his best friend and drinking bud 🙏)

☆ Knows all the bad/scolding words from everyone in the WVBA (To this day keeps saying bomboblat and it's all Bob Charlie and Piston Hurricane's fault 💀)

Soda Popinski

☆ Russian, Polish, and Bulgarian

☆ He be in his own world. He has always been a man of few words anyways!

☆ Is actually pretty okay at picking up enough words to not just kill a conversation with the other boxers, but also just has his phone handy to translate

☆ can understand English the most, but specifically with an Irish accent thanks to Aran lol

Bald Bull

☆ TURKISH AND TURKISH ONLY RAAAAAAAAH 🇹🇷🇹🇷🇹🇷

☆ Understands a lot of what the other boxers say, specifically Russian, English, and French for some reason (he listens to Joe's yap often and without even realizing it)

☆ Seeing how he isn't actively learning other languages, he tries to be patient when others talk with him (he doesn't expect or demand people to learn Turkish so)

Super Macho Man

☆English and Spanish (Dominican and Carribean Spanish)

☆ Apart from my hc of him being Dominican, you can only be in California for so long without not knowing Spanish like cmon 😭 Spanish ties in Cali are very strong

☆ Is literally fluent in spanish but will not speak it in public because he thinks it sounds too "gringo" (thinking his American accent carries). Makes Don genuinely wanna strangle him bc his spanish sounds perfectly fine, really good even.

☆ Is entitled enough to think that everyone has to know English, so he isn't actively learning other languages

Mr. Sandman

☆ English and some spanish

☆ He has a keen ear and picks up a lot of what the other boxers are saying, one might say that if he bothered interacting with them for more than 2 seconds he would lowkey master understanding a good chunk of them 😭

☆ Does not understand Aran, he is his own breed. Unfortunately for him Aran loves talking (trolling) to him

Little Mac

☆ Spanish (Mexican) and enough English to get by

☆ Getting into the WBVA, he got pretty fascinated in other languages and was determined to learn some of them (specifically in the order in which he beats his opponents LMAO)

☆ He is also a nonverbal king, so he mainly just wants to learn to understand their languages

☆Alright that's all, thanks for tuning in for my yap :,)

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 6, In Which You Try To Look Away (It's Harder Than You Thought)

AO3

by the way, I saw today an art on twitter which is extremely Raul-coded

I am not a murderer, you thought as you ordered the ATM to give you another two hundred euros.

Even if I am, that guy deserved it, you thought as you re-inserted the card to give you two hundred more (damn those limits per withdrawal).

Even if he didn’t (and he did), nobody is going to miss him, and his fiancee will move on to the next lawyer in Oliver Peoples glasses soon enough, and besides, people die in freak accidents all the time. 

Even if they don’t, well, if every death wish resulted in an actual death, humanity would be long extinct and that wouldn't be your fault, would it now?

With that comforting thought, you pocketed the last of your ten thousand euro goal, tired from having to repeat the same task for almost an entire hour. Anything can happen, Raphael could cut off access to his account on a whim, but cold hard cash was something you could hold onto even if you fell from his grace.

"Ms. Berger," came a voice on your phone with a strong French accent the moment you picked up. It was Raphael’s banker, Francois-something, who gave you the PIN in the first place. “Would it be easier if we delivered cash directly to you? Your withdrawals keep triggering our petty theft alerts."

"Oh no, thank you," you replied, trying your best not to sound like a petty thief. "I have enough for now... I think."

“As you wish,” came his slow reply.

"But uh... could you help me make two bank transfers?" You asked after a pause. "One to my mother, Franziska Berger… (how much how much how much?) ten thousand euro, I’ll send you the details… and one for the stray cats shelter... (how much how much how much?)… five thousand euro?"

Too much? How do you quantify the cost of accidentally-on-purpose getting some useless yuppie run over by a bus in terms of absolving your sins? 

Five thousand felt somewhat stingy.

“The stray cats?” The banker repeated back at you as though questioning whether this was some sort of coded drug deal.

“Yes,” You replied firmly. “They do incredible work. Ah! The kids cancer foundation, too. Five thousand. No, ten".

That seemed about right for the guy’s life.

"Ah, you meant charity. Of course," Francois replied, relief and amusement in his tone. "Lovely, great for the ESG rating. Make sure to get an invoice for the tax refund."

It didn’t quite sit well with you to use stray cats and kids for tax refunds, but you still said yes and stashed the money deep down the rucksack. You got a bit of cash for now (soon you will go for more, because who knows), but it’s still not an income source. 

What could be? Should you ask Raphael to buy an apartment in your name, or two? You could rent it. Or a company? Tenebris, for instance. Just imagine their gobsmacked faces - especially after they gave you the boot without even a severance package.

That was a delicious thought.

You let it simmer as you sat down in an tourist-trappy Italian restaurant in the city centre, just about to order an Aperol Spritz when your phone began to ring again. You are in high demand these days.

"Anya!" Your mum gasped on the other end of the line. “I saw you on TV!"

Sure, the accident was all over the news channels. Some blurred out the dead body better than others did. You would bet your last cent that the unedited version got more views.

"Yeah, gruesome," you grimaced.

"Gruesome? Why? Ah, you mean the guy. Well, that happens all the time; they really give driving licences to anyone these days. I do hope the driver rots in prison for what he did to this poor young man. Anyway, no. I called to say, I saw you and Raul on the news”.

She managed to infuse an uncanny amount of innuendo into the last sentence.

“Raul is such a handsome man, Anya”, she sighed wistfully. “Quite the catch you got there, huh?”

There we go again. 

“What, way out of my league?”, you joked dryly. “I’ve been told that”.

“Oh, no, what nonsense! You are such a pretty girl!” Your mother protested. “More importantly, a good-hearted girl raised right; I am glad there still are decent men who still appreciate that. Did you meet Raul for a lunch?”

“Oh no,” You replied nonchalantly. "We actually… ah, we actually went to a church. He introduced me to his pastor."

Your mother sucked in an audible gasp like she'd won some kind of maternal lottery.

“His pastor, already? I am so happy for you, sweetie.”, she finally managed to say. “This is like a fairy tale come true”.

Yeah, a Grimm one.

“Sort of”, you chuckled. '“By the way, you will receive a bank transfer soon, ten thousand euro, don’t be afraid. It’s… well, take care of your health, okay? Get a decent dentist this time, a private one”.

“Where do you have the money from? Is it his?”, your mum suddenly sobered up. “Anya, what on earth is he paying you money for? I hope you are not doing anything… anything…”

"No," you cut her off and licked your lips, recalling the last thing that passed between them. “Mom, please! It's not his money, it's my company’s – long story.”

One that you haven't come up with yet.

Besides, if Raphael was giving you ten thousand dollars (thirty-five thousand in total with your other expenses for the day) for one blowjob, then you definitely had a successful career, just not in the field you had planned on.

“Okay,” your mum replied. “But still...you don’t need to...why don’t you buy some nice dresses instead? What on earth was that t-shirt you were wearing to a church?"

“I am hanging up”, You threatened half-heartedly.

You didn’t. You listened in the background to the story of how your mum’s school friend called her to say she saw “her Anya” with a very handsome man on the TV, nonplussed by the fact there was a scattered corpse in the background. 

In the meanwhile, you opened Google on your phone. 

You didn’t fancy doing that before - annoyed by that fake persona Raphael had created. But since he obviously put that much effort in it, it’s worth looking up what he had been up to and for how long.

Nothing good, for sure.

"…Raul D'Avergni, managing partner of an international law firm, inherited the private equity conglomerate, Avernus Capital. This transition was precipitated by the unexpected and tragic passing of his father..."

"…By December 2024, D'Avergni's high-profile liaison with Isabelle Arnaud, actress and socialite, had unceremoniously ended..."

No. Who? No. You didn’t need any ex-girlfriends.

"…Ms. Arnaud levied abuse accusations against Mr. D'Avergni…”

Oh, no…

“…she retracted her claims within a mere twenty hours and ensued a public apology for any harm inflicted upon D’Avergni’s reputation..."

Hmm.

"…her psychiatrist intervened on her behalf. Evidently, Arnaud was grappling with severe mental health issues that led her to make unfounded allegations..."

Raul likes them crazy, they said? Or makes them crazy?

"…Ms. Arnaud now resides in a high-end medical institution in Monaco, focusing on her mental health issues..."

What did Isabelle look like, you wondered, as your mum finished her talk and wished you a good day. You typed her name into the search bar, holding your breath in anticipation as you half-expected to see Hope's face staring back at you.

