#Learn English without pressure

[radiantresume]

"How to Stay Consistent with Learning English Through Movies (Even When You Can't Keep Up with New Episodes)"

Introduction: It’s true—movies and TV shows are an amazing way to improve your spoken English, but sometimes, we lose motivation. Maybe you’re watching a series like Legacy or waiting for the next season of your favorite show, but the constant waiting for episodes or feeling like you’re falling behind can make it hard to stick to your learning goals. You’re not alone. This happens to a lot of…

[norristrii]

IN EVERY LANGUAGE, IN ANY PLACE.

You met him by accident in Monaco—bad parking, shared laughter, and a night where he taught you French. You never expected to see him again. But in Italy, there he was, this time, speaking Italian. And suddenly, it all made sense. It was him.

pairing. Charles Leclerc x student! fem! reader.

warnings. age gap (22/27), 8,1k words, google translated french & italian, teasing, suggestive (make out), sexual tension, one-night stand, soulmates kinda, reader wears dress, pet names.

music. Mystery Of Love & Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens.

MONACO FELT LIKE THE PERFECT PLACE to fix your struggle with French. After years of studying, somehow, the language still slipped away from you when you needed it most. It frustrated you, how much effort you had put into learning it, only to still feel lost in conversations. You told yourself that spending a week in Monaco would be the answer—that being surrounded by the language, hearing it every day, would finally make everything click.

That was what you told yourself, at least.

In reality, you had mostly come for the experience. Monaco was beautiful, exciting, full of life. The clear blue water, the elegant streets, the sound of laughter mixed with the hum of expensive cars—it was the kind of place people dreamed about visiting. And if improving your French was the official reason for your trip, it was just a bonus.

Still, despite your best efforts, English had taken over almost every interaction. Ordering coffee? English. Asking for directions? English. The one time you had really tried to hold a conversation in French, the waiter had simply nodded politely and responded in perfect English, like he knew there was no point in struggling through your accent.

It had been embarrassing—but also a relief.

You wanted to get better, you really did. But between the beauty of the city and the ease of slipping back into English, you weren’t sure if you were actually learning anything or just enjoying a break from reality.

Not that it really mattered.

If nothing else, it was a good excuse to be here.

Parking in Monaco was proving to be more of a challenge than you had anticipated. You had expected tight spaces, expected expensive cars lining the streets, expected to feel slightly overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of it all—but actually squeezing your not-so-small sports car into a ridiculously tight spot without scratching paintwork worth more than your entire life savings? That was a different kind of pressure. Your hands tightened around the steering wheel as you focused, adjusting the angle, inching forward with painstaking caution, all while trying not to imagine the disaster that could happen if you miscalculated by even a fraction.

And then, just to make things worse, someone was watching.

A man stepped out of the sleek black Ferrari parked beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone whose car was in immediate danger. He leaned back slightly, the sunlight catching the lenses of his sunglasses, making it impossible to tell exactly where he was looking—but you didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was amused. His smirk was obvious, practically dripping with enjoyment.

"You better not crash my car," he said, laughter easy, smooth, effortlessly confident, like this was nothing more than casual entertainment for him.

You exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as frustration flared in your chest. You had barely been in Monaco a few days, but the city seemed to be crawling with people like this—rich, cocky, completely at ease in a world where expensive cars and effortless charm were just a given. You muttered under your breath, resisting the urge to say something snarky. Just another arrogant idiot with too much money.

But he didn’t just walk away.

Instead, he stepped closer, taking his time, moving like he had all the patience in the world, like he had decided that watching you struggle was far too entertaining to pass up. His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket as he reached your open window, his posture casual, the smirk never fading.

"You want me to do it?" he asked, the words slow, confident, teasing—but not mocking.

You inhaled, turning to finally look at him properly, prepared to brush him off with some sarcastic remark—but then you saw him. And wow.

Messy brown hair, like he had just run his fingers through it. A mustache that shouldn’t have suited him but somehow did, framing his lips in a way that added to his already unfair level of attractiveness. Sunglasses shielding his eyes, but not hiding the way he carried himself, the easy confidence in his stance, the quiet amusement in the way his smirk deepened.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel as uncertainty flickered through your mind. Was this really a good idea? Letting a complete stranger slide into your driver’s seat and take control of your car? For a split second, an irrational thought crossed your mind—what if he just drove off? What if he disappeared down the street in your car, leaving you standing there, utterly humiliated?

