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#possibly inaccurate translation
fucking merman Yuta would be so hot
You know I’ve never actually read a merman!character fic, but I HAVE seen the fanart and their dicks are quite amazing it looks so slimy I kinda wanna try 😵‍💫
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tardis--dreams · 2 years
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In his first scene, when yohan says "(I am the authority) 제가 제가 제가!" And the subtitles say "I, me, Kang Yohan" a little part inside of me dies every time
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readingloveswounds · 2 months
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i would honestly love to know why the fuck duolingo prefers to use "is x-ing" forms INSTEAD of just "xs" forms when making you translate between english and target languages ESPECIALLY when it makes not a single lick of difference in target language.
for example: "il nage" in my experience is ALWAYS "he is swimming" on duolingo instead of ever being "he swims"
obviously in english there can be a difference but the amount of context you're receiving is very limited or both/either way of putting it in english works. there are also times when the gerund form is in fact insanely clunkier than the TYPICAL PRESENT TENSE form of the english.
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fushic0re · 1 year
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─ 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑
𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒, 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋
𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗥 𝘅 𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗔!𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥
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𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — a prophecy has tied you to the feathered serpent god before you had even existed. now, it’s time to come home.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 18+ ONLY; MINORS DNI. possessive behavior. near death experience. smut; penetrative sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie (lots of cum bc i'm disgusting), breeding kink.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — this has to be the most excited i've been for a fic in a long time 🥹 i had a blast including a little bit of my culture's superstitions and lore. my sincerest apologies for any inaccurate yucatec maya translations, i used a translator website. the song the reader sings is "daughter of the sea" by sharm. i hope you all enjoy! ♡
𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 —
⁀➷ “anak” - child.
⁀➷ “po” - a respectful term with no direct translation used when talking to someone of higher rank than you such as elders or your boss.
⁀➷ “mag ingat ka” - “be careful.”
⁀➷ “ka’a suku’un u?” - “cousin?”
⁀➷ “ko’oten tin wéetel in kaxtik ti’ le ajawo.” - "come with me to find the king."
⁀➷ "in yakunaj" - "my love"
⁀➷ "in k'áaté" - my one and only.
⁀➷ "le ba'alo' leti'e" - that is her.
⁀➷ "bienvenido tin wotoch ti', in reina." - "welcome my queen."
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꒰ ͜͡➸ 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆! 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒❜ 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 & 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑! ♡
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FOR AS LONG AS YOU COULD REMEMBER, the ocean was your safe haven.
While others strayed from its depths for fear of the unknown, of the creatures that could be lurking down there, you had always been curious to know. There had always been an itch that couldn’t quite be scratched when it came to your love for the water. You frequented your local beach nearly every day, wandering aimlessly until you grew tired. Unlike others your age, your life was one of solitude. To an extent, you were content with it, for the ocean was your companion. It never judged you and always welcomed you. It listened when you spoke, carrying your worries far from you never to be seen again.
Nowadays, to your heart’s discontent, the ocean was not enough.
You were lonely. Truly lonely and feeling what it was like to be so for the very first time in your life. There were nights you stared into the abyss; eyes watery as you wished to drown in it. To be embraced by the one thing that was consistent in your life. Would you feel less alone then?
From the deepest point of the very sea you gazed into, the heart of a God grew heavy. K’uk’ulkan loved his people, adored them with every fiber of his body. Each and every one of the faces of those he ruled, dead and alive, were imprinted in his soul permanently. Every step he took was taken with them in mind. He prided himself for being a good leader, for doing everything and anything possible to keep his nation safe. After the events leading up to the alliance with the Wakandans, however, he did not know if that pride was deserved. He had made mistakes; misplaced his trust and allowed two of his own to die right in their very home. Namora, as loyal as she was, began to question his decisions. He was alone in bearing this burden with no one to rest his head on at night from the heaviness of the day.
What pained him the most? He knew he shouldn’t be alone.
He recalled the day he and his mother had been read the prophecy when he was a child clearly. The emotions he felt upon hearing those words spoken into existence were still fresh. There was someone for him. Just for him, and him alone.
“For His fealty, the First Son of Talokan shall be given a gift from the Gods; a descendant from the Heavens, a child of Bulan with the voice of an enchantress. For as long as He shall live, She shall rule the seas by His side.”
Years passed. Those years slowly faded into decades. After the passing of his beloved mother, it became difficult differentiating when those decades turned into centuries. Still, there were no signs of his soulmate. His people knew of the prophecy. K’uk’ulkan was all too aware of the anticipation his children felt as they eagerly awaited the arrival of their queen. Yet, she never came.
He grew angry at the so called Gods for turning on their promise – at her. Where was she? he’d hiss. My people, our people, have come dangerously close to being discovered. I have nearly died defending them all alone. My wings have been ripped from my flesh. Why isn’t she here? The prophecy meant nothing to him anymore. Just as he was naïve when he entrusted Princess Shuri with seeing his home, he was blindly foolish for believing in a fairytale.
Namor was without love in more ways than one.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. There was no explanation as to how you ended up perilously close to the edge of the water, the violent thrash of waves serving as a warning to you. Still, you remained completely still as fear immobilized you. You racked your brain for any recollections of your previous actions. Nothing came up. You couldn’t remember anything after you came home from the market.
Nothing, that is, aside from a single voice.
It cooed to you, whispered your name like it had waited a thousand millennia to taste it upon its tongue. Sang to you like you were its favorite person in the entire universe.
Come to me.
Come home.
In yakunaj.
In k’áate’.
Come home.
Taking a moment to steady your breathing, you slowly stepped away from the ledge before rushing back home. As you tucked yourself into bed that night, you tried your best to bury what had just transpired. You sought out every possibility – rational and irrational – that could have resulted in your odd behavior. You always went to the beach, maybe you just wandered there after dinner out of habit. Perhaps something went wrong with the batch of your usual tea and an ingredient that causes cognitive dysfunction was accidentally added to it. Maybe tomorrow morning you will wake up to a news report about your batch being recalled from all stores.
The explanation you vied for never came.
As time persisted, so did the bouts of blacking out, regaining consciousness, and finding yourself near the ocean. Each time, you got closer and closer to its waters. Every day after the next, you would feel the fatigue in your muscles from all of the walking. And yet, it did not stop you. You always found your way back to the ocean. It didn’t matter if you walked into ongoing traffic or if a concerned neighbor physically restrained you, the pull was stronger. Shamefully, you began to avoid leaving your home altogether. You couldn’t bear to face the condemnatory looks you were bound to receive. Whatever those in your area thought of you, you didn’t want to know. You were afraid enough of what you were becoming.
When you wake up from the next spell, you were waist deep in the ocean. Shivering as your thin nightgown stuck to your skin. Wrapping your arms around your torso, you salvaged any and all body heat. The gravity of your circumstances hit you all at once. Biting your lip, you held back your tears as your turned around and began making your way out of the water hastily. Just as your bare feet touched the white sand, you caught the eyes of the elderly woman who lived closed by. The two of you had never spoken, but her presence as a resident was always acknowledged.
“Sorry, po,” You spoke sheepishly, a polite and apologetic smile on your face.
Her expression was grave as she stared at you wordlessly. Silence stretched between the both of you and just as you were about to walk away, she harshly spat one single word.
“Magindara.”
Before you could seek clarification, she was back inside her small hut, the door slamming behind her acrimoniously. The only proof that the interaction with her was even real was the residual sting of her hostility and rage. Her persecution was the straw to break the camel’s back. Unable to maintain your resolve any longer, you fell to your knees and began to you’re your hands clutching at your chest in hopes to alleviate the pain. Humiliation, terror, anxiousness, and frustration were just a few of the emotions you were feeling. Even then, they were just the tip of the iceberg. As you cried to yourself, sand sticking to your wet limbs uncomfortably, you longed for nothing but someone to wrap you up in their arms – for someone to tell you that for once, everything would be okay. Just this once, you craved a life outside of isolation.
Once your breathing evened out, you stood up and leisurely began to talk along the shore. Soothing yourself in the only way you knew how, you began to softly sing.
“Beware, beware the Daughter of the Sea. ‘Beware’ I heard him cry. His words carried upon the ocean breeze, as he sank beneath the tide.”
Namora watched acutely as the quill in her king’s hands abruptly dropped to the floor. The warrior waited for the moment he would pick it up off of the ground and continue with his painting, but it never came.
“K’uk’ulkan?”
She received no response. His eyes held an indecipherable expression, one far away from the present.
“Ka’a suku’un u?” Namora repeated, her tone now carrying concern.
The King of Talokan turned to her for a split second before he stormed out of the room with speed she had never witnessed from him before. Namora was hot on his feathered heels, but the second she dived into the water, her cousin was nowhere to be seen.
“Attuma!” She bellowed. “Ko’oten tin wéetel in kaxtik ti’ le ajawo.”
K’uk’ulkan was stunned when he first heard it – the most beautiful sound to grace his ears. He was livid with himself for being unable to find a better word to describe the voice, for “beautiful” was such an understatement that it was borderline insulting. Without hesitation, he followed it. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know where it was coming from or who it even belonged to, he needed to find it. It called to him, turned him into a man possessed as he soared through the waters restlessly to get to it.
His head broke the surface, and that’s when he saw its owner – her. His soulmate.
She was the most exquisite living being he had ever laid his eyes upon. A gift from the heavens she was. Her beauty made him dizzy, his knees growing weak as he took in his beloved’s features. He admired her as she outstretched her arms, cupping the moon in her delicate palms. It paled in comparison to her. Everything did. Nothing could possibly compare. He remained paralyzed as she continued to sing, a foreign feeling settling in his stomach.
“Why this? Why this, oh Daughter of the Sea? Why this? Why did you forget your seaside days? Always the pride of our nation’s eyes, how could she go astray?”
The words of her melody pierced his heart. They reflected their journey far too accurately to be a coincidence. Did she know that she had always been destined for him? To be loved by the entire nation of Talokan? His lids fell shut slowly as he basked in her harmonies, feeling tranquil at last.
“I heard, I heard, across the moonlit seas, the old voice warning me. Beware, beware, the Daughter of the Sea. Beware, beware…of me.”
Namor studied her face as her song ended. He noted her red rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. Her damp nightgown stuck to her body tantalizingly. The despair in her hypnotizing voice was palpable. All of the wrath and resentment he had once harbored dissipated. Oh, my love. I have longed for you too. He could do nothing as he watched you turn your back to him from above, only pray for another encounter. He rose entirely from the sea, the wings on his ankles fluttering in the air as he watched her in the sky until she was safe in her abode. A quiet splash could be heard from under him. Attuma and Namora stared up at him expectedly.
“Le ba’alo’ leti’e’.”
He nodded slowly, eyes burning holes in the spot where she once stood.
“A human?” Attuma questioned, his voice rigid.
Namor shook his head.
“’A child of Bulan with the voice of an enchantress’.” Namor quoted the prophecy directly. “Bulan was a deity the heavens sent to the ocean to protect the moon from sea monsters. She is a siren; they are descendants of Bulan.”
“What is she doing on the surface?” Namora chimed in.
The king frowned, his fists clenching at his sides as he longed to feel her touch.
“She is lost.”  
Returning to the beach after the unpleasant encounter with the elderly woman who lived on its grounds probably wasn’t the most sensible decision. In your defense, however, nothing in your life was sensible nowadays.
Magindara was what she called you. A whole day’s worth of research, hundreds of Google searches, and several life crises later, you found out what it meant – siren. A subspecies of mermaids that were known for being especially vicious. You wanted to badly to laugh it off, to chuck it up to her being a senile old woman, but that was not an option. To do so would be like ignoring statistics. The facts of your life were laid out clearly; there was a connection between you and the ocean. A connection so strong that it bewitched you – mind, body, and soul. There were no traceable origins you could use to refute the woman’s claims. Afterall, you had no family. There was nothing more to do than return to the very place that could give you answers.
Your eyes darted everywhere in search of the familiar head of silvery locks. Once identified, you ran to her.
“Excuse me, po?” You called desperately, your eyes begging her for something. Anything. “What…what am I?”
She stared at you with a severe expression on her aged features.
“The man from the sea with wings on his ankles. Mag ingat ka, anak. He’s coming for you.”
You furrowed your brows in confusion.
“Could you expla—”
“Do not come back here.” She warned. “He will drag you down with him.”
With that being said, she entered her home and slammed the door in your face for the second time. Vexation filled you as you were met with another dead end. A man from the sea with wings on his ankles. What the hell was that alluding to? Did the elderly have to always speak in riddles? Were you in danger? Why was he after you?
You dragged your feet as you trudged home dejectedly. You were already exhausted, not sleeping a wink once you returned home after your stint last night. Sleep was unfathomable considering you were haunted by unanswered questions. Once you crossed the threshold of your bedroom, however, you could no longer ignore your body’s need for rest. Flopping down on your bed, you shut your eyes and instantaneously succumbed to a peaceful slumber.
That night was the last time you slept in your own bed.
The beach was eerily quiet, void of the usual sound of waves crashing against the shore. Seemingly, the ocean yielded to you, it’s queen, the second you stepped foot in its territory, entranced and guided by a single voice.
Come home. Come to me.
Your feet carried you to a cliff high above the sparkling midnight waters.
My love. My soulmate.
Home. You needed to come home. It was time. 
Come home.
Just a couple of more steps.
Come home.
This is your destiny. Fulfill it. Fulfill the prophecy.
Come home.
With that, you took one final step off the cliff and prepared yourself to plunder into the deep waters. Your feet were only in the air for a brief moment before a pair of strong arms caught you midair. Upon physical contact, you snapped from your trance with a sharp gasp, your heart pounding in your chest as you began to panic.
A deep, gentle voice lulled you. It was then that you finally registered who it belonged to. The being who had saved you was the epitome is beauty. Everything about him exuded regality from the air of confidence and ease he carried himself with, to the adornments on his muscular body. A large gold and jade neck plate took up the most space on his expansive chest. Ropes of auriferous shells and opalescent-like pearls hung around his neck. Gilded cuffs were locked around his biceps, wrists, and ankles. You quickly noted the alabaster wings fluttering away attached to them, the very wings responsible for suspending the both of you in the air. Your eyes trailed to his delicately pointed ears, embellished with jewels just like the rest of him. The only clothing he sported was a pair of emerald shorts that left nothing to the imagination. The walls of muscle that were his thighs were on full display, the muscles of a man built to withstand the brutality of the ocean.
This was the man the elderly woman was speaking about. The man from the sea with feathers on his ankles.
That revelation should have scared you. Every alarm in your body should have gone off.
Escaping him should have been the only thing occupying your mind. You should have kicked and screamed until your throat was raw and bloody.
But you did no such thing.
Instead, it was the way he looked at you, gazing at you with the most intense smolder in his eyes that occupied your attention. He gazed at you with pure wonder, and held you delicately yet fiercely in his arms like you were the most precious thing in the entire world. Instinctively, you placed your hands on his bare chest, mindlessly tracing the dew drops sticking to his golden skin. The beautiful man shivered beneath your touch.