The woman clinging to Raphael's arm at some fancy film premiere bore no resemblance.

Your stomach sank as if it had plunged into the depths of hell.

She was exactly the type of woman Raphael should have on his elbow; a timeless beauty, but something more Renaissance like, the kind of faces humankind seemed to have stopped producing. She was in her mid-twenties, as well, but… hell, you could not hold a candle to that. Few could. 

Not even the Tavs. She resembled her namesake, Isabelle Adjani, in her youth, maybe even better.

The pictures showed her laughing and looking deeply in love while gazing up at Raphael, while he offered only a very formal smile to the camera. So not Hope then. Nothing like their story. She was in love, he wasn’t. 

Good.

Later snaps by paparazzi painted a different picture: a gaunt woman hidden behind oversized sunglasses and swallowed up by her hoodie, clutching to her coffee cup. 

With a swift click, you banished Isabelle from your screen and plunged further into Raphael's (Raul’s) life story.

You found a photo of Raphael in his twenties (yes, just like the Tumblr post you hated, and no, you wouldn't have fucked him at that age), caught up in a minor scandal in Sankt Moritz (apparently his fraternity brother had pissed on the Swiss flag), more gossip, his philanthropic affairs for local theatres and art galleries, numerous articles praising his professional achievements, and interviews with Lawyer and WSJ and the like. There was mention of a brief marriage and divorce in his early thirties, but when you tried to Google the woman's name, nothing came up.

The whole thing left a sour taste in your mouth. This was someone's real life story, not a fictional character. Raphael wasn't just some wealthy corporate jerk; he was a half-devil from Avernus, which was infinitely better and more sympathetic.

You were well aware that Raphael wasn't exactly a good guy. But he had his rules; he had to have his rules. As for the whole thing with Hope though... What exactly was she? An idea? A person? The fandom barely discussed her, and what little they did, you didn't like; all horrible takes, every single one.

The whole plot felt half-baked.

Anyway, what seeing Isabelle did motivate you to do was to take a real stroll down the city's most expensive boutique street.

Now, the first thing you bought was not because you wanted or needed anything, but because Raphael expected you to. You were not much of a materialist anyway; you were ideologically opposed to consumerism. These things were overpriced, generally not worth it and, on a larger scale, represented everything that was wrong with society.

You decided to enter a Valentino store out of curiosity, as you had never been inside one before. The saleswoman's disdainful look at your T-shirt motivates you to buy a black dress with a white collar, not necessarily because you liked it, but because you want to prove that you can afford it, despite the price tag of two thousand euros. 

Well, you liked it a little. The wool and silk blend was great to touch.

The details of the rest of the shopping trip became a bit hazy. You had your reasons; the consort of an Archdevil Supreme had to look really nice. If you couldn't be as pretty as Isabelle, you could at least dress as well as she did. So you started with some nice blouses and trousers, and a (just one) jacket. With that, you needed shoes. With shoes, of course, you needed a bag. Now that you had a bag (you closed your eyes as the price flashed at the till), you needed some jewellery (you needed to see what all the fuss about Tiffany's was about). And, of course, you needed make-up. 

At each shop, the sales assistants smiled wider and wider as you piled more and more bags onto your arms. By the seventh stop, it felt like their smiles were entering uncanny valley territory. 

Eventually, the banker would call you, right? But when exactly would that be? You tried to find out, but failed. It had to be over forty thousand.

The thought made you dizzy. In one day you had spent your entire year's salary. Now all you could do was hope that Raphael wouldn't make you work off the debt somehow. Unless it was the kind of work your mother suspected you were already doing for him.

You came out of the last shop with five bags and the feeling that you were a very shitty socialist. Since you couldn't carry any more, the shopping concierge (apparently it's a real job) offered to store the bags until your driver picked you up, and just as you were about to say which bloody driver, whom do you take me for, you remembered that you actually had one.

"Mrs Berger," the receptionist said cheerfully the moment she saw you in the door. "Nice to see you again! How can I help you? Oh, yes. The driver, of course. Yes, of course, let me put you through to Mr D'Avergni's personal assistant".

Oh, it's Mrs Berger and my pleasure? They were wondering if the rumours about you wanting the guy to be run over by a bus were already out there. The personal assistant's name was Camilla, her voice was the embodiment of professionalism, and she was the one who could take you to the driver, who was there in no time.

His name was Yuri and he was more talkative than you would have liked. Gruff, huge, way too big for the car he was driving (any vehicle known to man would be too small for him), with a deep booming voice and the face of someone who had spent half his life behind bars.

"Have you seen that poor bastard? All over the main road," he remarked as he passed the street cleaners. "Probably too busy fiddling with his phone to keep an eye out."

"Mghgm," you offered. 

"So, are we stopping by your place first, Miss Berger? Boss said you wanted to get some things first. Are you moving in?"

"Am I?" You ask, surprised by the news yourself, and then think to yourself: "Why not?”

Why the hell not.

****

You didn't waste any time. With a tidy suitcase in tow, you were out the door of your apartment before Yuri could get too bored. You packed the essentials - toothbrush, laptop, documents - and a few other things that suddenly felt crucial to your life.

Out the car window you watched the cityscape change from urban jungle to manicured suburbia and finally to a small gated community. The driver talked politics (he had exactly the kind of convictions you'd expect), then about how amazing Raul was (and how extremely open-minded he was to give an ex-con a job), before returning to politics. 

You didn't ask what crime Yuri did his time for. 

You knew it was Raphael's house the moment you saw it through the car window. Who else would live in such a place? Not a house, that's too boring a term; a villa, all intricate stonework, marble and terracotta, such a flamboyant display of wealth that it should have been taxed just to exist. 

Only a devil or a mafia don would call such grandeur home. So much, too much, theatrical to the point of grotesqueness; no real person could possibly live like this. You couldn't help but wonder if Raphael had been influenced by the films he had seen - perhaps he had developed a taste for modern cinema.

He must have liked The Godfather.

This place. The fountains, the statues (classical, Roman, as if sculpted by the ghost of Michelangelo), the gardens. You wondered how many souls it took to keep this whole thing running.

The gates opened and the car drove you into an underground car park that was already very busy and very Italian: Ferraris, Maseratis, Lamborghinis. You counted; eight. Who needed eight cars? Not even one for each day of the week. 

The lift took you up; Yuri left your shopping bags and suitcase in the foyer and said goodbye.

You'd never set foot in such a house before; the closest you'd ever come was drooling over Sotheby's property listings.

Why would anyone need all this space? For just one person? It was at least six hundred square metres; and the guest and service house looked like another two hundred. The kitchen and dining area was three times the size of your apartment.

You could play golf here.

For what it's worth, the villa didn't remind you of the House of Hope. Firstly, it was completely empty; the servants, if they were in there, managed to make themselves invisible. Second, it lacked the baroque, replaced by the dolce vita and flair of a Lake Como residence. Thirdly, there were no self-portraits, not even pictures, nothing to suggest that the man who lived here had a face, a history, let alone a family.

The first floor was devoted to entertaining guests: the kitchen, the dining room, the library, the ballroom (you guessed this kind of rooms used to be called ballrooms, he even had a piano in it). The second floor was half-locked, except for the master bedroom (the bed easily could accommodate two orthons and a cambion sandwiched between them) and the dressing room. 

There was also a basement - the entrance blocked by a number lock. You considered trying the PIN combination, but decided you didn't want to snoop down there... well, you wanted to snoop very badly, but you didn't want to face the possible consequences. Unless they resembled those in his private club.

So you roamed both floors twice before staking claim to your new sleeping quarters in the master bedroom by putting your suitcase down there. You checked everything else in the room: Raphael's bedside glasses, his choice of books (predictably, Machiavelli, but not The Prince, another book you had never heard of called Mandragola), even his dark silk pyjamas, which lay on the chaise awaiting their owner's return. You open his drawer: hand lotion, velvet sleeping mask, lubricant, two opera tickets (Götterdammerung) from about a month ago... 

Then curiosity led you to look under his bed, where he indeed had something stored: a large black storage box.

Oh, you just had to have a look. 

Just to get an idea of what’s on the evening programme.

Handcuffs, the real kind, the police kind, metal ones. The thought of all the women (and men) who might have been bound with them, as jealous as it made you feel, was titillating. A whip and a crop. Yes, that works for you. And what's this? Butt plugs? Only if they were still sealed in their original packaging (you were not into that kind of hand-me-downs) and way smaller. A chastity belt? Well, that's... intriguing, but probably not in your first month together. A hook? That can stay where it is.