But then, reality kicked in. You were in Monaco. This wasn’t some shady alley where people stole cars out of desperation. This was a place of luxury, wealth, and ridiculous displays of status. The man standing next to you had stepped out of a Ferrari—one that was probably worth ten times more than your own car. If there was anyone in this world who didn’t need to steal a car, it was him.

You sighed, finally letting go of that last bit of hesitation, exhaling sharply like the act of trusting him was somehow exhausting. "Better than humiliating myself any longer, I guess."

The moment the words left your mouth, he moved. Effortlessly, smoothly, like he had done this a million times before. There was no uncertainty in his movements, no hesitation in the way he slid into your driver’s seat. His hands settled on the wheel, adjusting for a brief second before shifting into gear.

And then—just like that—he parked.

Perfectly.

One smooth, confident motion. No back-and-forth adjustments, no struggle, no second-guessing. Just precise control, like he had been doing this since the moment he learned how to walk.

You stared, blinking, processing.

Well. That was humbling.

He stepped out of the car with the kind of confidence that only someone truly comfortable in their own world could have. His smirk hadn’t faded, and as he shut the door behind him, he glanced at you with a look that practically radiated smug satisfaction.

"See? Easy," he said, flashing a smile, like parking a car in Monaco’s ridiculously tight spaces was the simplest thing in the world.

You scoffed, crossing your arms but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. "Show-off.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered by your comment. "I’ve lived here my whole life," he said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "I know every parking space."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. "Every parking space?"

His smirk deepened, his sunglasses catching the light as he leaned casually against his Ferrari. "Every good one," he clarified, voice smooth, effortlessly confident.

His gaze lingered for a moment, sweeping over you before shifting toward your car’s plate, his smirk deepening with quiet amusement. There was something about the way he looked at you—like he was studying, piecing together details, making his own quiet assessments without needing to ask any questions.

"You’re not from here," he observed, his voice effortlessly smooth, carrying just enough intrigue to make the statement feel like it meant something more than just a simple remark.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly as you shifted your weight, arms crossing loosely over your chest. "Was my parking that terrible?”

The corner of his lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin, one brow lifting ever so slightly in a way that made it painfully obvious he was enjoying himself. "Maybe," he admitted, dragging out the word like he was savoring it, like he was deliberately teasing. Then, after a beat, he shrugged. "But also—your plate."

You glanced toward your car for half a second before looking back at him, the realization settling in. Right. He wasn’t wrong—your plate was a giveaway. A clear sign that you weren’t local, that you were just passing through, that maybe you didn’t quite belong here the way he obviously did.

And yet, there was something about the way he said it—the easy confidence, the teasing smirk, the way he made the most basic observation feel like it carried weight—that made you wonder if he was sizing you up for reasons beyond just where you were from.

Wow. He knew exactly how to charm a woman.

You shook your head slightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you clarified, "No not at all. I'm just here for my studies."

Your tone was light, casual, the kind of response that was meant to keep the conversation simple, easy, without giving too much away. But somehow, saying it out loud made Monaco feel even more like an unfamiliar world—like you were an outsider dropping into a place that wasn’t entirely yours.

His smirk didn’t fade, but his interest sparked just a little more, like your answer had intrigued him in ways you hadn’t expected. He tilted his head slightly, watching you carefully, processing your words before responding.

"Studies, huh?" he mused, the word rolling off his tongue with casual amusement. "Let me guess—French?"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head, knowing he wasn’t entirely wrong. "Yeah, and before you say anything, yes, I know my parking skills weren’t helping prove that."

He chuckled at that, a rich, low sound that sent a flicker of something through your chest. His posture remained relaxed, his hands slipping effortlessly into the pockets of his jacket as he continued to study you. "I wasn’t going to say anything," he teased, but there was something in his tone—something playful, something knowing—that told you he absolutely was going to say something.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling softly, feeling the light breeze move through the streets around you. Monaco might have been full of cocky, charming men—but something about this one felt different.

His smirk lingered, and even though you had answered his question, it was clear he wasn’t quite done with you yet. He shifted his weight slightly, the ease in his posture never fading, and you could tell that this conversation—this interaction—was something he was enjoying far more than just idle small talk.

"So, a week in Monaco to improve your French?" he mused, the teasing edge still in his voice. "Bold choice."

You scoffed, shaking your head slightly. "I wouldn’t say bold," you corrected, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. "Necessary might be a better word."

He hummed, tilting his head as he studied you again, like he was deciding something about you that he wasn’t going to share just yet. "And how’s that going for you?"