“500 years I have waited for you.” He whispered reverently.
Your mouth opened, prepared for a response that never came. Instead, your vision went dark.
You woke up to hushed voices and heedful, diligent hands. One set of hands languidly brushed your hair away from your face. Another daintily shimmied clothing onto your body once they were finished drying you off with the velvetiest cloth to ever touch your skin. The last set secured what you assumed was jewelry onto your wrists, neck, and ears. Upon opening your eyes, your assumption was correct. The dress on your body was stunning, embroidered with hundreds of crystalline beads. The jewels on your wrists alone were probably worth more than what you had made in your entire life.
The women who stood above you were unlike you had ever seen before. Their skin was a brilliant shade of cerulean. Vibrant, yet pleasantly understated. Masks covered their mouths and noses, but you could still see the bright smiles behind them.
“Hello,” You greeted shyly. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Each of them let out a small cry, their eyes welling up with tears as they bowed earnestly.
“Bienvenido tin wotoch ti’, in reina.” They spoke warmly in unison, forming a gesture with their hands at you respectfully. Their mother tongue was foreign to you, but not for long. As if you had spoken it your entire life, your mind made quick work of interpreting it.
Welcome home, my queen.
Once again, you were puzzled. You had no idea where you were or who exactly that man was and why he had taken you here. You obviously hadn’t a single inkling as to what he meant by “500 years I have waited for you”. Now, these women were calling you their queen in a language you had never heard your entire life but somehow had the ability to understand perfectly.
The sound of feet pattering lightly gradually got closer and closer until the man of the hour stood before you at the foot of the bed. The women attending to you immediately turned their attention to him, bowing and forming the same hand gesture you had seen moments ago. He looked just as regal still, now adorned in a cape tucked into golden plates of armor on his shoulders. He regarded them gratefully.
“Leave us, my children. Thank you.”
They bowed to you both once more before swiftly making themselves haste. You now had his undivided attention.
“I hope you slept well. The healers said showed signs of exhaustion.”
“I—” You cleared your throat nervously. “I did, thank you.”
The barest hint of a smile graced his features. With graceful and controlled movements, he poured water into a glass and handed it to you.
“Do not be nervous.” He spoke lowly. “Speak freely.”
“Thank you.” You squeaked out again, taking a generous gulp of water before speaking again. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“My people call me K’uk’ulkan. To my enemies, I am Namor. You are in our kingdom – Talokan.”
The water got caught in your throat mid swallow, causing you to cough obnoxiously. The man who you now knew as K’uk’ulkan, discreetly smiled to himself as if this was a reaction he had anticipated. Before you could blurt out another string of questions, he held his hand out to you.
“Come. I will remedy all of your concerns.”
As if you had done so a million times, you placed your hand in his and stood by his side. Namor lead the both of you through a series of corridors. Your eyes took in your surroundings with pure astonishment. Cavern seemed to be a secluded corner for the king, crystal waters surrounding its premises. Bits of glittery minerals were embedded into the sediment walls. An air of serenity blanketed the entire area.
From the corner of his eye, Namor gaged your reactions, his heart so full of unfiltered adoration that it felt like it would explode in his chest. His hand was still tightly clutched in yours like it was second nature. Subconsciously, you had drawn your body closer to his. He was a meticulous man of control and strategy, but at that very moment, K’uk’ulkan wanted nothing more than to take you into his arms and kiss you breathlessly. The moment was cut short when you reached his study. He offered you a seat at his desk, drawing the door shut behind him for privacy. It didn’t take long for you to deduce that the murals painted on the walls were ones depicting the history of Talokan.
“Centuries ago, my people took an herb that allowed them to survive underwater. The herb was infused with vibranium. We are the only nation aside from Wakanda to possess it.” He began, his hands tracing over a painting of a beautiful woman cradling an infant. “My mother was pregnant with me when she ingested it. That is why I am the way I am – why I am the only one out of my people that can survive on both land and underwater, fly, and age slower than the rest. For this, they made me their king. Their god.”
You listened intently, fascinated by the discovery that they had remained a secret for this long.
“There was a prophecy made shortly after my birth. The gods promised me a soulmate.”
Turning around to face you, he bore his soul to yours through his eyes as he read the prophecy to you. With each word that fell from his lips, the world around you spun quicker and quicker. It made sense. It all made sense.
“I gave up on the idea of the prophecy coming true as time passed. In yakunaj, when you have lived as long as I have, seen as much as I have, happy endings are nothing but meaningless fallacies. But then, that night came…the night I heard you sing for the first time.”
He approached you slowly, cautiously like a wild animal that would take flight if startled by any sudden movements. What happened next made your eyes fill with tears; he knelt before you. This man – a king, a god – surrendered to you with no hesitation.
“I have finally found you…” He breathed, his orbs shining with devotion. “You are home. Why do you think you have no family? No one to trace your roots back to? You were made for me. Mine.”
Your face fell in between the palms of your hands as you wept. Quickly, your hands were replaced by his. He held your face in his hands like he was holding the entire world, the pads of his thumbs gently brushing away your tears.
“Why the tears, my love?”
You shook your head, placing your hands on top of his. The spark you felt every time the two of you touched could no longer be ignored.
“Why did they just now bring us together?” You cried. “We’ve both been alone for all this time, how could they not do something about it!”
“Shhh,” Namor cooed. “You think I have not been angry with them, my sweet? I have held myself back from tearing their skies and oceans apart just to find you. But what I feel for you right now in this very moment? That feeling will always win.”
The both of you said nothing more, for there was nothing that needed to be said. Your long lost love held you in his arms as you liberated yourself from what felt like decades of anguish. His grip never faltered even as you gripped his flesh hard enough to draw blood. Instead, he soothingly rocked you as he recounted the stories of his people’s origins. Talokan was a clandestine national treasure, one of the only things on the earth that had not been bastardized. That was all the doing of this wonderful being who had been promised to you.
“They were wrong about you. Your name.” You whispered. “You’re not without love, quite the opposite actually. The actions you have taken, the lengths you have gone to protect your people and your home, are ones of a man consumed with nothing but love. You can see it in how happy they are.”
With cautious hands, you caressed his cheeks. He preened against your touch, melting right into your palms. The world would never see the stoic warrior king falter, but already, you had him firmly wound around your finger. He could sit there for hours soaking in your ardor.
“Our home. Our people.” Namor corrected. “They can’t wait to meet you.”
Lovingly, he pressed his forehead to yours, nudging the tip of your nose with his.
“Are you ready to meet them?”
He observed endearingly as your eyes widened as large as flying saucers as you nodded overzealously, a giggle tumbling from your lips. K’uk’ulkan noted once more how full of love he felt. He wondered if this was what your lives together would consist of, overcome with all of the possibilities. Was adoring you more than he did in this moment even conceivable? When your smile faltered slightly, worry filled him.
“I’ve never seen…myself.”
“I am honored to be the first to see your true form.”
The two of you stood, walking hand in hand out of his personal study and to the outermost cove surrounded with the most water. Inhaling shakily, you eyed what awaited below you with apprehension. You were not human, far from it, and yet it felt as if you and your true form were worlds apart. Namor was silent. He knew this was something you needed to do alone. The only form of assurance offered to you was a look of encouragement.
Slowly, you dipped one foot into the water and allowed the other to follow. Keeping your eyes closed, you focused on your heart rate as your body adroitly descended into the abyss of the sea. You could have easily fallen asleep if it weren’t for a tingly sensation disrupting your peace. It started small, gradually winding around you until all at once, currents of electricity bolted through your limbs. Instinctively, your lungs expanded, and you took your first gulp of air underwater. You ripped your eyes open in bewilderment when you didn’t choke on water. The clear-cut view you had of your surroundings despite no sources of light being near further consolidated your shock. A noise akin to a squeak and gasp escaped your lips and before you knew it, you were cutting through the waters with newfound ease until your head broke the surface.
Namor would have given everything to his name to capture the sight before him. There you were, beaming at him with unrivaled radiance. He stopped breathing when you lifted your tail out of the water. Just when he thought you could not be any more magnificent than you already were, you defied his expectations. The scales covering the muscle were a range of shades of lapis lazuli, emerald, and gold. Towards the tips of your forked fin, they all blended into a rich shade of dark indigo. Your torso was bare but hidden behind your locks as they cascaded over your breasts. Namor could have gawked at you for hours if it weren’t for you playfully flicking water at his face. He felt light and dream-like as your melodious laughter echoed through the cavern. He decided then and there that your laughter was his favorite song. The scowl permanently etched onto his face fell. In its place, a smile so wide it hurt spawned. For the first time in centuries, he laughed so hard his abdomen hurt.
Powerless to his desires, he dove into the water after you, finding shelter in your embrace once more. Intuitively, your tail curled around one of his legs. He submerged the two of you back into the water and before you knew it, his lips were pressed against yours. Skin to skin, naked chests were tightly pressed against each other, your arms locked around his neck as your mouths feverishly meshed against one another. A barely audible moan slipped from your mouth right into his as his tongue pushed passed your lips. Namor voiced his pleasure with a low rumble from his chest. Pathetically, you could cry again right then and there. How could you have gone without this your whole life?
A loud clearing of the throat caused you both to cease your ministrations. Namor was anything but sorry as he pulled away with the softest expression you had seen on his face thus far. He regarded the two individuals standing in front of you – a hulking man with long inky tresses and an ornate headpiece resembling the skull of a hammerhead shark and a fierce looking woman with a feathered lionfish-esque headdress. Though both clearly high up in the royal ranks with a cutthroat reputation to uphold, they studied you and Namor with mischief.
“K’uk’alkan, they are waiting for her.” The man spoke.
“You might want to put this on before you go.” Spoke the woman, pulling an opulent bra top from behind her back and extending it towards you.
The state of undress you were in hit you like a bus. Your face felt like it was on fire from embarrassment, your lover pressing a tender kiss to your heated cheek. Tactfully, he maneuvered you away from the eyes of the warrior you now knew was Attuma. The woman, his cousin and second in command named Namora, expertly laced you into the garment.
“That was so embarrassing,” You mumbled to yourself once your modesty was secured.
Namor cracked a hint of a smirk.
“Attuma and my cousin expected nothing less from us. Now, shall we?”
Talokan was a magnificent sight. The agriculture was impressive, the vibranium rich soil working wonders for the crops. Sea creatures from colossal sized sea turtles, lengthy luminescent jellyfish of different colors, lively fish, and enormous whales to start were one with the Talokanil, peacefully existing with one another. The treatment you received from everyone was something you would never get used to. Despite not knowing you, they acknowledged you as if they had known you their entire lives. K reina perdida they called you with earnest smiles and misty eyes. Our lost queen.
But you were no longer lost.
It was evident in the way the orcas sang with you as you glided through the waters, seemingly understanding you in a way no one else could. Namor’s soul was finally content after seeing you swim freely, laughing so hard your stomach hurt as a couple of toddlers crawled around on your tail. His people loved you. Just as he thought they would. And you fit right in just as you were meant to. With further exploration of your physiology, the two of you discovered that like Namor, you could survive both underwater and on the surface, donning a set of legs seamlessly upon contact with land. Your strength, speed, and agility matched up perfectly with his. For hours, he chased you through the ocean, the both of you weaving in and out between walls of coral and tall beds of seaweed with dexterity. You truly were made for him.
A week later, you were officially crowned their queen. You and Namor ended the celebration with an intimate wedding ceremony in the cavern. After years of going without each other, neither of you had the patience to wait for a union on a grander scale. You both were enough – you would always be enough. And as he laid your bare body across the bed he occupied by himself for half a millennium, he was confident in that conviction.
You felt dizzy as he pressed his hard bulge against your core. The most heavenly noise to grace your ears came out of your now husband when you raised your hips to grind against it. Your hands liberally roamed his chest, now stripped of his jewels, before slithering to his robust back. Your nails drew tiny half moons as they dug into his flesh when his lips made their way to the column of your neck. The decorum of countenance he upheld was nowhere to be found as he ravaged your breasts with his mouth, lightly tugging your erect nipple between his teeth before he began to suckle. You cried out pathetically. His lips twitched, umber orbs now staring up at you with lust.
“You are so noisy for me,” He purred. “I have not even touched the most sensitive parts of your body yet.”
“Please,” You breathed. “Please, I need you,”
Namor made his way down your body, leaving no part of you untouched by his lips. Deftly, he gripped your thighs and place both of your legs over his shoulders. Gently, he kissed your dripping core.
“You have me, my love. Always.” 
His mouth took you straight to heaven. He devoured you like a man starved, tongue flicking your nub of nerves tirelessly with precision. Your thighs were already trembling, but he had just gotten started. Your orgasm crept up on you, the strongest one you had ever experienced. It left you heaving with your back arched off of the bed, unable to do anything besides chant his name like a mantra. But your beloved’s ministrations did not cease. He continued working at your core, now swollen and glistening from your juices and his spit. The second orgasm built up slowly, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter with each time he sucked your clit. The final straw was when you noticed his hips gyrating. He was pleasuring himself while pleasuring you. This time when you came on your lover’s tongue, no words or sounds were able to slip passed your mouth. You were quite literally speechless.
With a satisfied moan, he lapped up the rest of your arousal, cooing to you as you quivered and whimpered from hypersensitivity. His scorching body covered yours once more, his lips familiarizing themselves with yours. Namor held you tightly against him, whispering sweet nothings against your lips as you steadied your breathing. It wasn’t long before you felt the head of his cock prodding your entrance. Gripping your face firmly, he forced your eyes open. The frenzied look in his eyes as he languidly sunk into you alone could have made you come for the third time that night. But alas, the universe was on your side. Instead, you savored that moment – the feeling of him. Every inch, every vein, ingrained into your memories for as long as you shall live.
“You feel incredible.” Namor panted, now beginning to steadily thrust. “You truly were made for me.”
You could only respond with wanton cries, too consumed with desire. The king began to piston in and out of you until he was fully pounding you into your marital bed.
“Namor!”
He grunted into your ear, pulling out of you for a brief moment to flip you onto your stomach. He plunged back into you and picked up right where he left off. This time, however, he was brutal with the punctuality of his thrusts.
“Am I your enemy, wife?” He taunted. “Are you even worthy of any mercy I have to spare?”
At this point, you could not even recognize the sounds you were making. They were debauched. Depraved. Combined with rhythmic percussion of skin against skin and the squelch of your wet cunt each time Namor entered you, the song you two orchestrated was one only for the lecherous.
“K’uk’ulkan,” You barely managed to murmur. “I’m s-so close, you make me feel so good,”
He hummed satisfactorily, driving into you even faster.
“You are, aren’t you, my sweet? That’s it, sing for me. Take my seed. Carry my children.”