At least nothing too extreme like needles or enemas or any of the other disgusting things you sometimes saw on weird porn sites.

Underneath all that, toys and accessories, lay another plain black box. Oh, a box in a box. Something was written on it.. 

GOOD EVENING CURIOUS LITTLE MOUSE

"Good evening," you said as you opened the lid.

Then promptly closed it again.

"No," you said. "No, no, no. It was just a fic I read and liked, I was very horny, but it's not really my thing. No, thank you. Just because I didn't have a father doesn't mean I have daddy issues. I don't care about the guy, he never cared about me, end of story".

You took a deep breath before opening the box again, hoping that the items inside had disappeared. 

But to your dismay, they were still there: a velvet collar adorned with "Daddy's Little Mouse" in shimmering gold thread, a headband with mouse ears, red lace cobweb-thin lingerie and a tail-butt plug (thankfully still in its original packaging and on the smaller side). The tail was furry and tipped with white, so you must have been a dormouse.

All of the toys were top quality, handmade, and incredibly vulgar. Well, no surprise, having seen what Haarlep was wearing in his house.

You closed the box shut again.

"I'd rather cook us something to eat," you suggested, getting up. "Some pasta. I bet you like pasta?"

You definitely liked pasta and hoped that Raul (Raphael, Raphael) would not have you hanged on the hooks and tortured for your very non-Italian interpretation. You hoped in vain, because he chimed in and tried to stop you from committing a crime:

"Working late. Don't bother with dinner. Take some time to relax and enjoy yourself. R".

As you descended the stairs, ignoring his text, you wondered - did he ever cook? Or was his kitchen just for show, with the real work done in the servants' quarters (do they still call them quarters?).

You forgot that question the moment you saw what was lying on the marble kitchen counter.

The same box you had left upstairs, still with 

GOOD EVENING DISOBEDIENT LITTLE MOUSE 

on it. 

You blinked and took two large steps back. 

The box seemed to crawl forward in response.

You shrieked; this was a bit too much. Raphael's presence, the supernaturality of it, had been subtle before; now it was becoming a bit performative.

"I got your hint," you said, your voice a shaky laugh. "Don't scare me, please. Please."

The box stayed where it was, but it radiated an energy of impatience, as if it might jump at you if you neglected it any longer.

“Fine,” you conceded, coming a bit closer. “A little romance would’ve been nice but…”

"Setting romantic atmosphere," a cheerful female voice said.

who the fuck who the fuck who the fuck

Alexa. 

Fucking smart home systems. The lights dimmed to a soft orange glow, the heavy curtains closed with a soft whoosh and a familiar tune echoed off the walls, the ballroom piano playing in the distance:

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine

The melody was familiar and so was the voice behind it - smooth, silky and oh so captivating (the adjectives you would use to describe it could fill many romance novels). A deep, rich baritone. You chuckled - had Raphael discovered blues? It suited him. 

You know I cannot stand it

You running around

You loved his interpretation of the song. It felt so intimate, him singing to you, so... very, very special. Your fear vanished in an instant; you poured yourself a glass of wine and took a luxurious sip.

"I'll put these on for you," you laughed, putting all the flirt you ever had in this laugh. "But don't expect me to call you 'Daddy'."

There was no protest; Raphael was too busy singing, pouring his entire soul into it. You made yourself busy too; stripping. You weren't very skilled (any skilled), but the thrill of being watched by him awakened something in you. You caught your reflection in the mirror and damn, you were hot. 

Shrugging off your shirt and sliding down your plain black briefs, you swayed your hips at your reflection as the wine worked its magic on your mind. For once in your life, you felt genuinely attractive; he made you feel genuinely attractive. The sexiest you'd ever been. 

Slipping into the silky red lace lingerie he had chosen for you (splurged on, because it was a La Perla) - you fastened the collar around your neck. A long golden chain dangled from it, wrapped twice around the hook and cascaded down your back. Then you put the mouse ears - not cartoonish, not Minnie Mouse ones, but real fur and incredibly lifelike - on your head like a headband. 

You looked like...well, precisely what your mother suspected you were doing to pay the bills. But at least high-end. Very high-end. The only thing worse than being an escort is being a cheap one.

But there was one more item left in the box.

"Ehh," you said at the sight of the mouse tail, especially the part that was meant to be inserted. "I'm going to need... I'm going to the bedroom."

It had been ages since your last foray into such play; back when you were with that boyfriend who constantly pestered you about anal and found it somehow arousing to "accidentally" (sure, mate) poke you and mumble an insincere "oops, wrong hole". 

You didn't stick around much longer after that.

Stretched out on Raphael's sumptuous bed, you slicked up everything - the plug, your pussy, your arse - with copious amounts of lube. First, some warming. So you began to rub yourself, two fingers finding their familiar way to your clit. You couldn't shake the crawling feeling of being watched, every inch of your body scrutinised by unseen eyes.

"Raphael," you called out into the empty room, desperate for some form of interaction or response. "I would love it if you would join me... or say something pleasant”.

Now would be the perfect time to call me a good girl.

But there was no response, just an eerie silence in the room. Feeling too naked and too slutty, you pulled the blanket over you, a makeshift barrier between you and his eyes. Under the fortification, tucking the tail in seemed less daunting.

Before you could get down to business, there was a jerk at the blanket, which fell to the cold floor, leaving you bare again. Then another tug on the chain attached to your collar, pulling you closer to the bedpost.

"I'm sorry," you gasped breathlessly, both hands instinctively reaching for your collar. "I won't hide."

The chain didn’t let go, making a point out of a slight pressure around your neck. Taking a deep breath, you focused on the task at hand, stroking your clit as you guided the plug inside you. 

You told yourself to relax and take it slow; just imagine it's Haarlep. How many times had you dreamed of being squeezed and stretched between the two of them? It was always Haarlep who took you from behind; it just seemed more their style.

The plug slid in deeper. It didn't hurt, and the little discomfort it caused added to the excitement. 

Damn, this is so dirty. 

"It's in," you said as the plug settled inside you. "All the way in. What's next?"

The words were barely out of your mouth when the golden chain, suddenly a snake-like lasso, wrapped tightly around your wrists.

Pulled them towards the bedpost, stretched out and bound tightly to either side. Fear gripped you and you clenched around the plug, pulling your knees tight together.

Tightly. Very tight. A little too tight. You tried to wriggle, the metal biting your skin; you could move your hips a little, but no more. 

You couldn't get out yourself, which was not good news when you were alone (well, almost) in a very big house. Your mind immediately thought of that girl in Gerald's Game.

"Raphael?" you asked. “It’s not that kind of game, is it? It’s a nice game? Can we play a nice game?”

He did not answer, but you heard footsteps. Footsteps coming down the long corridor. Confident, quick and very purposeful.

Stay calm, stay calm, it's him, it's him, who else could it be? Haarlep? The orthon? The driver? 

The door swung open.

It was Raphael, and he was visibly surprised to see you in this state, which was absolute bullshit considering he was responsible for tying you to this very bed. 

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, covering the distance to the bed in two strides. "What a welcome home surprise, piccola." 

Raphael gave you a lecherous, wet-lipped smile and knelt on the bed between your legs. There was something boyish about it, an expression you'd never seen in the game, as if he'd just found his first bike under the Christmas tree.

You searched for “piccola” earlier today: “baby” or “little girl” in Italian. 

"I'm not going to call you Daddy," you repeated, and Raphael shook his head and laughed, not seeming at all horrified at the thought (and he should be).

"I have some compelling evidence to the contrary, Daddy's little mouse," he teased, his fingers playing with your collar. 

"Anything but Daddy," you pleaded. "That's just... demeaning."

Weirdly incestual, too. You haven’t even seen the guy, not a photo, not a… (don’t think of him why the fuck would you think of the old bastard now).

“This is the whole appeal of it, is it not?”, he said. “How would you prefer to address me then?"

Raphael? Something told you that telling him that would make him very angry, and you weren't exactly in a position to want an angry man on top of you. Raul? No, that name just felt completely wrong and made you feel like you were in a Spanish soap opera. 

Raphael began to unbutton his shirt one button at a time, revealing a white undershirt, which he then took off. 

His physique was impressive for a man of his age; not those bodybuilder abs from bg3 but a well-toned body shaped by workouts and diets, which seemed to be very much at odds with his indulgent ways. Rough brown hair spread across his chest and lower abdomen against honey-tanned skin. Every inch of him seemed so put together, so perfectly groomed.