You let out an exaggerated sigh, glancing around for a moment, pretending to survey your surroundings like you were searching for evidence of your progress. "Well," you started, dragging out the word, "so far, I’ve mostly spoken English."

His chuckle was immediate, rich, the kind of sound that felt entirely too warm for someone as effortlessly smug as he was. "Ah," he mused, shaking his head slightly. "So, failing, then?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed any real attempt at annoyance. "I wouldn’t say failing.”

His smirk deepened, and for a second, the moment stretched—comfortable, easy, natural in a way that caught you just a little off guard.

His smirk remained steady, the confidence in his stance effortless, like it was second nature. He leaned against his car with ease, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the way he was watching you—curious, amused, intrigued in a way that made it clear this conversation was far more entertaining to him than just polite small talk.

"What’s your name, pretty girl?" he asked, voice smooth, laced with something teasing, something knowing. "Maybe I can help you with your French."

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. There was something about him—the way he was so unapologetically confident, so comfortable in the way he carried himself, so assured in his approach—that made it hard not to enjoy this. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t shy. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"I’m Y/n," you said finally, letting the words roll off your tongue with the same casual ease, letting your voice carry the same playfulness, the same subtle challenge that told him you weren’t just going to let him lead this conversation. Then, after a beat, you tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flicker over him deliberately before adding, "And you, pretty boy?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—a flicker of something in his expression, barely noticeable but definitely there. Surprise.

But only for half a second.

Because then, just as effortlessly as before, his smirk returned, deepening like he had expected you to play along, like he had hoped you would. And suddenly, you were certain—he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

His smirk didn’t waver, but there was something in the way his head tilted slightly, like he was sizing you up, weighing your reaction, testing the waters of your confidence. He had expected you to flirt back—you could see it in the way his lips curled, in the amused glint behind his sunglasses—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t enjoyed the confirmation.

"Pretty boy?" he echoed, amusement dripping from his tone, his posture shifting just slightly, the casual confidence never fading. "I haven’t been called that in a while."

You shrugged, keeping your expression light, playful, effortlessly unbothered. "Well, I call it like I see it.”

His chuckle was slow, rich, the kind of sound that carried more meaning than it should have, like he was taking his time with this moment, like he was deliberately drawing it out. Then, in one smooth motion, he reached up, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—sharp, green, filled with something that was equally teasing and analyzing all at once.

"Charles," he said finally, his name rolling off his tongue like it belonged here, like he belonged here.

Something about the way he said it told you this wasn’t just a name—it was an introduction. A moment meant to stick. A small shift in the atmosphere that hinted this wasn’t the last conversation the two of you were going to have.

Charles’ words hung between you, smooth and effortlessly confident, like he had extended the invitation knowing you wouldn’t refuse. He leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, sunglasses still shielding his eyes, but you could feel the smirk beneath them—felt the unspoken meaning lingering just behind his offer.

“So, Y/n—tonight on my yacht?" he suggested, voice easy, teasing, yet somehow carrying a quiet challenge. Then, after a beat, he added, "For a French lesson."

You raised a brow, crossing your arms, your lips twitching at the corners as you studied him. "French lesson, huh?" you echoed, letting the words stretch just enough to make it clear you weren’t fooled. "That’s the reason you’re going with?”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, completely unbothered by your skepticism. "You do need the help," he pointed out, the teasing laced in his tone impossible to miss. Then, with that same smirk, he shrugged. "Besides, is there a better way to learn than on a yacht, under the stars, with someone who actually speaks French?"

You exhaled softly, pretending to weigh your options, even though—deep down—you knew there was only one answer.

Charles watched you carefully, his smirk never wavering, the challenge in his eyes evident—even through the shield of his sunglasses. He wasn’t just inviting you onto his yacht for a simple lesson; he was inviting you into his world, into his Monaco.

And somehow, despite the little voice in the back of your head telling you to be rational, telling you that this was probably a bad idea, you still found yourself intrigued.

"Alright, fine," you finally said, crossing your arms, tilting your head slightly. "But only if you promise I’ll actually learn something.”

He chuckled, pushing off his car with a casual ease. "I promise," he mused, his voice carrying just enough mischief to make you question if he meant it.

Something told you that stepping onto that yacht wasn’t just going to be about learning French.

Charles’ smirk deepened ever so slightly, like he knew he had won—like he had expected you to say yes but still enjoyed hearing the confirmation. He reached into his pocket, effortlessly pulling out his phone, fingers moving smoothly as he sent off a quick message, probably setting things in motion for the evening ahead.