“Please!” You screamed as your walls convulsed around his cock. Please come in me,”
With a shout and one final thrust, he released in you. Rope after rope, he filled you with his cum with proclamations of everlasting love on the tip of his tongue. His cock remained nestled deep within you as you both descended from your highs, keeping his spent from spilling. He shuddered at the image of you round and radiant carrying his child and just like that, he was hardening inside you once more. As you lay there, thoroughly cock drunk, he began to pull out of you and slowly push back in. This time, he was tender and gentle, unhurriedly focused on taking you apart for one final time that night. The two of you had centuries left together. There was no need to rush. Then again, Namor could live another 500 years with you by his side and still feel like it was not enough. He needed you forever, and then some.
“I love you,” He whispered against the blade of your shoulder. “You are everything.”
The next morning you would wake to the sight of your husband painting a new mural. One of a beautiful woman with the upper body of a human, and the lower body of a fish. By her side, a man with ears that pointed to the skies and wings on his ankles, their eyes locked and hands intertwined.
The beginning of your story.
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forzaferraris · 2 months
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UH OH ! — cl16. [ series masterlist . part ii . ]
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CHAPTER ONE / gorgeous.
❛ you should take it as a compliment, that i got drunk and made fun of the way you talked. ❜
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summary : usually, birthday parties are supposed to be a close friend's and family celebration, so why on earth are you being dragged along as your friend's plus one?
warnings : implied references to cheating. food mentions. vomiting mentions but not explicitly written. sexual themes, inuendos. a purposeful choice to refuse to write without capital letters. too many taylor swift references. google translated french. no use of y/n but reader is referred to as soleil by charles and that transfers on through all the fic. charles leclerc's toxic relationship. alcohol consumption, drink responsibly. suddenly charles leclerc is actually decent at flirting. inaccurate storyline of pierre's birthday. 2023's silly season just got sillier. live laugh love kika gomes. word count : 1.7k
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yourusername just posted to her story . . .
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[ caption one: hot girls always do skincare 🧖🏻‍♀️ / caption two: i fear i girlbossed to close to the sun, how did i end up here ⁉️🤨 ]
THE STREETS OF PARIS , were lively enough that you could blend in seamlessly, everyone else dressed essentially to the nines in their finest attire, walking in and out of all the restaurants in the vicinity. you want to cower, wrap the shall around yourself tighter and hide away; you'd never felt more insecure and out of place in the entire month you'd been vacationing in france, until this very moment.
everyone around you exudes the amount of confidence that comes naturally to them that you wished you had, even if you felt genuinely good in the outfit Kika had practically forced you in when you'd briefly mentioned having nothing to wear to the event she'd asked you to tag along to. a part of you wants to remind yourself that you knew better than to expect things to play out differently, it wants to ridicule you for going back on your usual stance of always expecting disappointment to no longer feel disappointed.
you wave off a taxi that pulls beside you, you're already at your destination, and a fleeting wave of nausea makes you want to clench your gut, and hurl what little you'd eaten earlier throughout the day into the hedges beside you; you don't, thankfully. instead, you resort to the safety of your phone, back-and-forth bickering between your best friend and Kika to work up your nerves to get yourself inside the building.
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you feel wobbly on your feet, something you will also plan to blame on Kika when you find the courage to get yourself to walk in through the door of the Laperouse, a considerably more elegant spot to eat at than you would have picked, you only dread the fear of looking over the menu and bearing witness to the prices of the food.
the ding of the bell above the door pulls your head out of your phone when you're met with the silhouette of quite possibly the most attractive man you'd ever had blessed your gaze — excluding that one time you'd run into lorenzo zurzolo on a girls trip to madrid and fumbled the whole ordeal so embarrassingly you had to block him on instagram to keep from ever seeing him.
his actions are almost more exaggerated in frustration than you'd plainly described to your friend, his hand is constantly dragging down his face when he pulls the phone away from his ear, promptly allowing you to hear the snippets of french being, basically, screamed through the phone at him. yikes. the phone call seems to drag on and the amount of time you've been staring at this man can be somewhat considered borderline stalking if he wasn't uninterested in the world outside the french screaming match on the phone.
deciding you'd done enough oogling to satiate for the brieft maladaptive day-dreaming you'll experience during mundane errands. with the very little courage you had, you wipe your hands on your dress, pitifully, and tuck your phone into the clutch before making your way inside. you're blissfully unaware of the way the man had turned towards the noise the heels of your shoes had made against the pavement, his attitude doing a complete 180 had him disregarding the remainder of the phone call before finally giving up, a defeated sigh follows the silence of the call being ended.
'i told you so. . .' your brain supplies when you feel even more out of place being inside said restaurant than how you were simply just standing outside of it, you felt both over and under-dressed watching the mass of patrons standing at the front bar along with the glimpses you could get inside the dining room from where you wait at the hostess stand.
"can i help you?" the hostess asks, words sleek with her french accent as she flicks her gaze up towards you before down at the booking book in front of her. you fiddle with your fingers, white-knuckling the black clutch, suddenly unable to find your own words. the woman rolls her eyes, and taps her perfectly manicured finger against the book and you visibly shake.
"elle est avec moi et la réservation Gasly" a voice speaks, standing behind you, close enough to be flush against you, but remaining a finger length away from you, refusing to lift your head, you don't dare look at who's just saved yourself from any more bouts of unwavering embarrassment for the night.
"profite de ta soirée" the hostess grins, it doesn't shine in her eyes and it's clearly a put-on customer service smile, forced to maintain a friendly atmosphere within the restaurant, you're allowing yourself to be lead through towards the private dining room, stepping away from the man, you mumble a simple thank you in your own butchered french pronunciation as you spot kika and find yourself attached to her hip for a majority of the night.
f1wagsgossip just posted to their story . . .
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[ caption one: @yourusername spotted arriving at pierre's birthday party / caption two: @yourusername wearing the monot black maxi cutout ]
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now, see if you weren't the type of person to be so easily persuaded into joining in on the drink festivities, you wouldn't have ended up with kika as one of your closest friends. you were never one to turn down alcohol, especially open bar alcohol; which is perhaps why you'd found yourself in a state of being a social butterfly, you'd floated around the room, meals long since eaten and cleared by the wait staff left people standing around and conversing.
mixtures of english, french and portuguese filling the room, bits and pieces of conversations you were picking up, but with your minimal understanding of french you found yourself avoiding anything beyond "hi how are you?" and introducing yourself, aside from that you smile and nodded before politely excusing yourself to float around once more.
"are you purposely ignoring me?" there it is, the sound that would haunt your best dreams and your worst nightmares; the shiver that runs up your spine makes you inadvertently cringe at yourself, how were you this reactive to a voice, you're going to blame the entire thing on the amount of sparkling moscato you'd been drinking by the glass.
"hm? no, no i'm not ignoring you?" you mock his accent, turning around to finally make eye contact with him, lips pursed into a line to keep yourself from giggling, the bubbles in your stomach is either your own nerves, the bubbly alcoholic beverage you'd consumed or a mixture of both — either way you feel content enough to be less than self-aware of the situation.
you can almost see the way he visibly lights up at the interaction, the way can't hold himself back from laughing at your attempt to mock his accent, the way his eyes crinkle and the laughter that follows the expression leaves you virtually speechless, you'd never been in a situation where someone, especially not a man. had ever laughed at you in a way that didn't feel the least bit mocking towards you; his laughter subsides and you feel yourself mourning the noise, head tilting to the side before he's taking a sip from his own glass.
"how do you know pierre?"
"through kika, she's the sole reason i'm here" you explain, gesturing with your hands as you talk, the conversation carries on throughout most of the night, new drinks replacing old ones all whilst the distance between the two of you closing inch by inch and shamelessly, perhaps even a little selfishly you allow it.
you allow more than just close proximity, you allow his knee to knock against your own, the hand to graze your waist as his arm moves around you to put his empty drink on the bar. you allow yourself to meet his gaze, hold it and find yourself lower and lower your own inhibitions. the good, the bad and the ugly of a man who hasn't asked for your name and whose name you hadn't bothered to ask for either.
perhaps, it's the events of the night that led you to here, in this heat of the moment pursuit of pure guiltless drunk happiness, lips against the nap of your neck in the back of a taxi, a hand dragging dangerously up your thigh, closer and closer to a spot you hadn't known longed to be touched until now. you're mutual shouts of laughter are shared through the streets of paris, leading into the hotel room you'd been staying in for the week, you're set to check out the next morning, but realistically, what's one night of parisian fun to end your trip with a bang, literally.
"soleil, fuck, the things you are doing to me right now" his voice comes out like a growl against your ear, his teeth dragging along your ear lobe and further down your neck, never biting, just allowing the feeling to pull the breathless noises out of you. your hand finds its way to nestle into his hair, grip tight and pull him away, the way he looks at you, a gaze you're all far too familiar with, lust.
god, had you wished you knew life wouldn't feel so horribly if you'd felt like this the entire time, the way the man finds himself home between your thighs, even as they clench around his head as soon as his tongue flicks against your abused and overly sensitive clit, fingers working their way in and out of your as you're pushed to complete your third orgasm — your hands griping the pillow behind your head, back arching as you moan out breathlessly, the needy coil in your stomach untangling once more as he pulls the orgasm out of you; your left breathless and shaking as your ride out the orgasm on his fingers.
his face is glistening with your juices; god if you were brave enough to take a picture you would have, he looked effortlessly pretty as he wiped his face with the back of his hand and finally pulled his fingers out of you to lick them clean.
you were royally screwed. even after you woke up in the morning, he was still asleep, but check-out was soon and there really wasn't any need to actively remain in the hotel room bed any longer, even if the man sleeping beside you was dreamy, even asleep, you knew alcohol-influenced one night stands were less than impressive to boast about the next morning. so you do the easiest thing to bypass awkward morning conversations, you leave a note with your number and leave.
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yourusername just posted . . .
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liked by francisca.cgomes, yourbestfriend and 489 others yourusername are you happy to have been in paris? oui! tagged francisca.cgomes
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user girl, what is that on your neck in the second pic?? ⤿ yourusername the question is are you a narc?
francisca.cgomes paris couldn't handle us for longer than a week ⤿yourusername where too next gf x
yourbestfriend i miss you come home ! ⤿yourusername i think i might find a new home ⤿yourbestfriend you're really gonna abandon our kids like that?
user since when have her an kika been friends? ⤿user since like forever, they grew up together
yoursisteruser look at you being a slut pookie, we love to see it ⤿yourusername get out of my comments blocked and reported ⤿yoursisteruser can you answer my facetime now, you got a lot of catching up to do, this is new name lore !!!
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authors note : hi oh my god, so i'm absolutely nervous to actually have this be posted, it's not been beta read so i apologise in advance trying to edit this myself was the longest task i've come to find myself tethered to. i really like the plot of this story, the smut a lil dry because my smut writing is dry, we gotta work ourselves up to that, later chapters pookies, later chapters. i would have added more to the story, i'm like super inspired by this, but alas the 30 image limit said, no. so we gotta listen !
add yourself to the taglist here !
taglist : @iluminaya @greenbaby12 @therealcap @marshmummy
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thydungeongal · 1 month
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So, okay, it's well-known that there's a certain kind of transphobe who gets upset when you refer to a person by pronouns other than their "biological pronouns." This is, of course, stupid as all hell. Pronouns are not biological you fucking idiot. It's also not ungrammatical: grammar does not actually take a stance as to which pronouns to use for which thing. Semantics might have something to say about that, but even that is largely based on social agreement. Grammar might have a stance on how verbs should conjugate based on the pronoun used, but in that case most people will show their whole ass by goin "Well I can't use singular they because how will verbs conjugate? I can't say 'they is'" I mean, you could, but most people would consider that ungrammatical (but literally grammar is also in flux and changes through use), but you could also say "they are," because as it happens English already has a case where a pronoun can act as both plural and singular and verbs will conjugate as if it were plural: this mysterious pronoun is "you."
Anyway so not only is this often revelatory of the fact that a) transphobes are often language cops and b) they don't actually know shit about language, but within the context of Indo-European languages English is actually unique in one way: English has a lot of gendered vocabulary, but what it lacks is grammatical gender.
Grammatical gender is actually a more specific expression of a noun class system. Previously in linguistics people did use the terms interchangeably, but the former is more accurately a specific form of the latter.
A noun class system is ultimately just a method for typing nouns into categories often based on some arbitrary criteria, and they may have effects like requiring agreement in adjectives, verbs, affixes, etc. Grammatical gender is when those arbitrary classes are supposedly based on gender. Again, it is still mostly arbitrary, because there's no specific reason for idk the noun "lion" to be masculine, "moon" to be feminine, and "tree" to be neuter.
Anyway the conflation of noun class and grammatical gender has led to such claims as "in the Dyirbal language one of the genders is 'women, fire, and dangerous things,' isn't that hilarious?" which is inaccurate to say the least because what's being described isn't a gender but a noun class (that does contain women in it).
Masculine/feminine is of course a very boring system of grammatical gender. The old workhorse of masculine/feminine/neuter is okay if a bit boring. Anyway my personal favorite is the Swedish utrum/neutrum, commonly translated as "common gender" and "neuter". I don't know when the shift happened, but at whatever point in its development Swedish still retained the traditional Indo-European masculine/feminine/neuter division, and instead of doing the most boring thing possible and dropping neuter in favor of a binary masculine/feminine system they went for the other binary: that's right, grammatical gender in Swedish is yes/no.
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cillivnz · 9 months
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nadie como mi pantera [miguel o’hara]
PAIRING — SPIDER-MAN 2099 x ANOMALY!READER
TROPE — enemies to fuckers (?)
WORD COUNT — 2.4k+
WARNINGS — SMUT. eighteen+. AFAB!READER. cursing, injuries, legal age-gap, mentions of male and female masturbation, mentions of trauma, dark!miguel, heavy degradation, marking, biting, venom-play (?), a little bit of objectification, degrading names and descriptions, pet-names, dub-con, breast/nipple play, fingering, clit-play, bondage, public sex, size difference, penetrative sex (p! in v!), jealousy, dumbification, overstimulation, unprotected sex, creampie, miguel being down bad for reader, basically.
A/N — you really thought i wouldn’t write for papí? i don’t like this but i had to write for miguel and i had to write for him as soon as possible. i was listening to this C.R.O song that inspired me to write this, so, i hope you enjoy my take at my favorite kind of miguel fiction! i’d love to hear your thoughts in my asks <3
lowercase intended.
LISTENING TO — ‘Por La Carretera’ by C.R.O and ‘This Love’ by Pantera.
NOTES [excuse inaccurate translations]
“no puedes correr para siempre, perra.” — you can’t run forever, bitch.
‘viejo’ — old man
“estúpido, caliente puto bastardo.” — stupid, horny fucking bastard.