"Master," you finally decided (there was this one fanfic…) as you spread your legs wider in an invitation. 

"Master?" Raphael seemed amused, his fingers tracing the lace of your bra, teasing your hardened nipples through the fabric. "Such flattery. So this makes you my slave girl? Tied up and ready for me to use as I please?"

Reading Raphael say such things was one thing, but hearing him actually say them in real life made you feel embarrassed. It was a bit, ugh... 

“You get flustered easily for someone who waited for me dressed like this, little mouse,” Raphael raised an eyebrow at your see-through lace. “Topolina." 

He wrinkled his nose and laughed, as if the word was funnier in Italian, and poked the tips of your mouse ears. You wanted him so badly that your lips caught his as he came closer and you pushed your tongue into his mouth. He kissed your back, his hands moving up and down your body. 

"How the hell did you manage..." he mused aloud as he studied your bound wrists.

His fingers ventured between your legs, and the moment he stumbled upon your tail, his whole body twitched with excitement, his breath catching in his throat as he traced the soft fur to reach the base of the plug. 

The playful gleam in his eyes was replaced by an intense, wild desire.

"Merda," he breathed out. "Look at that. Aren't you a dirty little girl?"

You cringed at how pornographic the line sounded (his suddenly much thicker Italian accent didn't help), but Raphael seemed to find it excruciatingly erotic.

In one swift motion, he lunged forward and forced your legs apart, his hands pulling your knees towards your chest, folding you in until your muscles screamed in protest at the stretch. 

Without warning, he thrust deep inside of you. You gasped in surprise; no preliminaries, no foreplay, no taking it slowly, just raging, explosive lust.

Fortunately, your own fingers had done their job earlier, so despite the brutal force of his first thrust, pleasure surged through you, along with a sharp twinge of friction as his cock rubbed against the toy lodged inside you.

He seemed to relish the sensation and so did you. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body arched beneath him; stretched and pinned by his weight, trapped, surrendering to the relentless pounding that followed - raw and invasive and yet so fulfilling.

You were so looking forward to coming again from his penetration alone. The mere thought made you pull harder on your restraints, craving the delicious pain of being bound. The furry tail must have tickled his balls because he tucked it under you so that it would tease you instead. 

"Cross your ankles behind my back," Raphael rasped into your shoulder as he grazed it with his stubbled chin. "Yes, just like that... now tilt your hips."

You responded with your most submissive “yes, master”, making his cock twitch inside you, and then sifted your hips to better accommodate his pleasure. Wrapped your legs tightly around him, pulling him in deeper, pain-pleasure soaring through you. You sniffed his hair. 

His cologne (worn leather, cherry liqueur, bitter almonds) smelled so good oh so good.

He slid his arms underneath your arse, lifting you towards him at every thrust. 

Raphael said few words after that, grunting and thrusting and thrusting. Something about him was different this time - something very human - from how his sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead to his expressions of sheer lust that bordered on comical at times. 

One thing remained the same - the pleasure his pounding brought you, the familiar hooks of approaching orgasm - not any orgasm, the orgasm of being with him, his sharp talons - sinking inches deep into your flesh again. 

fuck does he feel good

rough or tender it just feels so good

his cock his tongue his breath on your neck

You screamed "fuck me", then once again, louder, not caring how obscene you sounded, and bit his shoulder without a second thought. 

The scream that escaped you was higher pitched than you had intended.

do whatever whatever you want whatever you want with me

Raphael's face creased with annoyance as his strong finger pressed into your cheek. "Easy…easy… piccola... I appreciate…. a good performance… not …overacting," he scolded as he went at you harder, pushing you to the point of pain.

hurt me

fuck me fuck me harder

You would have protested at the implication that you were pretending, but you were too busy coming under him, his hand clamped over your mouth before your temporal insanity could drive you to actually call him ‘daddy’.

If he wanted you to why wouldn’t you he is so sweet to you oh so sweet to you

The scream was swallowed by his palm as an orgasm, brutal in its intensity and lightning-fast, ripped through you, whip-snaked it. You greeted your release with a wail, biting into his hand. Raphael paused mid-thrust, apprehensive of how your pussy convulsed around him and your leg spasmed uncontrollably - if this was a performance, you deserved an award.

"You weren't pretending," he panted, awe-struck. "My apologies. You were not".

The realisation frenzied him; he spilled within a minute after, rutting into you with intensity belying his age. Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of you, his breath, cherries and tobacco, warming your throat as his cock softened within you.

"I may have gotten a little carried away," he said, sounding embarrassed and slightly apologetic as he lay down beside you. "But it seems you're more than content."

You eagerly and quickly nodded.

"Are you that... passionate with every man?" He asked as he helped you free your wrists - jealousy creeping into his voice at the mention of that mysterious 'every man'.

You couldn't help but laugh at the question. "No," you replied. "Far from it. You are not just any man. You are anything but."

Raphael let out a sigh of relief and kissed you, making no effort to hide how much your compliment pleased him. 

When you parted, you hopped awkwardly off the bed - the odd gait one adopts when they have a plug in them (no way were you going to remove it in his presence, no way) and cum was trickling down your thighs. 

Shit, the condom. Now you forgot to ask him to wear it.

Would he have?..

Ah, screw it. Google says Plan B is effective for up to 72 hours after unprotected sex, so you'll take it tomorrow - for tonight and last night. You'd never been this careless before, but hell, you'd never murdered people with a mere thought or slept with an Archdevil of Hell.

Raphael was still lying there, basking in the afterglow, when you returned.

"I have to admit, Anya... I'm seriously thinking of proposing," he murmured with such tenderness as you snuggled against him that you wondered if Raphael really was incapable of love.

"That would be quick," you replied, but made it sound like you wouldn't mind at all.

"Quick?" he scoffed. "A man knows what he wants in a woman the moment he sets eyes on her. Unfortunately, there are very few left in your generation."

You smiled, already dreaming of being the Archduchess of Hell, and half-dreaming in general from sheer exhaustion and satisfaction. 

"They lied about you being bad in bed," you murmured as sleep began to take over. "I knew it was all bullshit."

"They?" He asked, his face contorting into a scowl at your sentence. "Who are they? Anya, for God's sake, stop reading those trashy tabloids."

You closed your eyes for a moment. When you half-opened them, you saw him on the balcony outside, in a black silk robe, AirPods in his ears and a cigarette in his mouth. Behind him you could see the smoke and fire of the Avernus mountain ridge, the fireballs cascading down from the sky. Beautiful. 

Raphael gestured with his free hand, aggressively, and you listened a little closer; fortunately he was more than loud.

"...we will bleed them dry if they dare to break our agreement..."

"...they knowingly and willingly accepted our terms, they will choke on the consequences..."

"...all must pay their dues, sooner or later..."

"...an army? We have our own army..."

A yawn escaped your lips as you snuggled deeper into the plush pillows of the massive bed. Everything, except the AirPods, fit perfectly into the image of Archdevil Supreme.

You felt so chosen, so alive, so gloriously alive, and your life had just begun.

"Are you coming soon?" you called out as you tried to think of an appropriate nickname for him - something intimate, but not too cheesy. Darling? Baby? Sweetheart? Love? My favourite devil?

But he beat you to it before you could decide.

"Soon, my love. Rest," he blew you a kiss. With a loud click, he shut the glass door and cut you off from hearing the rest of their conversation. You let out a contented sigh and rolled over onto your side, drifting into a peaceful slumber.

"My love," you said in your sleep. "Raphael called me his love”.

****

The urgent need to go to pee woke you. The time was a mystery, but it must have been late enough for Raphael to have gone to bed too.

He was pressed close to you, his hand cupping your breast. You looked over your shoulder; asleep, peaceful, in buttoned pyjamas, and it was the one moment when he did not look threatening at all; vulnerable, if anything. You kissed him on the cheek and he smiled in his sleep and held you close. 

When you came back from your short (not really, a good thirty metres to the toilet) trip to the bathroom, you snuggled closer to him, preparing to doze off again, and then you heard something.

You listened closer, thinking you had dreamed it first.

Soft, gentle whimpers. You recognised the voice. You didn't know how, but you did. Something childishly cheerful and slightly mad about it.

Oh, no. No. You were happy, spooning with Raphael, and you didn't need this shit right now, especially when things were finally going so well.

Hope, please, you begged.