"You won’t regret it," he assured, slipping the phone back into his jacket, watching you with that same quiet confidence. "Meet me at the docks around eight."

You raised a brow, pretending to weigh the offer in your mind, even though you had already made your decision. "And what exactly can I expect from this so-called French lesson?”

Charles chuckled, pushing his sunglasses up slightly, the smirk never fading. "That depends," he mused. "Are you a fast learner, or do you need some extra motivation?"

There was something about the way he said it—something teasing, something layered—that made it clear tonight wasn’t just about learning French.

And somehow, you found yourself looking forward to it.

"I prefer motivation," you said, your smirk matching his, refusing to let him have the upper hand too easily.

Charles’ own smirk widened, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze, like he had expected that answer but still enjoyed hearing it. There was something about the way he carried himself—an easy confidence that never wavered, a natural charm that wasn’t forced but felt effortless. Every movement, every glance, was calculated just enough to draw you in without seeming deliberate.

He pushed off his car with a casual ease, adjusting his jacket like he had all the time in the world, taking a slow step forward. The shift was subtle—barely noticeable to an outsider—but you noticed. He wasn’t just moving closer; he was setting the pace, drawing out the moment, stretching the space between you just enough to make it feel intentional.

“Good," he murmured, voice smooth, carrying a teasing undertone yet laced with something undeniably confident. He let the words settle between you, his smirk never fading, his gaze locked onto yours. “Because I happen to be very good at motivation."

You raised a brow, refusing to back down, meeting his challenge without hesitation. There was a playfulness in the exchange, but also something else—something neither of you were quite willing to name yet.

───

The evening was warm, the air carrying the fresh scent of the sea as soft waves lapped against the dock. Lights from the yachts reflected on the water, casting a golden glow, making everything look just a little more magical. The docks weren’t too busy, just enough movement and quiet chatter to remind you that Monaco never truly slept.

You stood there, shifting slightly, adjusting the books tucked under your arm, as if they made this feel more like an actual lesson instead of… whatever this was becoming. Your black dress fit just right, hugging you in all the places that made you feel confident. It was shorter than what you usually wore, but tonight felt different. You had spent extra time getting ready, making sure everything was smooth, perfect, just in case.

Your eyes moved over the yachts, each one shining under the dock lights, sleek and expensive. Some were massive, almost too large to seem real, while others were slightly more understated—but only in the way Monaco’s wealthy could be. You wondered which one belonged to him.

Then, footsteps. Steady, calm, unhurried. The kind of walk that told you this person had all the time in the world.

You turned just as Charles stepped into view. He looked effortlessly put together, wearing a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, the top few buttons undone. He fit here, belonged in this world, carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew he was charming.

His smirk appeared the moment he saw you, his gaze sweeping over you with easy amusement before flickering to the books in your arms.

“Not bad, Y/n," he mused, voice smooth, teasing. “You actually brought them?"

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Of course," you said, tilting your head slightly. "I take my lessons seriously.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or just entertained.

“Well then," he murmured, stepping aside, motioning toward the large, sleek yacht behind him. "Let’s get started."

Charles led the way up the dock, his movements easy, natural, like he had done this a hundred times before. As you stepped onto the yacht, the soft sway beneath your feet reminded you that this wasn’t just any boat—it was luxury, through and through. Sleek, modern, with soft lighting that cast a golden glow over the pristine deck. Everything was polished, elegant, effortlessly perfect.

You barely had time to take it all in before Charles turned to you, hands slipping into his pockets, smirk still in place.

“Make yourself comfortable," he said, motioning toward the seating area at the back of the yacht, where plush cushions surrounded a glossy table.

You exhaled softly, moving toward the spot, setting your French books down before settling onto one of the seats. The evening air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and expensive cologne—a mix that somehow suited the moment too well.

Charles took the seat next to you, leaning back, stretching his arm over the edge of the seat like he belonged there, like he belonged everywhere.

“So," he mused, eyes flickering toward the books before back to you. “Where should we begin?"

You raised a brow, tapping your fingers lightly against the cover of one of the books. "That depends. Do you actually plan to teach, or was this just an excuse to get me here?”

His chuckle was immediate, warm, amused. "A little bit of both," he admitted, flashing you a grin. "But don’t worry—I’m a great teacher.”

Charles wasted no time. The moment he settled into his seat, he leaned back, his smirk unwavering as he casually started speaking in smooth, fluent French—his words flowing effortlessly, his tone relaxed yet confident, like he was testing you, like he was enjoying watching your reaction.