“joder, perra. atragantarse con mi polla así como así.” — fuck, bitch. choke on my cock just like that.
gilipollas — asshole
“si insistes, cariño.” — if you insist, honey.
querida — dear
“dios mío, ¿cómo puede una chica ser tan bonita y a la vez tan tonta?” — my god, how can a girl be so pretty yet so dumb?
puta — bitch
“yo también pensé en mi pantera…” — i thought of my pantera, too…
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“𝐴𝑌, 𝑁𝐴𝐷𝐼𝐸 𝐿𝑂 𝐻𝐴𝐶𝐸 𝐶𝑂𝑀𝑂 𝑇𝑈́,”
running was all you knew.
at the sight of danger, in the fear of things, you ran; or perhaps, your pride didn’t allow it to be called, “fleeing”.
either way, despite being the most notorious villain of your world, you were running away from a monster chasing you, and so you ran like him, on all fours.
“no puedes correr para siempre, perra.”
you hear him grunt, leaping from building-to-building.
he ached, not that you knew, but he ached to catch a hold of you, and for reasons he wasn’t willing to reflect upon right now.
he just needed more than the ghost of your touch against his talons for hands, to feel the softness of your flesh against his claws, not for a moment, but an eternity.
“mírame, viejo.”
“can’t catch me.” you spoke the same few words you always did to him, before leaping through yet another portal, except you were slow; fatally, too slow. so when just about your upper half slid through the dimensional portal, you were yanked back into hell by the devil himself attached to your calf.
miguel o’hara’s claws sinked deep into your flesh.
“caught you.”
you were the root cause of all his problems these days. the pinnacle of his annoyance, agitation, and arousal.
“estúpido, caliente puto bastardo,” he’d often curse at night, following the lines, “joder, perra. atragantarse con mi polla así como así,” pumping his throbbing cock at the thought, the sight of you, hidden behind mounds of paperwork, peering at the multiple cameras he’d installed in your apartment.
a part of him cherished the cat-and-mouse chase, yearned for it. the other, rational, heroic bit knew he was wrong. he should’ve captured you at your most vulnerable; spread wide apart, rubbing leisurely at your swollen clit, but he didn’t. he simply couldn’t do anything but breathe haphazardly, or unzip his suit and start stroking himself at the pace with which you fingered yourself.
he thought he was in the clear, letting this continue for months, but jessica seemed to have caught on, offering to catch you for him, which was when he snapped; at her, and at any spider who dare mention your name.
there was talk at the tables, you were labelled the sexiest, most beautiful anomaly. multiple peters lined up to offer to be appointed to you, but it only added fuel to the fire that was miguel o’hara’s temper.
his efficiency, skill, and authority were at stake. and so, he finds himself chasing after you, yet again.
only this time, he didn’t let you escape.
his own eyes widened when his talon ripped through your limb. the colour left his face, a panicked expression painted all over his hidden face. carefully, yet fervently he removed them from your leg. by the time he did so, he was on top, and you were right beneath him, pressed so tightly against his chest.
instinctively, you raised your ass, pressing into his constricted crotch. the gesture knocked the air out of miguel, who had deemed you to be in agony from the cut on your leg, but when miguel looked back at your black suit, he saw healed flesh through the torn fabric; soft and tender, like the rest of you.
he took off his mask, turning you over.
he took off yours, too. it were as if another moment without seeing your face would’ve sent him spiralling madly into the multiverse of armageddon.
solace, is what your face brought. agony, is what it put him through. everything about you, be it y/n y/l or his pantera was so, so perfect.
her eyes, mere slits staring at him with offence and hatred, yet the pupils dilate when his grip on your waist tightens, her plump lips muttering various curses at his name, but even the most vile profanities sounded like honeyed words of love coming from those perfect, bordeaux lips. her frown, her cute nose, her perfect hair, a mess underneath her mask, framing perfectly against her frame; so tiny compared to the mammoth monster towering over her.
she is perfect, and nobody does it like her.
nobody ruins canons like her, and she’s got every reason. the things she’s been through, miguel knows an angelita like her doesn’t deserve anything she’s had to endure. it all made her stronger, until she was blamed for things she had no control over; her powers, her ability to survive. her perfection, that the world tried to take advantage of. so, it comes as no surprise to miguel o’hara that the sweet y/n y/l resorted— no, was pushed to the dark side.
as much as he sympathises, and even cares for the girl he’s grown fond of, the girl that calls him ‘viejo’ with utmost conceit, he must teach her a lesson.
one she’d remember.
“i told you i’d catch you.” he leaned closer, a baritone in his velvet voice. “fuck off, miggy.” if it weren’t for ‘viejo’, it were ‘miggy’. see, o’hara wasn’t the only one spying, and y/l did enough digging to find out all about him, hence the constant reminder of their age-gap. the only difference between the two was that y/n stopped watching after what was useful, whereas miguel deemed eyeing her figure 24/7 as very necessary; even when she’d change in her room, and especially when it was into a skimpy dress to go out with some lowlife edgelord that couldn’t even pay for her drink.
miguel still has the fuckface hanging upside down in some alleyway in some multiverse.
nobody touches pantera.
“hermosa, don’t talk to me like that,” he warned in response to your curse. “oh, bite me, gilipollas.” you smirked, not anticipating his next move.
“si insistes, cariño.” he shrugged before releasing his fangs from their pillowy casing, his plump lips, to reach for your pulse point and bite. hard.
her shriek of pain turned into a wanton moan when he injected a small dose of venom into her, licking the open wound clean, savouring the ferric sweetness.
“damn you, son of a bitch,” you huffed in between breaths, “what have you done to me?” he groaned against your skin, setting every inch ablaze.
he breathed in your scent, face pressed in your slowly bleeding neck, before spreading your limbs wide and apart. he rose, shooting webs on each ending, one by one, tying you in place.
you were trapped in his embrace, on the helipad of a skyscraper. before realisation dawned in on you, miguel was dragging his mouth over your body, from the throat downwards, his protruding fangs ripping through whatever fabric came in the way, and soon enough, he had ripped through your suit, till he was right above your cunt.
a smirking miguel eyed you, conceit and shamelessness painted all over his flawless face. his large hands gripped the ripped suit from each slit and tore it off of you, leaving you only in your panties. “fucking hell, querida, no bra?” his face contorted in need at the sight of your bountiful chest, nipples hardening when the cold air of nueva york hit them.
his mouth felt obliged to latch onto both of your buds, paying the heed they so desperately craved. “days,” he began, “only i know how weeks, months went by in craving you.” “you make me hate myself, y/n.” “you don’t belong here,” he had moved on to your neck, placing sloppy wet kisses. raising himself just enough to eye you, he dipped two of his fingers into his fanged mouth, covering them in spit, before burying his face back into your neck and plunging a finger inside you.
you moaned, grinding against the palm of his large hand to provide some relief to your throbbing clit.
“you’re an anomaly,” he groaned, feeling you tighten around him, not even letting him bury himself knuckle deep. “and yet, you’re dying to fuck me.” you managed to mock miguel. “didn’t say you’re not insatiable.” his calculating eyes were fixated on the sight of your pussy swallowing his fingers.
spreading your lips apart using his index and ring finger, he plunged further into you. soon enough, while he still cursed your existence out in spanish, three of his fingers were fucking you open causing a delicious tremor of pain to run through you.
when your eyes closed in awaiting excruciating pleasure, he bit into the same, now healed, skin of your neck injecting a larder dosage of the apparent venom. “eyes on me, querida.”
he feigned a look of inncocece whereas nothing about your acts was innocent.
he looked angelic while committing the devil’s sins, fingering you at godspeed while his crimson eyes stared into your soul.
“gonna come, love? sí, good girl, let it all out f’me.” and you did.
spasming around his fingers, you let out pent-up frustration of months, because the truth is, you’ve always been a woman of reciprocity.
an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,
an orgasm for an orgasm.
“i wanna suck it.” you whined between pants, trying to break free from the webbed bondage. “hm, tempting,” the clocks of contemplation seemed to be ticking behind those crimson eyes, “but no.” he shook his head, creating regrettable distance between the two of you. “but i want it—” you whined,
“and i want you to go back to your universe. for the sake of the multivers—”
“oh, to hell with you and your multiverse, o’hara. just fuck me and get it over with.”
you rolled your eyes, but were soon put in regret when a hand wrapped around your throat.
“you think that’s all i’m gonna do? dios mío, ¿cómo puede una chica ser tan bonita y a la vez tan tonta?” he ‘tsked’, “i’m not just gonna ‘fuck you and get it over with’, i’m gonna ruin you for everyone else.” you had no idea when he had the time to discard his lower half of the suit, until you felt something sinister and sinful rubbing against your slit.
“so wet, querida. and all for me?” he groaned shamelessly, the sound resonating in your core. villainous tendencies getting the best of you, you couldn’t help but tease, “not really, i thought peter b. would swing by.” you shot him a shit-eating grin, trying your level best not to show how pleasurable his cock rubbing against you felt.
you knew you were fucked when he clenched his jaw, crimson eyes glowing to a dangerous fluorescent scarlet, before he laughed dryly, “you’re gonna fucking regret that.”
you yelped when he turned you around, shooting more webs onto your constricted frame. in your new position, you were forced to lie with your back arched, tits pressed against the cold concrete, unwavering with how greatly they were held in place. each limb was securely taped to the floor, every inch of your body covered in sticky webs, all except the very hole where he’d shoot in his special web.
“you like this, puta? i know i do.” he said, stroking your leaking slit with his cock.
“my very own glory hole.”
he didn’t give you a moment to retaliate, instantly shoving his entire length inside you.
you were a goner.
from the way his anomaly of a cock slammed against your g-spot repeatedly, in full combat with your cervix, to the way his heavy balls slapped your clit, his talons ripping two holes just around your areoles to pull and pinch your nipples.
“miguel…” you moaned repeatedly, like a chant praising the god on his knees behind you. “what happened to ‘viejo’, hm? you like this old man’s cock too much to care now? yeah? too cock-drunk on an older guy?” he growled, in between unfaltering thrusts. “it’s okay, bébé, this pussy is my reward, too. isn’t it? i’ve been so patient with you. ‘never complaining when you touch yourself.”
“i’m not selfish like that. i want my hermosa to touch herself when she thinks of me. i know you say my name, cariño. i know you say ‘miguel’.” you buried your face further in your shame, cheek pressed against the cold concrete. “it’s okay, yo también pensé en mi pantera when i fuck my fist.”
you moaned at the thought of him jerking off to you, ready to give all the pennies in the world for his thoughts, his fantasies you’re more than obliged to fulfil.
“i’m gonna cum—” you managed to warn just in time as you creamed on his cock. “sí, querida. so good f’me.” he brought two fingers to your clit, overstimulating your high.
you writhed around, but miguel wouldn’t budge.
he still fucked in and out of you, bottomed out completely, to just the tip in, all with relentless speed and vigour.
“fuck, your cunt is so tight, y/n. hell, i might just keep you.”
“mi pantera is my fuckdoll.”
the overstimulation killing you, “no more… n-no more!” you moaned wantonly, but miguel didn’t stop his fervent flicks on your clit, nor the torturous pummelling your pussy was enduring.
when you neared your second orgasm, miguel made sure you reached it, but didn’t give you the satisfaction of riding out your high. pulling out, he gently tapped on your pussy, watching it spasm around nothingness, and then he slammed his cock inside you, letting your gaping pussy milk him dry.
the sight was something to see.
miguel o’hara, the work-consumed maniac who never let anyone see any side of him other than solemnity, had more expression on his face than ever before. face contorted in pleasure as he shot ropes of his load into you, grip tightening around your hips, his plump lit ripping between his sharp teeth.
“fuck,”
“𝑵𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑶 𝑴𝑰 𝑷𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨.”
he groaned, staying buried deep inside of you for a few more lingering moments.
he slashed your constricts, hesitantly pulling out his cock from your hole, its new home.
“still hell-bent on wreaking havoc?” he asked, flipping your spent body over, placing a lustful kiss on your swollen lips. “no, sir.” you whispered softly, causing a wave of arousal to wash over miguel, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to act on it.
“good, because i was serious about keeping you.” he stared you dead in the eyes, wrapping those colossal arms around your body; like putty in his hands. putting on his suit again, he carried you away in the still of the night.
your villainous days, perhaps, are over, but something tells you, you and miguel are far from it.
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citrus-soda · 4 months
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why is my translation app so hellbent on giving Kururu the wildest inaccurate dialogue possible
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writerslittlelibrary · 2 months
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So, I'm not a prisoner? part 3
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masterlist part 1 part 2 part 3 extra
summary: you did not expect that your mission to take down the traitor, could end in such a difficult situation for you…
pairing: Natasha x Red Room teen reader
warnings: none 
genre: fluff
words: 3293
a/n: this is the last part of this (mini) series. I’ll be posting a birthday special for tomorrow, and then that’s it 🫶
(also, I’m not American, so I apologise if the mac and cheese part is inaccurate. I just see kraft mac and cheese as some terrible artificial pasta with powdered cheese… 🫠)
You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work
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After Natasha left your room, you simply allowed yourself to lay on the bed. It felt foreign to you. You’d never been allowed to just lay in bed. Laying in bed during the day was impossible in the Red Room. 
You felt slightly uneasy since the moment you were left alone. It didn’t feel like you were alone…
You sat up on the bed, scanning the room. You stood up, walking to all the corners of the room, checking for obvious placements of cameras. After checking all corners, you continued with checking the vents, and after that, the heating system. 
You couldn’t locate any cameras, but you knew they were there. You could feel it. 
After debating where the cameras could possibly be, you took another good look at the room. If you had taken someone prisoner, where would you hide the camera? 
After scanning the room for the fifth time, you decided to investigate the bedframe, finding an indent on the wooden frame at the top. The bed looked like some princess stuff to you, like a real royal would sleep in it. The bed itself had a heavy wooden frame, and the corners were high, all of them being connected with more wood at the top. There were thin, see-through curtains hanging on each corner. Yeah, real princessy…
You walked over to the desk, finding a pen. You pushed the desk chair towards the bed, stabilising yourself by holding the bedframe as you stood on the chair.  
You ran the pen over the indent in the wood, scratching some of the wood away. It didn’t take long before you saw a black spot, and you knew you finally discovered the location of the camera. 
You were quite proud of yourself, something you didn’t feel quite often. Carefully, you used the pen to pick the small camera out of the wooden bed frame, getting down from the chair and placing all items on the desk, returning the desk chair. 
You sat back on the bed, waiting for Natasha to come back, preparing yourself to ask her about the camera situation. 
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Natasha returned to the room after about 30 minutes. She carried a few books, along with some dinner for you and herself. She put all the stuff down on the desk, immediately noticing the small camera and pen. 
“What’s this?” she asked, picking up the camera. 
“I know I’m just a teenager, but I’m not that stupid, you know,” you told her, not looking at her as you laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling. 
“I know that,” Natasha started, turning around to face you and sitting on the desk chair again. “I didn’t know about this, I swear.” 
You simply shrugged, sitting up and turning your body to look at her. 
“I didn’t expect anything else. Your boss would be stupid to just leave me unattended. However, I am rather offended about the fact that they honestly thought I wouldn’t notice. Besides, I’m not sleeping in a room with a camera,” you stated, and Natasha nodded. 