You got all your happy endings, so many of them, wonderful endings where Raphael was killed by the player and you got to live and your revenge and whatnot. Can I have one too, please? Without you whining and making me feel guilty for something I didn't even do?

"My love," you asked Raphael softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his side. "Can you let her go?"

"Mmm," Raphael murmured in his sleep, "Sure, piccola. Whatever you wish for."

You waited for him to act, but he only tightened his grip on the blanket and shifted slightly.

"You have all the hells and the crown and everything (and me). You don't need her anymore," you tried again. 

"Anya, let me sleep," Raphael mumbled into his pillow, away from your voice. You tried to hide from her voice under your pillow as well, but you could still hear the soft, painful moans. 

Ugh. 

They were very, very far away, but still there.

"She's still wailing," you complained, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him a little. "Raphael? Raphael?"

 "Who is wailing?” he groaned in pure frustration, and then made a half-hearted attempt at listening. “Ah, merda, not that bloody bitch again! I swear, I will plug that hole myself!"

You tried to make sense of that sentence and couldn't, but what you did get was that it promised Hope nothing good and sounded vaguely vulgar, which was even worse. 

"Don't hurt Hope," you begged, appalled by his threat. "She doesn't deserve it!"

"I don't deserve it either," Raphael retorted before turning away from you. "Please be quiet."

He should direct this request to his prisoner. 

What had really happened between them? You didn't think his obsession with Hope was sexual because, well, because, for example, he fucked you and you both enjoyed it, so he was definitely into consent, and Hope was more like a metaphor, a concept, a point to be made, and some shitty fucking rushed Act 3 writing.

"You... you didn't hurt her like that, did you? There was some talk... With that boudoir line... It was misinterpreted... right?"

Right. He may be evil, but he is lawful evil. He believed in consent and seduction, not violence. 

"I haven't hurt anyone, what in damnation are you talking about?" he growled through gritted teeth, and you let out a small sigh of relief.  "But if I don't get some rest, I might."

He hadn't hurt Hope. He wouldn't lie. He cannot; devils can deceive, but not outright lie. You read it somewhere.

Okay, he's not going to let her go and he's not going to help you and Hope was certainly not going to shut up. You have to go to her. And say what? Say what? Sorry for your predicament and the centuries of torture, Hope, but could you please be a bit quieter, me and Raphael just had sex and are trying to sleep? 

Let her go? And lose his favour, his credit card and the place next to him in his bed?

Yes, come on. It would be the right thing to do and you would do it. 

Where was she anyway, you wondered as you walked down the stairs. In the cellar? Hanging from the ceiling? You still don't have the key to the cellar. When you reached the ground floor, the kitchen, you realised that the noises were not coming from the cellar - they were coming from outside.

Outside? Did he hang her on a tree on this cold April night? 

You put on his trench coat and slipped into your sneakers. This was so unnecessarily evil, you thought, suddenly feeling much less happy about everything, especially as the pained whimpering got closer. Hardly human, you thought, more like a creature trapped and desperately trying to free itself. 

Yes, definitely more of a creature.

In fact, it reminded you of a dog. You searched the darkness of the night, determined to find it, and there it was: a dachshund wedged between the ground and a large, weathered fence, whimpering into the still night. 

The poor thing must have thought it was quite the burglar, trying to burrow under a hole in the fence to pull through. But it only managed to get itself stuck.

"Oh, poor baby," you said as you approached the dog. "Let's see if we can get you out."

You pulled on the fence to widen the opening and the cub was free.

It licked your hand in gratitude. Dogs love you. All animals do, and it's quite mutual. You had a harder time with people.

There were distant, panicked cries for Steffie somewhere in the distance; the owner was out on a rescue mission. You took the dachshund in your lap and went to meet her.

The woman was in her sixties, dark brown hair, a very aged beauty, and she looked a bit funny in her fur coat and slippers. She had tears in her eyes. Steffie ran to her as soon as she saw her.

"You silly little girl," she scolded the whining, complaining dog in her arms. She had a thick American drawl. "Why do you keep going back to his house? What's so special about him? I told you he was bad news!"

"Is he?" You asked the question when you knew the answer.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she stammered, forcing a smile to her lips. "I didn't mean it like that. You're Raul's new girl, aren't you? Samantha. I live down the road. Sorry about Steffie, she's very... adventurous."

There were exactly three houses on the street, a mile apart each.

"You meant it like that," you said. "If it's about Isabelle, she's apologised and withdrawn her accusations".

There was a pause, and Samantha's perfectly friendly smile cracked a little.

"Well, in that case," she said, before adding with forced cheerfulness, "thank you for looking after Steffie, sweetheart! You take care now."

She tried to walk away, but turned back; she was as curious as her little dog.

"I was walking Steffie when that French girl ran out of his house," she said, unable to resist the urge to gossip. "She was naked and babbling like a lunatic. She had blood on her, too".

"Did she scream something about the devil?" you asked after a pause.

"Devil? No. Not that I speak French," said the woman, making a last attempt to walk away, but failing. "Listen, I have a daughter about your age. And if some guy - ANY guy - tried to put that kind of crap around her neck, I would chop his arms off".

What did she mean? 

The collar. 

She meant the "Daddy's little mouse" collar you still have around your neck. 

Oh, don't kink shame me, you were going to say, but that kind of talk sounds ridiculous in real life. She managed to shame you very badly, so you hid the collar under your trench coat and mumbled, "I put it on myself".

That actually made her look at you again. Steffie looked at you with the same expression. 

Everybody's out to guilt trip you - Hope, the dog (the dog you saved!), the neighbour, the guy who got thrown under the bus, and you've done nothing but enjoy some devil sex.

The woman finally decided it was time to go, muttering "You need Jesus, sweetheart" before she left.

That's your God who kept women in collars and on leashes for centuries, not the Devil, you thought bitterly, and unlike the Devil, he didn't even fuck them. 

Well, only once.

***

You were back in the en-suite bathroom, washing your face in the marble sink.

Who the fuck was this man, really? What the fuck was happening? 

Your hand shot out, yanking open a cabinet door. An array of men's grooming products stared back at you - cologne, razor, facial moisturiser and scrub, deodorant, shaving gel, sleek, expensive bottles. A man took care of his looks.

Another cabinet creaked open under your touch. 

Your eyes darted to the label on the bottle - Risperidon. You had no idea what it was, but you memorised it for a future Google search, repeating it under your breath like a mantra. 

"Are you rummaging through my belongings, nosy little mouse?”

He was dead asleep last time you checked!

You jerked, closing the cupboard and stumbling back to the bathroom sink, gasping for breath. "No," you stammered, turning to find him standing in the doorway. "I mean... yes. I can't sleep. I thought you might have some pills."

His eyes were canny; he didn't swallow your lie and made no pretence of doing so. He bridged the gap and hugged you from behind - frighteningly strong and wanting every ounce of that power to seep into your bones. His strength made you realise just how much of a level 1 human NPC you were.

"You don't have to violate my privacy when I'm not around, Anya," he whispered against your skin as he began to trail soft kisses down your neck. "If there's anything that's bothering you, just ask me directly. I want us to be honest with each other."

What was in the cellar? What kind of work does he do for you? Did he rape Hope? Or was it Haarlep? Where is Haarlep, by the way? Why does Raphael want to play Raul? 

"What happened to Isabelle?" you asked. 

"Ah, I see. Is that why you asked me if I had hurt anyone?" he said. "Is that what the tabloids told you?"

You nodded.

"Isabelle had an addiction," he admitted, the crow’s feet showing themselves. "It spiralled out of control. She had… a bout of psychosis, a mental breakdown. Made false accusations to the press. She's now getting the help she needs, poor girl”.

"Why was she covered in blood?" you pressed, looking at his reflection in the mirror as an infernal light danced in his orange eyes.

For all the fire in them, they seemed icy, impossibly cold for a man who had called you my love less than an hour ago. "How did you come by this information? You seem to know more than one would expect of you, Anya. There are things about you that make me... wonder. I have been giving you the benefit of the doubt, perhaps foolishly."

Your breath caught in your throat. “The neighbour”, you said. “Your neighbour told me”.

The truth you’d spilled slaked him, but only a little. He looked at you, jaw hardened.

"Samantha? I’ll have a word with her. Very well, we were making love when Isabelle had a psychotic episode."

Making love? Really? He did not make love to you.

"She lashed out at me," he continued. "It was my blood, Anya. I would never hurt her or any other woman. Without their consent, that is."