“I’ll talk to Fury about it. This shouldn’t have even been in your room. This wasn’t what we agreed on…” Natasha trailed off, and to be honest, she looked more hurt than you did. 
You stayed quiet, however, and just waited on what Natasha would do next.
You noticed the stuff that Natasha had brought with her, and you felt yourself become pretty excited at the idea of being allowed to read a book for entertainment. 
It only took a few seconds before Natasha turned back into herself again. She stuffed the camera in a pocket of her jacket, and then turned to the desk, grabbing the dinner she brought. 
“So, I wasn’t really sure what you liked, but then again, I’m pretty sure you don’t know either, so I just brought you my sister’s favourite food,” Natasha stated, handing you a bowl of mac and cheese. You stirred the fork around for a bit, looking at the meal sceptically. 
“What is this supposed to be?” you asked Natasha, and she smiled. 
“It’s mac and cheese. It’s a well known American meal,” Natasha explained, smiling as she took a bite from her own mac and cheese. 
You looked at her slightly disgusted, then back at the bowl in your hands. 
“Please don’t tell me that this cheese comes from a powder from a bag…?” you asked hesitantly, and Natasha just gave you a small smirk. 
“Okay, I won’t,” she said, taking another bite of her own bowl.
“And you are sure this is edible?” you questioned, stirring the pasta around in the bowl. 
“It’s actually pretty good. You should try it,” Natasha stated, and you looked at her unsure, before turning back to your bowl, scooping a small amount of pasta of your fork and hesitantly taking a bite. 
“Well?” Natasha asked.
You shrugged. “It doesn’t suck as much as I thought it would,” you stated, taking another small bite. 
Natasha chuckled and ate her own food, smiling at the way you looked so sceptically at the meal. You didn’t really mind it, but it definitely wasn’t your favourite food.
You two ate in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Maybe you’d even say you quite enjoyed Natasha’s presence. Not that you would ever admit it, of course. 
After finishing the food, Natasha took the bowl from you, setting her own one on the desk as well as she grabbed the books.
“Like I said, I got you some entertainment. I wasn’t sure what kind of stories you like, but these are books Wanda enjoyed, so I figured you’d might like them too,” Natasha explained, handing you the books. You smiled at her as you took them, placing them on the bed beside you. 
You took the first book in your lap, studying the cover and turning it over to read the back. 
“Is it a series?” you asked as you picked up the second book, comparing the covers. 
“Wanda said that that is a two book thing, and the others are stand alone”s,” Natasha explained, and you nodded as you went through the other books,
“Thank you,” you said after inspecting them all, placing them on your nightstand.
Natasha smiled and nodded. “Of course. I have something else for you, though,” she said as she reached into her pocket, pulling out a small device. 
“It’s an mp3 player. I put some music on there that I thought you’d might like. I didn’t really know what else to get for entertainment, as Fury says you’re not allowed to have any electronic devices yet, but I cannot live without music,” Natasha explained, handing you the small device. 
“Thanks,” you said as you took it, inspecting it. 
“How does it work?” you asked after a few minutes, surprised with yourself that you couldn’t manage to turn it on. Right, because that made sense. You could hack into the most complicated systems, but turning on an mp3 player was far out of your league. 
Natasha smiled and went to sit next to you on the bed, gently taking the mp3 player from your hands and turning it on.
She took her time explaining it all to you. How the playlists worked, how the volume button worked, and how to skip songs, or put them on repeat. She handed you the mp3 player back and you thanked her as you placed it on your nightstand as well.
Natasha talked with you for a bit, which mainly consisted out of her telling you stuff, and you giving responses to that. Sometimes.
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After Natasha told you goodnight and left the room, you got settled with your first book. The cover drew you in, and you were excited to read your first ever story book. 
Sure, you read books before, but all books were made to teach you something. Not to mention the fact that they were heavily indoctrinated. You had never read a book purely for your own enjoyment. You didn’t really think about it. 
Now, as you were settled in your huge, soft bed with a copy of ‘Fireborn’ in your hands, you felt an odd, warm feeling in your chest.
You couldn’t really explain it, but you enjoyed it nonetheless. 
After opening the book, you didn’t close it until the light was staring to peak into the room through the curtains. You had stayed up the entire night reading, not that you minded. You didn’t really plan on sleeping anyway. You were already having nightmares in Germany. You were certain you would have nightmares here as well.
After you put the book down, you made your way towards the bathroom, freshening yourself up and brushing your teeth. 
You took one glance at the shower before you knew you had to try it. It looked so luxurious and large. You turned the water on, smiling as you felt it warm up. You had never had a warm shower in your life.
You were in the shower for what you were sure had to be longer than an hour. You simply revelled in the warmth, enjoying the feeling of all the dirt washing off. 
You washed you hair two times, making sure all the dirt was gone before turning the shower off. The entire bathroom was warm and steamy, and the towels were huge and incredibly soft. You had never, ever in your life had a hot shower like this one. At the Red Room the water was luxe warm at best, and you were given only 5 minutes to complete your entire shower. 
When on mission, sure you showered, but you stuck to your routines, keeping the showers cool and short to make sure you wouldn’t waste valuable time. 
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After stepping back into your room and digging through your closet, you found some simple sweatpants and a sweatshirt to wear. 
You sat back on you bed, opening your book again. It was about an hour later when Natasha came into the room, and you had already finished the first book, now holding the second in your hand.
Natasha smiled at you, before noticing the book. 
“You know that is the second part, right?” she asked as she closed the door, setting some sandwiches on your desk and taking her place on your desk chair again.
“I know. I already finished the first,” you stated, putting a piece of paper you found between the pages, before closing the book and putting it on your nightstand. 
“Did you sleep?” Natasha asked surprised, and you simply shrugged. 
“I didn't feel like it,” you stated, and Natasha gave you a knowing look, however, deciding not to comment on it as she reached over to the desk, grabbing a plate and handing it to you.
“I hope you like peanut butter sandwiches,” she said as you took the plate. 
“I’ve never had one…” you said, inspecting the sandwich, taking the top part off to inspect what was on it.
“Well, you’re gonna like this even more than the mac and cheese…” Natasha trailed off, taking a bite out of her own sandwich. You gave her a confused look, turning back to the sandwich in front of you. 
“Americans don’t honestly call this bread, do they?” you asked as you picked up the sandwich. 
Natasha shrugged, eating her own sandwich without a word. 
“Calling this bread is an insult to bread…” you stated as you took a bite out of the sandwich, cringing at the doughy texture the white bread had. 
However, you finished the entire sandwich without a word, handing the plate back to Natasha after you finished. “Did you like it?” Natasha asked, putting the plate on the desk.
“It was… an interesting taste,” you stated. Natasha chuckled.
“Trust me, you’ll get some better food when you’re ready to eat at team meals. Wanda cooks the best food,” Natasha stated as she got up from her chair. You stayed seated on the bed, expecting Natasha to leave the room again. She didn’t.
“Well, come on. We need to get you some proper stuff so you don’t have to walk around in other’s people’s clothes all day,” Natasha told you with a smile, lending you her hand.
You were a little unsure at first, but you grabbed her hand nonetheless, letting her pull you from the bed. She walked over to the closet, grabbing a pair of sneakers that were standing at the bottom of it. 
“Here. They might be a bit big, but they should fit fine for a little while,” Natasha said as she handed you the shoes.
You thanked her and put them on. 
They were comfortable, but indeed, they were a bit big. Natasha left the room after you got the shoes on, and you followed her.
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Natasha had taken you to a mall. She claimed you needed some stuff, and you simply agreed with everything she said. You figured she knew better anyway, and it’s not like you wanted to upset her. She had done so much for you already, so it was better to just do what made her happy.  
Because of that, you simply agreed with every clothing item she held up, asking you if you liked it or not. 
You weren’t sure what you liked, and if you were being honest, standing in the store was absolute torture. There were so many options, and there were so many people. After being in the store for only 15 minutes, and after hearing Natasha suggest a few clothing items, you were officially sure that you did, in fact, not like shopping.
Natasha saw you were having a hard time. Of course she did, but she knew you’d hate her if she pointed it out. She knew it would be better for you to say something yourself, and so she kept quiet as she watched you walking around the store uncomfortably. 
After about 45 minutes, you still hadn’t picked anything, and Natasha decided she had given you long enough to say something yourself. 
She stopped you from walking, guiding you to a seating area and putting her basket down. 
“Are you okay?” she asked sincerely, and even though you knew she knew you weren’t, you merely shrugged and looked down at the ground. Natasha didn’t say anything, knowing you would talk out of your own initiative at some point.
“How do I know what I like?” you asked after a few minutes of silence, and Natasha smiled and she began to explain.
“You just try things on, and when you feel good in the clothes you are wearing, then you like something. If you put something on and it’s uncomfortable, and you don’t feel good in it, then you know it’s not something you like.” 
You took a minute to process the information, before standing up and pointing at a t-shirt. 
“I like that colour,” you stated, and Natasha followed your direction and she looked at the shirt. “It is a very pretty colour. You should try it on,” Natasha said as she walked towards the shirts, grabbing one in your size and putting it in her basket. 
That’s how you and Natasha spend the next 30 minutes in the store. Either you or Natasha would point something out, and if you liked the colour, you put it in the basket. 
It didn’t take long before Natasha noticed your exhaustion, and so she guided you towards the fitting rooms. You looked pretty done with the whole clothes shopping thing, and Natasha realised she might have pushed it a bit with wanting to do so much on basically your first day of freedom. 
After trying each item on, you decided that the trying on was the worst part of the whole clothes shopping. 
You picked around half of what you had picked out in the store, with Natasha’s approval of course, and after checking out, Natasha led you back towards the car. You got excited, thinking you were going to get to go back to your room and read. However, Natasha just put the bags of clothes in the car before locking it again, grabbing your hand and leading you back into the mall.
You groaned slightly, and Natasha chuckled as she led you up the escalator. 
“You’ll like this, I promise,” she stated as she dragged you towards another store. However, this store had books on it’s logo, and your annoyance washed away immediately when you noticed you had ended up at a book store. 
“I figured we should get you some books of your own,” Natasha stated, leading you inside as you nodded excitedly. 
------------------------------------------------------------- 
Natasha helped you pick out multiple books, and after she had paid for everything, you two finally made it back to the car. You were absolutely exhausted, especially after not sleeping that night, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when you fell asleep on the ride home. 
After arriving back at the tower, Natasha had carefully woken you up, not wanting to startle you. 
She carried all the clothes, while you carried the book as you two made your way back into the tower. After arriving back to you living quarters, Natasha pushed the door open. However, before you could step inside, another door opened, and Wanda just left her room.
She smiled when she noticed you two. Natasha gave her a smile in return while you let your gaze fall to the ground. 
Wanda made her way over with a smile on her face. 
“I hoped you liked the books. If you’d want, I have some more you could read,” she told you with excitement, and you glanced up at her as you gave her a small smile. 
“Thank you,” you told her before looking at Natasha, almost pleading for her to break off the conversation.
Luckily, she got the hint and turned towards Wanda. “That’s very sweet, Wanda, thank you, but I think y/n had enough to read for just now,” she stated as she motioned her head towards the book bag in you hands. 
Wanda smiled and nodded. “I love that store!” she said excitedly, and Natasha nodded in understanding before pushing your bedroom door open a little more. 
“We gotta put all this stuff away,” she explained as she looked at you, and you quickly made your way into your room. 
“I’ll see you at dinner,” Natasha told Wanda as she followed you into the room, letting the door fall close. She put all the bags on your bed, watching as you put away all the books onto a book shelf that stood against the wall. 
Natasha took it upon herself to put away all the clothes. 
You sat cross legged on the bed, watching Natasha while she put all the clothes away. After she finished, she sat at the end of your bed, giving you a sweet smile.
“Do you maybe wanna try and have dinner with the team tonight?” Natasha started, picking up on the deep breath you took. “I know it’s a bit quick, but I can assure you they’re very welcoming, and they won’t bite,” Natasha joked, hoping to calm your nerves a bit.
You shrugged. “Sure. It’s better than sitting in her all day,” you stated, and Natasha nodded in understanding. 
You weren’t used to not having a routine. You craved the discipline and order that the Red Room had always provided you. Sure, the way they did it was terrible, but you didn’t know any better. Now, after not being in the Red Room for a few weeks, and after being in the Avengers tower for two days, you craved the routine the Red Room had given you. 
But who knows? Maybe you’ll find a new routine. Maybe you’ll even enjoy this one…
Tags: @wandanatlov3r @tobiaslut @natashasgirlll @xanthreee @mrsromanovaa
Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @nova-kyle @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @simp-erformarvelwomen @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @mxximoffswifey @lorsstar1st
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shadysadie · 10 months
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Hot take: the Wittebanes were not Puritans
So since Hollow Mind came out there have been a lot of jokes about how the Belos is a crusty old Puritan. And while he is certainly crusty and old, I don’t think he was a Puritan.
I understand why everyone jumps there, when we think of Witch Hunts in Colonial America the very first thing that comes to mind is the Salem Witchcraft Trials. However, the Salem Witchcraft Trials began in 1692, that is 80 years after Masha says the Wittebros showed up in Gravesfield, and 30 years after the events of Elsewhere and Elsewhen.
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If Masha’s information is correct, (which it might not be but we’ll get to that) then Caleb and Philip arrived in Gravesfield in 1613, which is closer in time to the settlement of Jamestown (1607) than the Salem Witchcraft Trials. 
The Pilgrims didn’t even land at pride rock until 1620, seven years after the Wittebros arrived in Gravesfield. The Mayflower Pilgrims were really the group responsible for creating the idea of religious charters. They specifically wanted to leave England to create their own religious society. Many other groups followed, (notably the Massachusetts Bay Colony, which later became the home of the aforementioned Salem Witchcraft Trials) but the Mayflower Pilgrims were the first group of religious extremists who came to America looking for their Zion. 
Prior to that, the motivation to settle the “New World” was mainly financial. Ships were chartered through the Virginia Company. Which as we all remember from our favorite wildly inaccurate and problematic 90s Disney movie, the Virginia Company was in it for the money. The New World had resources and Britian wanted them, damnit, Glory, God, and Gold and the Virginia Company.
That meant, if Caleb and Philip really did arrive in Gravesfield in 1613, their family likely made the trip for financial gain, not religion. If that’s the case they were less likely a member of an obscure group of religious extremists, and more likely to be either Protestant like King James and Queen Elizabeth. (They could have also been Roman Catholic, evidence for that comes later).
“But”, you say, “weren’t Puritans the ones persecuting witches at the time?”
Yes and no. 
In the Americas, Witch Hunts will forever be linked to Puritans, but in Witch Hunting long outdates the Puritans. King James himself, was a witch hunting fanatic, he personally oversaw hundreds of witchtrials. He wrote books about finding witches, and it was specifically the King James endorse translation of the Bible that features the infamous “thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” (in many prior translations the word witch is something more along the line of “sinner” or “evil doer”). By many estimates, upwards of 1500 people were executed for witchcraft as a result of his reign. If we are going with Masha’s 1613 timeline, the brothers would have left England smack dab in the middle of his reign, right after the King James Bible was published.