But that couldn't be true, because there was Hope - and many others who owed him, and Raphael might have been many things, but not a liar, and yet here he was, lying right to your face.

He did hurt people. Whether they deserved it, whether they brought onto themselves, that was a different matter, but he did hurt them.

"If you need proof, you can take a look at the psychiatrist's report," he offered coldly. "The authorities got involved... unfortunately."

"I believe you," came your shaky reply. 

You desperately wanted to. 

Raphael’s eyes flickered.

"Trust goes both ways, Anya," he whispered in your ear, running a finger along your collar. "If you do not trust me, then I will be forced to ask some very unpleasant questions myself. Do we understand each other?"

Which questions? He knows everything there is to know about you. He knows your browser history.

“We do”, you said, still looking in the mirror. “Of course we do, my love”.

"Is that so?” he smiled. "I suggest we go to our bed and put that theory to the test."

[silkendandelion]

On todays break from our WIPs:

Headcanons for one piece languages:

Languages I think characters from the one piece universe could speak—minus English, cuz it gets my blood pressure up 😤 also with some OCs sprinkled

Assume everyone can speak the Common Language, which is how they speak to each other normally (unless I’ve specified I think they’re bad at it) also we’re splitting up the Spanish into dialects bc the hyperfixation is hyperfixating

OC River: Panamanian Spanish, his common is fluent but he just sounds so dumb sometimes, give him a break

OC Aurelio: Mexican Spanish (he dunks on River for using Caribbean slang but he’s just a hater don’t mind him ❤️)

Shanks: Mexican Spanish, dabbles in French (currently trying to learn German from Mihawk)

Buggy: German, french (his common is fluent but heavily accented I feel it in my bones)

Mihawk: Spain Spanish, German

Crocodile: Italian, Arabic, German, conversational Latin Spanish

Law: German, Russian, Spain Spanish (I don’t think he’s very good at it actually 😔💙)

Sanji: French, Argentinian Spanish

Robin: this learned girl can talk the ear off anyone anywhere, don’t ask me “But what about—” the most beautiful polyglot in the world has at least dabbled, I’m sure

Perona: French, Spain Spanish (she sponged it off Mihawk, wanted to learn German but gave up)

Nami: Swedish, Finnish, what Portuguese she sponged from Luffy

Luffy: Portuguese, we’re assuming Dadan taught it to him. But for some reason every time the Strawhats encounter a new language Luffy can magically speak it back like, he doesn’t know how he does it either

Franky: he’s got the common on lock but he was too busy becoming an incredible shipwright to learn anything else 😔

Feel free to add your own headcanons in the reblogs/replies, all are welcome!

[yukidragon]

Sunny Day Jack - Playful and Crazy

In the spirit of Valentine's Day, I've decided to just write something in the spirit of love. What better way to show myself love than with some sugary sweet self-indulgence with my OTP? I just let things flow wherever it took me with Alice and Jack loving on each other, without really fretting about any bigger purpose, polishing, or any real beginning or end.

No real warnings apply, just some sweet making out and silliness from a clown who has an appreciation for television and a ray of sunshine who drives him crazy. Who doesn't love to reference a good sitcom that they grew up with when the mood is right?

Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you all have a wonderful one and that you enjoy my story. Love you all and, as always, thanks for reading and sending me sweet comments!

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur @kurokrisps

...

Alice ran her fingers through his blue hair. It felt soft and silky, not at all stiff like a wig or as if it was dyed. Jack let out a low, pleased rumble at the back of his throat as he leaned into her touch. His expression was one of pure contentment as his eyes drifted closed. His adorable dreamy smile seized her heart in a gentle squeeze.

“Alice,” Jack sighed. He shifted as Alice brought her fingers back to his forehead, nuzzling into her arm before pressing his lips to her wrist. “My sunshine…”

Alice shivered at the way his voice and warm breath caressed her skin. “Jack…,” she said softly as he planted another kiss there, then another. Slowly he worked his way down his arm, planting countless playful pecks that tickled and warmed her all at once.

“Cara mia,” Jack said with a playful note to his voice, his eyes dancing as he met her gaze.

Alice tried not to laugh, but it escaped her anyway in a snort. Of course this television clown would make a TV show reference. “You’re so cheesy,” she teased before breaking off into giggles as he peppered her with intentionally ticklish kisses.

“Querida mia,” Jack cooed in a poor Italian accent. His movements became a bit more exaggerated with every kiss, making the reference even more intentional, but each kiss carried his sincere love for her.

Alice giggled as she watched her silly clown perform, using her arm as a prop. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Jack admitted playfully between kisses. “But I do know that it means you’re the only one for me, sunshine.”

Alice felt a flush of warmth that brought a rosy hue to her cheeks. “You’re the only one for me too, mi amor.”

Jack’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and he flashed a wide smile. “Sunshine, that’s French!” He practically attacked her arm with kisses. “You know it drives me crazy when you speak French.”

Alice fought not to laugh at his silly antics, giving him a smile that barely managed to hold onto its wry hook. “A-actually that’s Spanish.”

Jack paused for a moment, as if caught off guard or contemplating, before he went back to kissing her arm. “Alice, that’s Spanish! You know it drives me crazy when you speak Spanish.”

Alice couldn’t hold back her laughter that time, and every kiss only made her cackle even more.

It was only when Jack worked his way up to her shoulder and his lips found her neck that Alice started to go breathless for a different reason. Silly pecks slowly started to linger, his mouth gently sucking on her skin with every kiss that blazed a trail upward along the hollow of her throat. Gently, he raked his teeth along her skin before nibbling on a particularly sensitive part, eliciting a gasp that turned into an adorable almost mewling sound.

“God…,” Jack murmured against her neck, and Alice could feel his smile against her skin. “It drives me crazy when you make those noises for me, sunshine.” He leaned back just enough to see her flushed face, those plump pink lips that beckoned for his. “You drive me crazy… so, so crazy…”

Alice didn’t get a chance to respond before Jack claimed her lips with his. She moaned what would have been his name if his tongue didn’t slide into her mouth to twine with hers, making words impossible. She gave up on any sort of witty retort and savored the kiss instead, wrapping her arms around her lover’s neck to draw him closer.

It was only when both of them were left breathless and gasping desperately for air that they parted, mouths wet and connected for a moment more after that. Jack admired the haze of love and desire that clouded her bright blue eyes, taking pride in knowing that he was the cause of it. He was the reason she was so worked up. He was the only one she looked at that way, the only one who she would ever look at this way.

A part of Jack wanted to show off, to brag to the world that only he was worthy of Alice. He was the only one who could drive her wild and make her weak with need. Another part of him was greedy like a dragon with its hoard, wanting to lock her away in their own little world where no one could take her from him. Nothing would take his sunshine away from him. He’d never allow it.

It scared him sometimes how badly he needed her.

“I can’t help it,” Jack said softly, more to himself than her. “I can’t help but be crazy for you, Alice. I love you so much… I need you.”

His answer was a kiss, as Alice pulled him back to her. Jack melted into her lips, moaning as she took the initiative to deepen the kiss, sliding her tongue along his intimately. She twined her fingers through his hair, tracing hearts along his scalp and making him shiver as the kiss ended.

“I love you too, Jack,” Alice said breathlessly. She placed a kiss on his painted nose before giving him a crooked smile. “You’ve made my life crazy, you silly clown, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jack chuckled as Alice teasingly poked her tongue out at him before he captured it with his lips, leading them into another deep, wet kiss. He pulled her close, savoring the warmth of her body against his, how her delicate fingers toyed with his hair and scalp.

“Good,” Jack said once they caught their breath again. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Alice said as she playfully, but gently, tugged on his hair for emphasis.

Jack shivered at the feeling and his smile took on a hungry edge to it, like a predator salivating over his prey. “You can hold onto me as tight as you want,” he practically purred before his voice turned teasing. “You can pull on my hair as hard as you like too. I don’t mind, you know~!”

Alice blushed harder at his suggestion and sputtered for a moment before she recovered. “You really are a crazy clown,” she said with a soft chuckle, before giving his  hair a slightly firmer tug. “Just… let me know if it’s too hard.” Her smile faded just a little. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Jack said. His voice was soft but full of conviction so strong that Alice couldn’t help but believe it too. “Don’t worry… I’m tougher than I look, you know. Besides, I’d enjoy it if you played a little rough with me sometimes.” He added a playful wink to lighten the mood. “I love how gentle you are with me, Alice, but I’d love to drive you just as crazy as you make me. I want you to lose control with me, go wild for me, want me, need me, until you can’t think about anything else but me… how much you love me and I love you.”