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(^this GIF has nothing to do with the Owl House, I just love sassy Gay King James in his bird mask, look at this cocky ass bastard, you know him and Belos would have been genocide buddies)
However, I can’t pretend to be focused on some semblance of historical accuracy and take Masha’s information at face value, even in the context of the show it wouldn’t add up because according to the sign we see in Yesterday’s Lie, Gravesfield was established in 1635. 
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(Granted there is a difference between a settlement and a town, it is possible that 1635 was when Gravesfield was officially acknowledged as a town and the boys just lived there pre-establishment). 
However, in the name of historical accuracy, I have to assume Masha got the date wrong, because the English didn’t even settle in Conneticut until the 1630s. The Conneticut Witch Trials began in the 1640s. By this timeline and demographic, the likelihood of Caleb and Philip being Puritans goes up by a lot. 
However, if we look at Philip’s clothes an his goals, there are still signs that don’t point to Puritanism. First look at the clothes Caleb and Philip wear as children:
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Philip’s pants are red and Calebs are green. While it is a myth that Puritans could only wear black, the colors that they were allowed to incorporate into their wardrobe were typically still neutrals (dark yellows and beiges). Green would be pushing it, and red would be unbelievably bold.
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Additionally, the ruffles on Philip’s shirt in the journal and Jacob’s book, would have been seen as incredibly vain.
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 The blue/black coat that Caleb wore in the puppet show, and Philip later wears in Elsewhere and Elsewhen and King’s Tide has gold buttons and gold embroidery. Gold and Silver accessories of any kind would have been considered incredibly sinful and conceited. 
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Which would also make it really weird for a Puritan to choose gold to represent himself. Infact his whole emperor authentic is much more reminiscent of the Catholic Pope. His own role as the messenger of the Titan’s will is also very papal in nature.
Finally there is the term he uses, “Witch Hunter General” is an illusion to “Witch Finder General” which was a rank made up and used by Protestant Matthew Hopkins and not really used by any Puritans. Such a title would also probably have seemed pretty vain.
Now you might say, “It’s a fictional story, why does any of this matter?”
The answer is: It does not, but I am high and have ADHD and this was the rabbit hole I fell down.
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man in black
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summary: the color black is most often associated with power, something carlos surely has over you. pairing: carlos sainz jr x fem!reader word count: 3.7k warnings: SMUT – oral (m & f receiving), fingering (f receiving), praise kink, p in v sex, unprotected sex. minors do not interact. || google translate spanish & french, probably inaccurate descriptions of the weekend schedule. so severly unedited and not proofread. note: finally! the long awaited man in black, in honor of the black fireproofs from monza. to be honest, this isn't just dedicated to the black fireproofs, but also the amazing job he did in monza. his race craft that weekend deserves to be celebrated with terribly written smut. hope this was worth the wait (also full disclaimer i wrote the last maybe 500 words high out of my mind so i really do hope it makes sense)
Monza. It’s the weekend for Ferrari to prove they are more than the mistakes they’ve made throughout the season. It’s the weekend for both drivers to prove that the fans are right to have faith in them. Monza is the weekend that Carlos has everything to prove. 
But it’s gonna be a challenge when he’s forced to start all the way at the back of the grid.
“I don’t know hermosa,” Carlos mumbles, rummaging through his luggage on the bed for his outfit of the day. “I don’t know if this weekend is gonna be what I want it to be.” 
You frown, crawling out from under the covers and over to your boyfriend. You kneel to give your boyfriend a sweet peck before sitting back on your feet. “Don’t say that mi dulce. You’re gonna have a great weekend, a weekend you can look back on and be proud of… even in this ridiculous shade of yellow.” 
Carlos chuckles, watching as you pull out his typical Ferrari polo but in the shade you described as minion yellow. You grimace, shaking your head as you lay it down on the bed nice and flat, ready for him to wear. Your boyfriend presses a kiss to your temple as you do so, grabbing a pair of light chinos before stripping down and changing. 
For the first time since Barcelona, you would be accompanying him on the track all weekend. You have your reservations about preferring to only come around for race day, but considering that your boyfriend is taking a grid penalty in Monza of all places, you figure you’d step it up as the supportive girlfriend. You know that Carlos has been desperate for a win since Silverstone, craving the rush of being the first person across the finish line. And truth be told, you were also missing the sound of his name being announced as victorious. You can still hear Crofty now, his excitement as he announces that for the first time in Formula 1, Carlos Sainz is victorious. 
In lieu of being the supportive girlfriend and hardcore Ferarri fan, you made it a point to match up with the yellows of the team. Granted you opt for shades more flattering to your skin tone, and not so in your face, but still. You’re in a simple, yellow strapless dress and white sneakers. It isn’t long until Carlos is ready, his hat in his hand along with his phone, wallet, and keys all in different slots of his fingers. You hum softly, prying his wallet from his hands before dropping it into your purse so you can hold his hand.
“Gracias hermosa,” He mumbles, pecking your lips.
The paddock is swarming in red and yellow, the tifosi excited to see their two leading men and how they’ll fare over the next couple of days. You stay out of every photo op and conversation Carlos catches himself in as much as possible. Everyone is so kind, even to you, and it’s refreshing. You watch as excitement begins to grow behind Carlos’s golden brown eyes after every interaction. It’s almost as if his impending grid penalty is long forgotten. 
Even with the knowledge of him starting in the back of the grid, Carlos pushed himself and the car. He topped in the practices, showing the world that given the chance he could very possibly win this race. It’s after free practice three do you really see the adrenaline and determination coursing through your boyfriend. You stay in the back of the garage, Charlotte on your left, as you watch Carlos analyze the data on the screens. You don’t hear the discussions, or quite frankly understand what exactly they are looking at, but you can’t deny how good he looks at that moment.
His thick, dark hair is pushed back, holding its form effortlessly. His bottom lip is slightly jutted outward, his fingers against his chin while he listens to the engineers explain the final set of data before qualifying. His skin is so golden, even more so against the now black fireproofs. You thought the white got you going, the black seemed to be working on overdrive. You feel Charlotte’s elbow against your side, tearing your eyes away from your prince-like boyfriend. 
“Vous bavez,” You’re drooling. She whispers, swiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb before giggling. 
You roll your eyes playfully, feeling your cheeks heating up. “Shut up.” 
You turn back to face Carlos, who is already walking over to you with a sweet smile on his face. 
“Hey, do you want to come upstairs with me?” 
You nod, “Sure.” 
You stand up from your seat, telling Charlotte you’ll see her at qualifying and trailing behind Carlos as you walk up the stairs. You both get a quick meal in the cafeteria, then retreat to his room. You hum softly, watching as he pulls the yellow suit off his body, hanging it up on the door of his closet. He slips on a pair of gym shorts before joining you on his massage bed, chin resting on your shoulder to look at whatever it is you’re staring at on your phone. 
“How are you feeling about qualifying?” You ask, putting your phone down next to you and turning over to look at your boyfriend. 
He shrugs, “I don’t know. Optimistic… hopefully I get P1 so I won’t be so far back you know.” 
You nod, fingers reaching over to cup his cheek, thumb caressing his skin softly. “Anything else on your mind? You seem tense.” 
Carlos shakes his head, taking your hand in his own and pressing a kiss on your palm. “No, solo preocupado por quali… I think after it’s done I’ll be fine.” 
“Anything I can do to take your mind off it?” You mumble, your tone only slightly suggestive. You watch as a smirk forms on Carlos’s lips. 
“Tienes alguna idea?” Do you have any ideas?
“Tengo un par…” I have a couple…
That’s when you lean over, lips finding his own. The kiss is urgent, but gentle and sweet. You feel Carlos’s large hand rest on your lower back, pulling you closer against him. Your fingers find their place in his dark locks, gripping the strands tightly in your fingers. He groans softly against you as you tug on his hair. Carlos holds your hips, pulling you over and on top of him. You don’t hesitate to grind your hips against his, your core meeting his clothed and semi-hard cock. 
“We don’t have a lot of time, hermosa,” He breathes, lips moving along your jaw and down your neck. 
You lick your lips, enjoying the feeling of the way he sucks the skin of your neck, how his teeth grind lightly as he does so. You pull away slightly, hands cupping his jaw as you kiss him hard all while you scoot backwards and onto your feet, Carlos sitting up so he doesn’t stop kissing you. You pull away, fingers quick to the waistband of his gym shorts. He lifts his hips, helping you yank the shorts and his underwear down to his ankles. You drop to your knees in an instant, finding your place between his legs. You look at his hardened cock, laying flat against him, long and thick. Your mouth waters. 
You lay your tongue flat against his shaft, licking from base to tip, before engulfing his dick in your mouth. Carlos throws his head back at the feeling, a soft moan bubbling from his throat. You bob your head up and down, hands finnicking with your hair to hold it away from your face. 
It must be a sight to see. If anyone were to walk in at that moment, they’d see an angel in a bright yellow dress, on her knees in front of a devilishly handsome man clad in black. It’s sinful, the way you swallow him, the lewd sounds of him hitting the back of your throat and the wetness of your mouth around him. You can feel Carlos’s fingers combing through your hair, encouraging you to release your locks as he holds your hair back for you. 
“So good to me,” He mumbles, tilting his head as he watches the way his dick disappears into your mouth. His heart jumps when your eyes spring open, looking up at him. Your eyes bore into his and he smiles smugly. With his free hand, he reaches down to wipe a tear falling from your eye. “So pretty with my cock in your mouth baby.” 
You moan around him, eyes falling shut as you take more of him into your mouth. You relax your throat, forcing his cock down your throat before swallowing around him. You can hear his breath hitch, choking back a moan. You do it over and over until your throat is raw, and your jaw is sore. You pull away, gasping for air as you spit in your hands as you begin to pump his shaft. You lower yourself, turning your head as you gently take one of his balls in your mouth, tongue gently caressing the delicate skin. Carlos groans, head thrown back. A string of cuss words, a mix of english and spanish tumbling from his lips. You do the same to the other, before finally taking his cock back into his mouth. You focus on the most sensitive part of his dick, sucking hard and swirling your tongue around it. One hand massages his balls gently, while the other pumps what you don’t have in your mouth. You quicken your pace, your warm wet mouth unforgiving as you pull him closer and closer to his orgasm. 
With a final knock to the back of your throat, he releases into your mouth. He is panting, hot breaths mixed in with a mess of moans. Carlos’s eyes are squeezed shut, forehead tense as he comes down your throat. Your actions slow down, slowly releasing his dick to swallow what he’s left in you. Carlos releases your hair, eyes finally opening to look down at you. A lazy smile is on his lips and he chuckles. 
“Too good to me amor.” 
You grin, standing up and leaning down to kiss him. 
Right on cue, there is a gentle knock on the door. 
“Carlos, warm up time.”
Carlos sighs against you, pulling away and ruffling his hair. “I’m sorry mamita I-”
“It’s okay Carlos don’t worry. You can repay me another time,” You wink, leaning down to peck his lips. He chuckles, nodding before standing up and getting ready to hop back in the car. 
Qualifying was as exhilarating and nerve wracking as always. You kept your fingers crossed for the P1 your boyfriend so desperately wanted. But at the end, Charles secures pole and Carlos qualifies P3. You’re proud none the less, walking over to park femme to watch the post qualifying interviews and the usual photo ops. And when all is said and done, he is walking over to you to greet you with a sweet kiss. 
“P3!” You say excitedly.
“P18,” He corrects, slinging his arm over you. 
The rest of Saturday goes by in a blur, Carlos being whisked left and right for all things Ferrari and you just tagging along. By the time you both get back to the hotel, sex and all other good things are far from your minds and sleep seemed to be the only thing all too appealing for the both of you. 
You’re on the paddock just before lunch that Sunday, a smoothie in your hands as you skip behind Carlos who is racing over to hospitality. You kiss goodbye and join Charlotte for a quick adventure around the paddock. Both of you try to distract yourself for the time being, the race not starting for another couple of hours or so. You both end up at Ferrari Hospitality anyways, eating snacks that the kitchen staff prepared for you guys. Charlotte attempts to teach you more French in the meantime, and you both even dive into some classic paddock gossip. 
The sound of footsteps pitter pattering tears you and Charlotte away from your conversation, the sight of both your boyfriends coming down from the third floor, already clad in those god awful yellow suits. They grin, waving you guys over to join them as they walk over to the motorhome. 
The tifosi are loud, excited for the boys in yellow to get on the grid. They are excited, each scream and cry for Carlos and Charles is filled with so much love and passion. You and Charlotte hang back behind them, arm in arm, watching your boyfriends wave and smile at the people who love them. And when you finally find yourself in the garage, you retreat to the back, watching the chaos ensue. Wheels are being rolled, engineers chattering about data and Carlos standing with Rupert as he does his final rounds of warm ups. 
“Good luck mi dulce,” You say, smiling up at him as he grabs his helmet. He smiles, leaning down to give you a sweet kiss.
“Gracias hermosa, te veo en un rato.” Thank you beautiful, I’ll see you in a bit.
And with one final kiss, Carlos walks off and climbs into his car. 
Carlos drove a phenomenal race. Every overtake had your heart racing. Your leg was bouncing, bottom lip between your teeth as your boyfriend inches closer and closer to the top three. He drove effortlessly, the overtakes were clean and in all honesty just downright sexy. How your boyfriend managed to move from P18 to P4, you would never truly understand but it made you fall for him even further. You can hear the cheers from the grandstand with each turn, each move he made. 
It was going perfect, and surely he was going to be on the podium. But then Daniel’s car retires and they are stuck behind the safety car until the end of the race. You hear the frustration in Carlos’s voice when the engineers tell him the news, and your heart aches for him. In the end. Carlos is stuck in P4. You watch as he walks towards the garage, waving to the fans all the while as he tries to hide the disappointment in his features. You stand right outside the garage opening, ready to embrace your boyfriend as he comes closer. Your arms wrap around him, lips pressing against his cheek.
“Lo hiciste muy bien mi amor. Estoy tan orgulloso de ti.” You did so good my love. I'm so proud of you. 
His arm wraps around your waist, leaning into your kiss. “Gracias bebe. I have some media and meetings to do, why don’t you go back to the hotel now. I’ll have Rupert take you.” 
“Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting baby.”
He nods, “Si. As soon as I’m done here, I’m going straight to you. Okay?”
“Okay… Te amo.” 
“Te amo baby. See you later.”
You watch as he saunters off with his media personnel, off to do his usual rounds of briefings and media. Rupert smiles at you and soon you are on your way back to the hotel. 