Alice let out a quiet chuckle at that. “Trust me, there’s no one else who makes me wild like you, starlight.” She punctuated her words by nipping at his lower lip before drawing back. “I’m crazy for you, Jack. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Alice,” Jack sighed happily before he closed the distance between them in another kiss. He smiled against her lips as he felt her give his hair another, much more firm tug. He moaned her name in approval before drinking deeply of that sweet mouth that always knew the right words to say to fill his heart with love.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Eight

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.8k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

It had been several days since she’d introduced Tom to the Baron. Perhaps a full week already passed. In truth, she stopped keeping count.

She had waited outside the Baron’s office for him, and pretended it was just to make sure he didn’t lose his way on his way back to the hotel, but selfishly she was curious to know how their meeting had gone. Did the Baron like the books? Did he like Tom? Did Tom like him? The latter was unlikely. Only special personalities ever did, and her new friend was neither bootlicker nor snob.

But Tom was frustratingly silent on their way back to the station, and no gentle prodding from her would nudge a hint of what had happened. His body was stiff and straight as if in a march, and his gaze was focused on the road ahead. He spared her only a few, rather shy glances now and then, as if he had just taken something from her. There would be no further trade, she understood that much…

She hadn’t seen him since.

The old routine of life that she fell back into suddenly no longer satisfied. She frustrated herself by thinking of him now and then, his face appearing to her for an instant, and then she would start wondering where he was, what he was doing, was he thinking of her, would he ever come back… For all she knew, he had left for England already, and then she would become spontaneously angry and afraid, and her handling of the books would roughen, and her steps would sound quite loud, and nothing would taste good to her anymore.

But all it would take to lift her spirits was the chiming of the bell — was that Tom? — before she saw it was just Sister Silvia or another flock of tourists. Oh. Buongiorno.

She was stocking the shelves at the far end of the shop one morning when the bell ran once again, and through the silence, she heard steady footsteps, firm and prim and strong. She descended and went to them, and when she saw a dark head of hair and a tight lean torso in a plain white shirt, her heart trilled. She smiled as she approached him, faster, faster, and called out a bright ‘hello’. But then the young man turned and broke the spell.

“B-buongiorno,” she mumbled, stopping to a halt. “Posso aiutarla?”

“Oui, er… Si. Cercando un libro di… Torchia?” he said in lightly accented Italian. Was he French? “Quello nella vetrina.”

“Certamente. E come si chiama, signore?”

“Clement Merle,” he said with a smooth rolling of the tongue. “Piacere, signorina.”

Whatever faint smile she had faded. She realised with horror that she would have to tell the Baron about this, and suddenly everything felt quite cold. She forced a grin and nodded, and invited Clement further inside.

II

Tom did not particularly enjoy the taste of coffee, even after having to inflict it on himself these past few weeks for the sake of fitting in. It was a muggle drink and made him somewhat restless when he drank too much of it.

But now that he had started partaking of it on an almost daily basis, he recognised in it a certain quality. It, unlike tea, did not remind him of Mrs. Cole, nor any of the other ladies at the orphanage. Combined, they must’ve drank the Empire’s supply of the stuff while he was there, and to this day he couldn’t bring himself to touch certain varieties, like the Ceylon they favoured.

But he was here now, just another dark-haired man sipping from a little cup throughout the hour while he sat outside and pretended to read a newspaper…

The whole day, he hadn’t ventured anywhere outside of the hotel. He ordered breakfast in his room and spent most of the morning reading. Later, he had lunch at the restaurant downstairs and let the hours drain away at the bar. He hadn’t brought any books with him, they were too important — especially the ones that screamed when opened.

People came and went, and between lunch and dinnertime, he was propositioned on at least four occasions. It was hard to tell with foreign women… They were either too overt, too subtle, or both. But it reminded him, in a manner that made a chill slink down his spine and rise up in his stomach, of the Baron: that same narcissism and pride. As for the attention of the women, that reminded him of England, and his extra-contractual work for Burke. Depravity, fel need, and the loneliness of witches.

Perhaps it was their wealth that he resented, or their looks that he despised, women married for their money with the grit to bear a loveless match… Tom humiliated himself for them, swallowed his own pride, and touched, when it came down to it, their most guarded parts. But no matter what deluded charms they exercised, they never entered through his blood, his eyes, his mouth, to reach him, and Tom could not imagine any of the women he had met so far as able to, through their lips or tender touch, incite his soul to plummet to the level of the body, nor bring his body to the dark heights of his soul.

And of course, how could they? Women who had never worked a day in their lives, women who slept on treasures they neither valued nor truly recognised. Selfish creatures suffering vainly in their little cages, whose ignorance and cowardice enticed him to the brink of murder. No, now that he was away from England and free from Burke and Borgin’s demands, he would not subject himself to any more of that.

“Signor Riddle?”

He nearly jumped from his seat as he heard the clerk call for him from the entrance.

“Si?” he asked, turning around. This was the same prick who recommended that horrible restaurant to him. His eyes narrowed.

“Ah, telephone for you. Cabine two.”

“Grazie,” he muttered.

Tom left the newspaper and his cold coffee behind and walked out to the little chamber on the other side of the hotel where the phone booths were.

“Ahem, yes? Tom Riddle speaking.”

“Tom? Oh, hello! I was afraid you wouldn’t be in…”

It was her.

“Yes, took a break from sight-seeing,” he answered, casually leaning against the booth. “It’s good to hear from you again. Everything alright?”

“Of course, of course it is.”

“Really? You sound a little… nervous.” It was hard to keep the smile from his voice.

“No, everything’s fine,” she said quietly. “I just called because… because…”

Tom held the phone to his ear tightly. She sounded like she was going to cry any minute.

“Because I was wondering whether you’d be able to stop by the shop anytime soon.”

“I’d be glad to,” said Tom, summoning a tone of innocent confusion. “But what’s this about?”

“The… the Baron has reconsidered your offer.”

“He’ll trade the books?”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, the connection wavering. “I just know he wants to talk to you. He’d like to make an offer.”

“Very well. When?”

“When can you come?”

“Today.”

“Oh, that’s… That would be perfect,” she said excitedly.

“Good,” Tom smiled. “You close at half past five, yes? I can come then.”

“Thank you so much, Tom. I’ll be waiting for you inside. Bring the books with you, just in case.”

“I will,” he said. “Goodbye for now.”

“Bye…”

III

He arrived there a little early and waited for a while. He hadn’t expected to see a dark little car parked beside the shop, but at least it confirmed what he already suspected. The Baron was inside.

From the outside, the place seemed closed for the day save for a faint little light coming from a corner of the room. He knocked on the door and, as he waited for somebody to answer, he looked in through the window. There was no sign of Clement anywhere, but that volume of Torchia — the bait they set for him — was gone.

It didn’t matter what happened to Clement, of course, because Tom had been at the hotel all day which all the staff there could attest to. It might have been a little callous, sacrificing him like that, but at least it took suspicion away from him. That, and the monogrammed Swiss knife he’d left under the table. Oh well. Clement had been annoying anyway.

Like a light in the darkness, she came into view.

“Tom!” he heard her say from the other side. She rushed to open the door, her smile shaky and wide. “You came…”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” he grinned cockily as he took his coat off. “So, how have you been?”

Silent as he stepped through, she locked up again behind him, then took his coat and hung it up on the rack behind the door. There was a haunted look in her eyes that wished to say so much.

“Fine, just fine. And how are you?”

“Good,” Tom nodded. He looked down at her figure — fetching as always but closed off, tight, her legs stiff and her hands ruddy as if she’d rubbed them raw in icy water.

“Enough with the pleasantries, I haven’t got all night!” came a familiar voice from the next room.

“Si, signore.”

“Venite qui!”

With an apologetic sigh, she showed him through.

“I’ve been well, by the way,” Tom said to her. “I did so much sightseeing this past week that it was nice to rest for a few days.”

“I honestly thought you’d returned to England by now.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry to do that.”

“And your employer?”

“Is far away. Just the way I like it,” he winked. He knew she felt the same.

She gave him a knowing smile, then stood aside as she invited him into the last room.

The Baron was there, seated in his bulky wheelchair by the table. He was smoking his pipe, or rather chewing on it, as he levelled a thick scowl at Tom. The dark surrounded them. The only point of light was a faint lamp glowing before the Baron.