You quickly get comfortable, changing out of yet another yellow inspired outfit and into one of Carlos’s shirts. The sun is beginning to set by the time Carlos is waltzing into the room, black fireproofs still on under his jacket. His hair is propped in all different directions, stress clearly on his features as he drops his belongings onto the desk. You watch as he moves around the room, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He walks over to you, leaning down to press a kiss on your lips. It lingers longer than you’d expect, Carlos’s free hand moving to the back of your head as he kisses you. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark, shaded with suggestion.
“Come join me in the shower.” 
It’s not a question, but a demand. You listen of course. How could you not, especially with how he is looking at you. You trail behind him, giddy and excited as you enter the bathroom. Carlos grins down at you, cupping your cheeks as he pulls your lips to his own. You can feel his smile as he kisses you, the way his hands move down to your hips to hold you flush against him. Your hands weave into his hair, gripping lightly. Carlos pulls away from the kiss, plump lips moving to kiss your jaw and down your neck. You look into the mirror, and the sight of Carlos ravishing you in his dark attire makes you moan. You could snap a picture of this very moment, you would. 
Your fingers fumble with the hem of those godly black fireproofs, pulling the fabric off his body before greedily running your fingers over his toned abdomen. Carlos does the same for you, lips immediately latching onto your nipple while his other hand massages the other breast. The shower is long forgotten as he backs you up against the sink and tugs your panties down your thighs. You kick them off before allowing him to sit you on the counter and dropping to his knees.
“The only prize I need,” He mumbles, kissing your clit.
“Only for you.” You mumble, watching as he admires your pussy. 
“All mine.” 
He presses his tongue flat against your center, licking agonizingly slow up your cunt before swirling around your clit. Carlos eats you out, like a man starved. His mouth, his lips, his tongue, pulling down right sinful noises from you. You are a whimpering mess, completely at his mercy as he continues to fuck you with his tongue. Your fingers are once again finding their place in his thick hair, pulling him closer against you. Carlos chuckles against you, lips sucking on your bundle of nerves. A squeal bubbles from your throat, head thrown back as intense pleasure rushes over you. You don’t see the way Carlos looks up at you, his golden eyes glazed with lust as he admires the way he makes you feel. He pulls away, middle finger running along your slit before pushing into you. 
“Tan dulce, tan húmedo, todo para mi.” He mumbles before reattaching his lips onto your pink center. So sweet, so wet, all for me.
You can feel it, your orgasm brewing in the pit of your stomach as he strokes your insides. Your pussy clenches around his middle finger, telling him that you’re close. Carlos obliges, adding his ring finger as he begins to fuck you with his slender digits. His tongue is unforgiving against you, fingers not giving up until you are moaning his name over and over, making a mess all over his fingers and chin. 
He stands up, fingers still buried deep inside of you, to pull you into another heated kiss. You sigh against his lips, pulling him closer as you kiss him with just as much fire. He pulls his fingers from inside of you, releasing your lips to lick his fingers clean of your arousal. You watch him, eyes hooded, lips curved into a lazy smirk. Carlos looked sexy before you, hair a mess and his fingers in his mouth as he licks your mess up. He releases his fingers with a pop, hands hoisting you off the counter and turning you around to face the mirror. 
You watch as he undoes his pants, pulling them down his legs and leaving him bare before you. You watch as he steps closer to you, the way his hands grip your waist as he stares at your ass. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a boyish grin on his face at how the soft flesh feels in his calloused hands. He places his free hand on your shoulder, pushing you down gently against the sink. In one swift movement, and with no effort at all, Carlos pushes into you. You both moan at the feeling, how perfectly he fits inside of you. 
Carlos doesn’t move for a moment, eyes shut as he savors the feeling of your soft cunt wrapped around him. “Feel so good mamita. I’ll never get over how good you feel around me.”
And with that, he begins to pump in and out of you. His hands hold your waist, pulling you against him in a sinful rhythm. He starts off slow, truly allowing you to feel the way his thick cock stretches you out. But with each second, he begins to move quicker, rougher. His hips snap against yours, his cock slamming into you over and over and pulling such sinful sounds from you. It’s music to Carlos’s ears. 
“Who makes you feel this good mamita?”
“You. Only you.” You moan, staring at him through the mirror. 
Carlos’s hands grip your forearms, pulling your body up and against him. He hooks his arms through yours, and uses his free hand to grope your breasts. You feel his hot breath against you, panting and moaning as he continues to fuck you. 
“Te amo,” He grunts, pressing a kiss against your neck.
“Te amo.” 
His hand moves from your breast down to your pussy, fingers toying with your sensitive clit. You beg him not to stop, whine his name as he gives into your pleas. You begin to see stars, see the little black dots cutting through your vision as your second orgasm comes over you. Your moans are loud, coming from deep in your throat as you shake in his hold. Carlos is not too far behind, thrusts turning sloppy as he releases himself into you. 
He releases you and you fall over onto the counter. You hear Carlos chuckle, his lips soon on your back as he kisses your clammy skin.
“Estás bien?” 
You nod your eyes closed as you hum in response. 
You inhale sharply when Carlos pulls out of you. He turns your body around to sit you back on the counter, pressing gentle kisses all over your face.
“I’ll start us a bath.” You nod, opening your eyes to look at the love of your life. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
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pikahlua · 5 months
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Thoughts on the official translation of 405?
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Yeah, thoughts abound.
1. Is the official translation of the final line in chapter 405 accurate? No.
2. Regardless, some people think it's inaccurate in really blatant ways that it actually is not. For example, some people think the official translation is changing some explicitly used pronouns around. If there's EVER anything about Japanese that isn't completely clear, it's what the pronouns should be--because the vast majority of them are implied.
3. Re: the "yeah yeah" line, I can conceive of a delivery of the line that does not sound disrespectful. That doesn't mean that's how the translator meant it, and this translator does have a habit of translating Katsuki's rude language with a certain *VIBE* that I don't always agree with--but that doesn't change the fact that Katsuki does speak very rudely and the translator clearly tries to capture that in the way they seem to think is best.
4. It's quite a leap to claim that this official translation is inaccurate due to deliberate malice, which I see a lot of people doing. From what I can tell, the translator just didn't realize the final line is a callback to chapter 322. Without that context, yeah, I can see how it'd be difficult to fully understand what's being said there, because enough of the words are vague or implied that it'd be confusing what Katsuki's talking about without that realization. Katsuki doesn't say "I (ore)" in the line, he says "kocchi (this/here)," which depending on the context can mean "I, we, us over here on this side (of the line, of the argument)." He also doesn't say "Izuku/Deku/that nerd" specifically, he says "aitsu (that guy over there)" with the kanji reading as "One For All." Without the context of chapter 322, it could easily read like "we'll wipe the floor with you where those One For All guys couldn't."
5. Building off #4, we need to be a little more self-aware as fans. When you are a big fan of something, you're gonna be more likely to remember specific lines and notice callbacks and be keyed into the little details. First of all, not everyone is capable of that, especially with respect to a long 405-chapter-and-counting manga. This line is referencing something that the translator hasn't necessarily seen in over two years. Should the translator have to comb back through the entire manga every week just to be safe? Is that really feasible? Of course I'd love for the official translation to be as accurate as possible, but when you're translating something on a weekly basis that isn't even finished yet, it's just a fact that there will be times you miss things. You don't always have the luxury of time to go back and check for things you've missed that need to be tied together. I've messed up lines in my translations before too. Please keep in mind this is the translator's JOB, not necessarily their PASSION. They're likely translating multiple projects at the same time for a meager paycheck. They've got a lot of stuff to remember from various projects at the same time, and they're gonna miss stuff on occasion. Did the translator "not care" in this case? I think it's far more likely the translator cares enough, but if they're not in the fandom they're not gonna care more than the fans nor should we expect them to.
The proper response is not to ATTACK THE TRANSLATOR'S LIVELIHOOD like I see MANY people doing, holy crap.
Translating is often a thankless job. No one writes Viz telling them how good of a job the translator is doing when they get 99% of the translations right. The most obsessive fans often jump on mistakes as if those mistakes are personal attacks. But we're complaining about 1 or 2 lines out of the whole chapter. The rest was pretty good. That's the case for most chapters. It's hard to justify claiming malice when the translator far more often than not gets it right. But goodness, attacking the translator is not going to endear you to anyone who matters. If the translation is something you truly care about and you want to foster nontoxic fandom spaces and have good relationships between the fandom and the producers, a more proper response would be something like:
"Hey Viz, I think the translator missed this key bit of context which could have helped him with this line's translation. I love Horikoshi's work and want the best for it, and I think the translator cares about doing a good job. Would you please let the translator know about this and have him look into it for the official print tankoban release in English?"
The more you alienate and dogpile the translator, the less they're gonna care about doing a good job.
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lapithae · 1 month
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The Fate franchise is really weird vis a vis research. Mostly because they very clearly try to do it, but then take weird artistic licenses or miss important details in spite of getting minor facts correct. It's honestly in some ways more interesting than just getting things wrong or right, it's like they're creating their own interpretations of figures of myth and history from scratch.
Like how they got the minor details of Cu's life correct, but missed the forest for the trees vis a vis just how much of an anti-hero he actually was in life and how deep his regrets would actually go, or everything with Gilgamesh, or just some of the more baffling parts of the Aztec gods and Scathach-Skadi.
I think 'creating their own interpretations of figures of myth and history from scratch' is exactly what the Fate franchise is doing.
Which is what makes it both compelling and very frustrating, because it creates sort of an inconsistent avenue of how much you should value historical or mythological accuracy.
Because some try to be as accurate as possible, but others are more written to fit the narrative rather than written to just fit the figure in earnest.
For example, we got Gilgamesh because he was initially written to be both a video game reference and a foil for Shirou, not an actual depiction of 'Gilgamesh'- and so when you try to determine his value as an actual depiction of the figure from the Epic, he falls short by an absurd amount, even when they try to circle around and fix the cracks in his initial characterization- but as a character in and of himself within Type-MOON, he's one of the best.
But, that isn't purely the fault of Type-MOON (a decent amount is, don't get me wrong), but this is an issue that falls under translation and accessibility and why it's so important. Some things aren't translated to Japanese, or if they are, they aren't as commonly known.
Like, we had a big laugh or whatever about Typhon-Ephemeros, but mainly as people who had access to accurate translations and articles regarding the figure and could tell what was wrong. They didn't. They used the commonly passed around information that was in Japanese, and it was inaccurate and improperly sourced. Same reasoning behind why things like FGO and Shin Megami Tensei are still clinging to Barbara Walker's works.
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whatkindofnameisvolta · 5 months
Text
Just watched The Old Guard again (I know I know) and I must say that Copley is an absolutely batshit researcher. Like sheer volume for one but also like how many languages must this guy speak/read to be thorough? Did he outsource translation work? Because obviously he’s researched his ass off AND he’s managed it with accuracy?? Like what were his mistakes? What didn’t make the board? What real instances did he dismiss as couldn’t possibly be true? What made the board which was inaccurate? Like are there blurry 19th century photos he’s circled as being definitely-Nicky but most certainly not? Are there newspaper clippings he’s pinned up that actually reference someone completely unconnected to the family but also coincidentally decided to convincingly fake their death around the time they were all in town?
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sillysowa · 8 months
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Since requests are open, maybe both Miles variants have a s/o and they’re pretty far in the relationship but he starts to get concerned. While he’s introduced them to his family and the s/o frequently spends long hours/spends the night at his house, he’s never been over to his s/o’s place or even heard of their family… It isn’t until Miles comes back from their respective duties (Prowler!Miles coming back from a job, and Spider!Miles doing patrols) when they see a familiar car parked under a park bridge; their s/o’s car… Turns out their s/o used to have an abusive family and has been homeless from before the pair started dating, and was ashamed to admit it.
( also since i’ve seen this idea going around in other users’ requests. if your rendition of Prowler!Miles is the type to give his s/o spending money, maybe he asks what his s/o has been doing and finds majority the money he’s gifted to the s/o hidden in a secret compartment of their seat. The s/o not barely spending the money for, rather obvious reasons since they’re homeless.)
Of course! Here you are Anon!
CARRY ME OUT
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PAIRING: MILES MORALES X FEM!READER, MILES G. MORALES X FEM!READER
GENRE: ANGST, FLUFF
WORD COUNT: 1.9K COMBINED
WARNINGS: READERS FAMILY SITUATION IS POOR BUT NOT DESCRIPTIVE, MOSTLY GENDER NEUTRAL DESPITE SOME FEMININE TERMS USED BY PROWLER MILES
AUTHORS NOTE: I DON’T SPEAK ANY SPANISH SO ALL OF MILES G MORALES’S SPANISH IS FROM GOOGLE TRANSLATE, I APOLOGIZE IF ITS INACCURATE OR OBVIOUS
SYNOPSIS: MILES FINDS YOU AT YOUR WORST, BUT HE REMINDS YOU THAT HES ALWAYS THERE FOR YOU, NO MATTER WHAT
Miles Morales:
Miles had seen a lot of things that day, and he hadn’t been quite ready to go home yet. The wind whistled past him as he web slung through the ambience of New York. It was a chilly summer night, slightly cold but still humid, and the sunset was beautiful. Miles felt a sense of serenity wash over him, relaxing his pained muscles that were overworked the entire day saving the city. He leaves the bustling streets, swinging to a far off secluded area with less streetlight, less life, and more privacy. Miles just wanted to be able to cool off and relax somewhere far away from others, his backpack full of spray paint clanging around with every movement. He hums to himself, landing down on a bridge. He checks his left and right, praying to not be noticed in this moment of privacy as he pulls himself over the railing and walks under the bridge like a spider. Miles is completely taken aback when he notices a familiar vehicle parked under the bridge, and his heart drops.
Your car? Why was your car all the way out here? Did you live in this neighborhood? Miles suddenly came to the realization that he had no clue where you live, you had never talked about it and he had never asked. He drops down gently, bringing himself down by a web and trying to be as quiet as possible. He walks over to your car and peeks inside—instantly his heart sinks at the sight of a bunched up blanket and who he assumes is you under it. Without doing much thinking, he taps the glass window, concern etched on his features. Your head pops up out of the blankets and you look terrified until you realize it’s Miles, confusion and embarrassment painting your face, there’s a muffled,
“Miles?” Before you open the car door. He stands there, looking down at you with a look that makes you feel guilty for some reason,
“Y/N, baby, are you okay? What are you doing out here?” He asks all worried and upset. You don’t address it, you just sigh and lay back down,
“Just…come in and lock the door.”
Miles does as you ask, dropping his backpack outside and climbing in. His awkward growing height making his entry a little messy, and he catches one glimpse at you before he looks straight ahead. He’s been in your car before, but never like this. He’s cautious when he places his hand on your covered calf, gently rubbing the material despite how nervous he feels,
“Do you…wanna talk about it?” He whispers gently, glancing back at you. You’re on your side facing forward and seemingly zoned out. There’s a trash bag at the bottom of your car, suitcases in the back, and most of your essentials scattered around. Miles feels worry deep inside him over the conditions you’re in—worried that you’re not doing well and that he hurt you by never asking.
“It’s…complicated…but i’m living here right now—in my car.” You sigh, “My parents didn’t want me back at the house so…I left.” You feel ashamed admitting it all to Miles who has a loving family and secure home, but he doesn’t judge you—he sympathizes.
“I’m so sorry. I never knew that they were treating you like this…I-I’m sorry I never asked—“
“Don’t be, Miles…I never wanted you to know and have to worry about me.” You cut him off. Miles feels you tug at his heartstrings like a puppeteer from just the disheartened tone in your voice alone. You sound so broken and hurt, and in the low lighting he can see the slight shine of your teary eyes.
“Y/N…” He calls your name in that sweet sweet voice that you love. That voice that’s genuine and innocent, loving and kind—everything that your parents failed to be. You find yourself crying—warm, wet tears slipping down your cheeks,
“Miles…” You sob, sitting up and reaching for him. Miles instantly takes you into his arms, holding you tight with worry all over his face. He feels your body tremble and shake with each sob, the feeling of your fragile hands desperately clinging to the back of his jacket breaks his heart in two and he smooths his hands over your skin gently, like his mother does to him. He tries to give you that parental love that he’s used to—telling you it’s going to be okay and holding you as gently yet as close and tightly as possible—showing you how much he loves you.
Eventually, you calm down—you’re crying subsiding into sniffles. Miles holds you, leaning back and settling into the seat, holding you close.
“You’re safe with me Y/N, I’ve got you, always.” Miles comforts you. He holds you and gently rocks you to sleep. He one handedly texts his mom,
‘Hey Mom, I’m not coming home tonight but I’m okay—Y/N is homeless and she really needs me. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He doesn’t even wait to see her response, silencing his phone and pulling his hood up. He pulls your blankets up close and smiles softly when he feels you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, your wet eyelashes against his skin. Miles is prepared to do everything in his power to help you through this, even if it’s as simple as helping you sleep at night.
Miles G. Morales:
Miles knows about your situation—not because you told him but because he watches you often. Not in a creepy way, (at least that’s what he tells himself) but in a protective way. Especially after the first time he followed you home.
He leapt on the rooftops, absolutely silent with the kind of agility only a vigilante has. He saw you walking into your apartment complex and watched carefully to see just which floor was yours—that was when he heard it. He felt like throwing up by the end of the night, doing everything in his power to stay outside and not burst into your room. He clung to the outside of your window the whole night, watching over you in your sleep.
Miles came outside your apartment one night and waited patiently for you to go to bed, but you never did. Instead, he saw you from flights down get into your car with multiple bags, sniffling and driving off. Without a second thought he followed you. Time passed and you never once went home. Miles deducted that you just have left home and would never be returning, and he couldn’t blame you.
After one day, he decided he had to do something. He knew it wasn’t his business and that you might feel embarrassed of him seeing you like this but he couldn’t stand by and watch this happen to you. It wasn’t unusual for Miles to give you money—he’d but you snacks from the vending machines at school everyday, give you fancy gifts like it’s your birthday every week and even send you hundred of dollars for no good reason with just an
‘I love you’ Attached as the message. However, you clearly hadn’t touched a penny. You spent nothing at school when he saw you and nothing after school when he followed you.
Tonight you parked under the bridge again, your inside lights on. He skillfully snuck around the area, remaining far away but using his mask to get a closer look at you. His heart shattered and he groaned. Miles saw that you were sobbing—he couldn’t take it. He raced towards your car, slowing down the moment he neared so as to not scare you. He removed his mask and shrugged his jacket on, zipping it up and coming up to your drivers side door. He taps his knuckles on the glass, looking at you with pinched eyebrows.
You jump and freeze. The last thing you were expecting tonight was your boyfriend at your window. You turned away from him, quickly wiping your tears and rolling your window down.
“Hi, Miles.” You say with the best smile you can muster, your voice betraying you with its broken sound. Miles doesn’t react or say anything, just reaches his hand in, unlocks the door, and opens it. He takes your hands and pulls you gently out of the car,
“Ven aquí, mi vida. Let’s get out of here.” He whispers, kissing you on your forehead. You sigh, watching Miles crouch down in front of your with his hands behind his back,
“Miles I’m not-“
“Trust me.” He says leaving no room for arguing. His tone is gentle and caring despite his seriousness—he doesn’t want to be like your parents. You get on his back and Miles stands up with no struggle, walking with your weight as though you’re not even there,
“Why haven’t you touched any of the money i’ve given you, chiquita?” He asks softly. You hold onto him tightly, squishing your cheek against him,
“Because.” You say, staying silent after. Miles continues walking with you, waiting for you to keep talking. You sigh,
“Because I don’t want to Miles…I feel ashamed. It feels like charity—“
“It’s not charity, baby. I give you money and I give you nice things because I love you. I’m worried. Why have you been sleeping here night after night?” He asks, holding you tightly.
You grow quiet, huffing. Miles walks you to a secluded strangely rural looking spot, laying down in the grass with you. You lay with your head on his chest, squeezing at the fabric of his jacket. The night is cold, and Miles is warm. You finally speak,
“I’m homeless.” You confess. It’s nothing Miles didn’t already know, but hearing you confirm it breaks him. He holds you close, shrugging his jacket around you and doing his best to warm you as he looks up at the stars with you under his arms—he feels a sense of responsibility over you in that moment. Miles wants nothing more than to be the person you lean on to help you through this—or through anything for that matter. He feels your hands grip onto his shirt hard, the fabric feeling tight on his skin. Your body shakes and your start sniffling, causing Miles to shift and face you,
“Oh, mi dulce niña, don’t cry, te tengo bebé.” He murmurs, kissing you softly with his hands on your cheeks. Miles looks as though he could cry as he rubs his thumbs over your cheeks, collecting every tear that drops with his thumbprints,
“Miles I-I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been so scared and so alone…” You sob, melting into his touch. Miles closes his eyes as he fights back tears, kissing you all over and soothing you with his affectionate touches,
“You don’t need to worry, mi vida. Let me be your home,” He whispers, holding eye contact with you despite how the look in your eyes shatters his heart, “I will always love you, always support you, and I will never, ever, abandon you.” Miles promises, kissing you tenderly and sweetly. You feel warm with Miles—he keeps you safe and protected and you genuinely trust him with your life. With Miles, you’ve felt a love so genuine it could heal years of pain and suffering…even his hold says, ‘I’ll never let you go.’
He vows to always be your home, and promises he will never let you hurt like this ever again.
@ohxx @luxxtuxx @fatenpara
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guacamoleroll · 20 days
Text
— ᴘᴇʀ ᴛᴇ ᴇ ᴘᴇʀ ᴍᴇ ɴᴇʟ ᴄɪᴇʟᴏ · ꜰʏᴏᴅᴏʀ ᴅᴏꜱᴛᴏᴇᴠꜱᴋʏ
content. gn!reader. based on a request. forehead kisses, flirting, slight character study, possible inaccurate depictions of italy, teasing, slight suggestive themes (towards the middle), soft!fyodor, translation at the end. muse-typical metaphors. not proofread. 1.7k+ words.
author's note. this was so fun to write! a very delicate balance of sweetness and humor, along with the slightest dashes of spice and angst. thanks to @rusmii for descending from the heavens to remind me of "love in portofino." i had it playing on repeat <3
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It was difficult to describe the issues that arose from you and your lover's hectic schedules, at least to others. How would you ever begin to explain it—he's a terrorist dead-set on the eradication of sin from your world, and sometimes that doesn't mesh with your nine-to-five career. Yeah, that would be well-received at brunch. But it was your reality, and for the most part, you made it work.
Simple meals served between stints of scheming in his office; convoluted stories discussed amongst infrequent breaks in your living room. Both of you were aware that a relationship would not be easy, but you made it work. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part; however, you knew he disguised his desire to be close underneath a mask of perfection, pretending it was solely for your benefit. Sure.
So, to your surprise, a pamphlet appeared on your nightstand. You scanned the cover with scrambled thoughts—its glossed sheen describing the wonders of Rome—and when you inevitably arrived in his office to question its sudden appearance, he simply stated that he 'required a visit to the country' and that he knew you'd be interested in joining him.
To most, he's an enigma, but you read him like an open book. There was no use in pointing out his scheme, so instead, you settled into the idea of a vacation, joyfully assisting in any help he needed booking the trip—you had been to the city before and often spoke of your wish to return someday, which had seemingly caught his notice. He placed you in charge of specific details of the itinerary—smaller stops on your preset route, the transportation, restaurants for lunch—though he noticeably had already planned many of the larger events. 
And that's how you arrived here. Rome, Italy. It was as luminous as you left it. You traded in your everyday attire for breathy linen and flowy cotton, allowing the Mediterranean sun to dance across your skin. Your ebony-haired lover was not far behind in fashion, a stark difference from the heavy wools and flannels of his motherland, which you had forced him to leave back in Yokohama so as not to worsen his already weakened constitution. 
The brilliant city held a beauty incomparable, its streets nestled with centuries of history that went beyond books, laid to rest underneath soil and entombed in stone. Even Fyodor, with many years of travel under his belt, couldn't help but admire the manmade structures of a bygone era, which reached like beacons of human ingenuity into the firmament. 
It had been ages since you explored the streets, and it was better now that you had a partner to hold your hand, hopping from place to place as you took in every destination with a new perspective. And in your exploration, you prayed Fyodor would find a connection with some kind of sight, with anything at all. He was a man so distant from mankind that you couldn't help but fret over his self-made isolation.
You were both exhausted—you had been on your feet for hours, and even though he tried to conceal it, you'd be foolish not to notice the slouch of his back as he tried to fight off sleep. He struck you with a knowing look whenever you cooed at him, forcing you to advert your eyes straight out onto the road as you scanned for the vehicle that was supposed to take you to the hotel.
Half an hour passed—nothing. You started to get worried.
"We've been scammed," he said, beating you to the punch as he stood from his seat on the sidewalk. You filled in his place, slumping against a wall as you hid your face in shame—one of the few tasks he had charged you with, and you had managed to mess it up!
He let out a breathy chuckle, patting the back of your head like he were comforting a scolded child. "We'll simply get a taxi."
You groaned, your stomach twisting at the sensation of your own incompetency, before allowing yourself to peek between your fingers to look out into the open world—and that was when you spotted it. A quaint shop with a flickering sign and a handful of mopeds slumped over outside. Fyodor's gaze followed yours, his brows furrowing as he found the target of your ire.
"Absolutely not."
But you had already grabbed onto his hand and pulled him out into the street, with surprisingly little resistance from him as he allowed himself to surrender to your will.
"You haven't experienced everything Rome has to offer," you hummed with a noticeable smirk, tilting your head to gaze at him between your lashes in a mocking attempt to sway his favor. "Come onnnn, Федечка."
He huffed, although his normal stoicism held an unmistakable look of fondness. "Ты маленькая гадюка."
You didn't need a translator to understand the meaning behind his words, heart filled with an almost sadistic joy as you approached the older gentleman that was running the shop. He seemed equally as amused as you were once he deciphered the situation, trading cash for keys as you skipped out the door.
Fyodor had planted himself onto the Vespa's seat without complaint, though you could not help his striking resemblance to a child on a bike that was far too small for them. He had his legs propped at an awkward angle to keep them from scraping against the ground, and the subtle twitch of his brow told you everything you needed to know.
You, on the other hand, were more than comfortable enough to settle between his legs, leaning against his chest as you reveled in the rare domesticality of the moment. That was until two arms decided to slither around your waist, a span of warm breath prickling your skin.
"You're quite brazen for someone that fell right within my grasp," he cooed, his voice dropping into that velvety, sadistically sweet tone that never failed to make you melt. 
The bastard had planned this on purpose—he had reviewed your travel plans beforehand, including the transportation company. Much like you could read him, he knew your story from cover to cover, often reading over every page like his favorite novel. And he knew the best ways to make you squirm, his hand snaking up your side, brushing the sensitive divots of exposed skin as it made its way around your throat, giving the slightest but most lingering of squeezes.
That was until you unintentionally floored the gas pedal, propelling you both onto the street—luckily, there wasn't too much traffic at this hour. Despite the rush of the sudden acceleration, you had found that your heart returned to its normal pace as you moved with a rhythm within the twists and turns. You zipped past various sights, most of which were the most enjoyable, in your opinion—a glimpse into the lives of those who occupied these homes. There was a comfort in the consistency. People had passed and left, but the atmosphere remained the same, passed with care through every generation.
And then, your eyes caught onto something, and the muscles of your fingers instinctively flexed against the handlebars. The arms around your waist squeezed you when you began to tilt the moped steadily to the right.
"Don't—"
But you chose to do it anyway, slipping into a narrow sidestreet. You tried not to burst out in laughter at Fyodor's dumbstruck expression through the wing mirror, wishing to capture this moment in a frame somehow. Who knew that all it took to shut the mouth of the destructive mastermind Demon Fyodor Dostoevsky was a trip on a potentially dangerous vehicle? 
You had recognized the pathway as a detour to an infamous part of the city—a perfect view of the Tiber River. It was difficult not to divert your path straight into the water when you funneled out into the road, the setting sun drawing a picturesque scene that could not be replicated, even if you returned to the same spot at the same time. There would never be another moment like this again. That sweet breeze parted the sky, both cradling and revitalizing you. 
You crept onto a safe spot to park the moped and jumped off to rush to the edge of a bridge that overlooked the entire river, leaning against the railing while being careful not to tip your body over the side. The water sparkled and flickered from the rays of the dying light, twinkling as creatures rested underneath its surface. It enveloped you in an atmosphere of complete calm as if you and Fyodor were the only ones to exist in the world.
Speaking of.
His eyes had drifted toward a view completely different from yours, at least in aspects of physicality. You may have admired a sunset as the peak of fleeting beauty, but you seemed completely unaware that you encompassed every aspect of such a celestial entity, yet in such a strikingly ethereal way. He had seen many sunsets many times, much like he had seen many humans—unique and fascinating in their own way, but not always beautiful. But then, you crashed into his life, and he knew it was always intended for you to remain at his side. Much rarer than a sunset, much more precious.
He would take your life into his hands, ones stained in blood and sin, and unlike all the others he held within his grasp, he would nurture it—cherish it. Like a blossoming flower, he intended to care for you, an invaluable treasure.
He had already found the sight he had been searching for.
"Look!" you exclaimed, practically bouncing as you pointed toward the swaths of fluffed clouds that embellished the sky. "Isn't it gorgeous!"
You didn't even notice the slip of his mask as he joined by your side, brushing a kiss against your temple as he eyed the blooming excitement on your cheeks with your grin. The wind swept through in another attempt to swaddle you, letting the fresh smell of water brush through the folds of your clothes and the tresses of your hair. You turned your gaze to Fyodor, laughter caught in your throat as your eyes peered into his—locked onto you with an almost unnoticeable but most genuine of smiles.
"It truly is."
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федечка = fedechka ты маленькая гадюка = you little viper
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