“Mr. Riddle,” he said. His expression was unchanged as Tom stepped through as if he were talking to a projection in his mind and not a person right before him. “It seems we were destined to meet again.”

“And I thought you willingly invited me,” he smiled.

“I asked you to come here. I haven’t invited you to anything yet.”

Tom shrugged and looked around, pretending to be less familiar with this room than he really was.

“I must say, Baron, being called on such short notice, so suddenly and rushed… It seems, if I can afford to say so, quite unlike you.”

The old man took another puff and clenched his jaw in thought, the loose teeth creaking in his mouth.

“This place will be of interest to you, I can assure you,” he said.

“So, should I give you the books now, or…?”

The Baron and the girl behind him exchanged a look. She closed the door behind them, then moved to the left. Tom turned his head and followed her shadowed silhouette.

She bent and pulled the carpet neatly by the edge, skirt tightening enticingly around her thighs, then knelt. He couldn’t see just what she was doing, but he could hear the click of a metallic lock, and when she stepped over to the side he could see an entrance where that trapdoor was, a gaping doorway in the floor. The jaundiced light fell over a few wooden steps that descended into darkness.

Tom looked at her. She seemed quite… apprehensive, as if afraid, but proud as well to share a secret part of her with him. Tom considered using Legilimency on her to see if he was in any danger — they had probably killed Clement, after all — but he did not yet know what magical defences this place had, and now that he was so close to penetrating their little group it would have been foolish to gamble.

“Join me downstairs,” the Baron said, and as if summoned she hurried to his side to help roll him forward. “I have something to show you.”

She avoided Tom’s gaze as she walked past, and stopped at the trapdoor. The railings on its side hooked neatly underneath the wheelchair and, carefully held by his clerk, he descended. Tom followed close behind.

The steps went on for quite a while, and soon the light from upstairs vanished. He held on to the same railings as he went down step by step, further into darkness and unknown alike. He smelled wood and dirt, and the dry chill that came with old stonework.

After a while, he heard a shuffling and squeaking of wheels, which meant they’d reached the floor. Someone flipped a switch, and light pooled underneath. Tom squinted for a moment, then continued his descent. He could estimate they were some two stories deep.

A shadow began climbing toward him. He slowed his steps and, once she reached him, touched her arm. She stopped and only then looked into his eyes, their bodies were closer now than ever.

“Where does this lead?” he whispered.

“Just follow the Baron,” she said with a weak smile in an air of surrender. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just need to close the door behind us.”

“Nobody else is coming, the shop is locked up,” he scoffed.

“It’s the rule,” she said, shrugging her arm out of his grasp and climbing onward.

IV

The Baron was waiting at the bottom and began rolling away when Tom arrived. He took a moment to look around him, but there was nothing remarkable to see. Merely an empty corridor of smooth cement, and a few electric fixtures on the walls, small lightbulbs the size of candle flames. There wasn’t even anything on the ground, although judging by the fading on the edges Tom could guess a carpet had been there not long ago.

After a few moments of walking in silence, the Baron spoke again.

“I have something for you to evaluate tonight.”

“Something?”

“A few books,” he said. “What exactly is your profession in England?”

“I serve my employer as both sales clerk and purchasing agent.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years, sir.”

“That’s not a lot,” said the old man, “for them to trust you with an international assignment like this.”

“It seems they are satisfied with my work so far.”

The Baron hummed, and Tom could tell he was trying to seem less impressed than he was. Typical of men like that, to downplay the achievements of others. A bully’s attitude. Tom could not — and indeed refused to — say that he knew muggles well, but he knew arrogance, and pride, and stuck up aristocracy.

With a prim clipping of the heels, they were joined again by his assistant. Her hands went immediately to the handles of the wheelchair and she began to help the Baron forward.

“Where’s halfway there,” she said, a little out of breath.

“Hurry up, then, before he leaves.”

Tom cocked a brow, wondering who they were referring to.

“So, how do you feel?” she asked him in a quieter voice.

“I should be asking you that,” said Tom.

“Oh, I’m fine…”

It sounded like the sort of ‘fine’ that women often gave when they had something else to say. Her large eyes, her tight closed lips, the whole nervous energy of her that night disturbed him. He liked her better up a ladder, picking dusty volumes off high shelves, her body held up in the air just by one little foot and a few fingers. Or poured over a hot desk, her breath suspended as she wrote, ink pen poised between her fingers much like a witch’s wand. Not… this. This servitude. It made bile rise up in Tom’s throat. For a moment, he imagined their places switched, then realised it would have made no difference — he was the same with Burke as she was with the Baron. He put aside this notion before it made him angry too.

They were finally approaching something different than grey walls and naked lightbulbs. Tom could see thick red drapery and lamps, and the hint of doorways further on. A single blade of light cut across the floor, shivering with hints of a figure moving on the inside.

“Now, Mr. Riddle,” said the Baron, “we’ll see if you’re worthy of carrying those books with you, and of carrying yet more.”

Tom’s left hand secured the strap of the messenger bag around his shoulder, and his left hovered at his pocket, near his wand. That had sounded an awful lot like a threat.

[reflectionsofthesea]

Some cool expressions in Bergamasco (the dialect from the town I was born and raised in, Bergamo) and a comparison with italian.

Bergamasco is a very interesting dialect, because it borrows terms, sounds and letters from both german and french! This makes it sound very different from italian and other italian dialects.

A lot of grammatical components like the way verbs are structured, the sounds and pronunciation, and articles, are very similar to german and french.

And it also gives bergamasco-speakers like myself an advantage in speaking german, finnish or other languages that have the vowels ä, ö, ü (or the finnish y), since we already know how to pronounce them!

(green: Bergamasco, white: italian) Some expressions:

se fet? cosa fai? = what are you doing?

so mia. non lo so. = i don't know.

n'doe? dove? = where?

n'do set? dove sei? = where are you?

mochela. smettila. = stop it.

lassa sta'. lascia stare. = don't bother/leave it alone.

fa frecc. fa freddo. = it's cold.

fa colt. fa caldo. = it's hot.

mola mia. non mollare. = don't let go/don't give up.

fa' mia isè. non fare così. = don't be like that.

n'dondaret? dove vai? = where are you going?

n'che manera? perché? = in what way/ means 'why?'

borlà zò cadere = fall down

desdes fo'./rampa fo'. svegliati/muoviti = wake up, hurry up

gregnà ridere = to laugh

usa drè urlare dietro = to scream at someone

porta drè negot. non portarti dietro niente. = don't bring anything (with you)

lèa de terra levare da terra = scream/argue at someone so much you're lifting them from the ground

an va? andiamo? = shall we go? (from french on y va?)

so dré a maià. sto mangiando. = i'm eating. (from french  je suis en train de manger)

usa mia. non urlare. = don't shout

Some words:

rüt sporco = dirt (from german)

hümmia scimmia = monkey

cì maiale = pig

ca'al cavallo = horse

formagèr formaggiaio/lattaio = cheese maker (from french fromager)

articiòk carciofo = artichoke (from french artichaut)

oeuf, öf uovo = egg (from french oeuf)

frèr ferro = iron (from french fer)

rasga sega = handsaw

scèta bambina = little girl

Bergamasco is mostly spoken in the countryside and especially in the mountain villages and hills around Bergamo by older generations. It is not as commonly spoken in the main city, or used by younger generations. I learned it from my mom, and we speak it in the house daily. You can often hear it spoken by handymen, construction builders, artisans, and older men in the town.

A political party popular in Lombardia (Bergamo's Region) proposed years ago that Bergamasco should be thought in schools in Bergamo and around the province, but the idea was rejected. The sad reality is that Bergamasco, like a lot of italian dialects, is in danger of disappearing due to how less and less it's spoken and taught to younger generations. I personally really love Bergamasco and I love how unique and cool it sounds, and how it clearly shows the history of Bergamo as well: we went through the Austrian invasion, the German influence and also trades/exchanges with France, that contributed in the years to make the dialect sound the way it does now. It's a collection of my town's history and cultural exchanges and interaction (even if unfortunate ones, with Germany and Austria)

Most people from Bergamo and that speak Bergamasco have a very prominent specific accent (I do!) even when speaking normal italian. People from Bergamo are considered very matter-of-fact and straightforward, and the dialect reflects this nature very well: a lot of words and verbs are shorter than their italian counterpart, and the borrowed sounds from German make it sound harsher/more direct than italian does.

Bergamaschi wanted to avoid speaking so badly they even made their dialect as short and direct as possible, so they could use less words than regular italian and get to the point quicker.