You blinked, trying to catch at least some of what he was saying, but it was hopeless. His words blended together too quickly, too naturally, and before you could even try to keep up, you found yourself laughing, shaking your head as you lifted a hand in protest.

“Hey, hey—slow!" you said, amusement clear in your voice, your laughter slipping between the words. "I’m trying to learn, not get overwhelmed!"

Charles chuckled, his expression practically glowing with amusement, clearly enjoying this. He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider your request before shrugging.

“Ah, but learning under pressure is the best way, no?" he teased, eyes flashing with something both playful and smug.

“I ended with animals," you said, smiling as you flipped through the pages of your book. Somehow, despite all the effort, all the attempts at forming proper sentences, you had ended up learning random animal names instead of anything actually useful. It wasn’t exactly what you had planned when you stepped onto the yacht, but at this point, you weren’t sure if anything about tonight was going according to plan.

Charles raised a brow, clearly amused, his smirk deepening as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights cast a warm hue over his skin, making the teasing glint in his eyes even more noticeable. "Animals?" he echoed, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement.

You grinned, feeling oddly proud of your one solid takeaway. "I know how to say owl," you announced, sitting up a little straighter, ready to flex your knowledge.

“Chouette," you said confidently, looking at him like you had just won something.

But the moment the word left your mouth, Charles burst into laughter, shaking his head immediately, his whole body leaning back slightly as he let the sound roll through him.

“Non, non,” he chuckled, his amusement clear as he ran a hand through his hair, still grinning. "Your accent—what was that?”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. "Excuse me?”

“Excuse you,” he teased, still laughing, his eyes shining with pure entertainment. "That was terrible.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing too, shaking your head as you grabbed your book again, flipping through the pages like you were searching for proof that you had said it correctly. "Fine," you huffed, pretending to be annoyed even though you were enjoying this far more than you should. "Teach me how to say it properly, professeur.”

Charles smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel too intentional. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something else—something neither of you were quite acknowledging yet.

“Gladly," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours for just a second longer than necessary.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He leaned in just a little more, closing the space between you, his smirk still firmly in place as he spoke again—slower this time, deliberate, letting the word roll off his tongue in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

"Chouette," he repeated, his voice smooth, rich, carrying that effortless charm that made even a simple correction feel like something more.

You watched him carefully, trying to focus on the actual lesson, but it was hard when he was this close, when the warmth of the evening mixed with the quiet hum of the water beneath the yacht, when the teasing glint in his eyes made it clear he was enjoying this far too much.

You cleared your throat, straightening slightly, determined to get it right this time. "Chouette," you tried again, mimicking the way he had said it, paying attention to the way the syllables should sound.

Charles tilted his head, considering it for a moment before nodding slowly. "Better," he admitted, though the smirk never faded. "Still not perfect, but better."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"I’m thorough," he corrected, leaning back slightly, finally giving you a little space—but not too much. "You wanted motivation, didn’t you?"

You exhaled, pretending to be exasperated, but the truth was, you were enjoying this far more than you had expected.

"Fine," you said, crossing your arms. "What’s next, professeur?"

Charles chuckled, reaching for your book again, flipping through the pages like he was searching for something specific.

"Let’s see… something useful this time, maybe?" he teased, glancing up at you with that same playful glint in his eyes.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, amusement playing behind his sharp gaze as he leaned back against the cushioned seat. There was something about the way he carried himself—unrushed, confident, like he had all the time in the world and was thoroughly enjoying the moment. The soft glow of the yacht’s lights reflected in his eyes, making his expression even more unreadable, more teasing.

"Quel âge as-tu? (How old are you?)" he asked, voice smooth, effortless, slipping into French like it was second nature. The words rolled off his tongue easily, and you wondered briefly if this was still part of the lesson or if he was just trying to collect details about you, learning bit by bit, pretending it was all just casual conversation.

You actually knew what that meant. For a split second, you considered whether he was testing you—gauging how much you had actually picked up from your lessons so far. Was he genuinely curious, or was this just another excuse to keep the conversation going, to shift things into something more personal? Either way, you weren’t going to make it too easy for him.

But you played along anyway.

"J'ai vingt-deux ans (I’m twenty-two)," you answered, keeping your voice casual, easy, like you weren’t thinking too much about the way he was watching you now. The words felt familiar, comfortable enough that you didn’t stumble over them, and you felt the smallest twinge of pride in that.

Charles raised a brow, nodding slowly, considering your response like it meant more than just numbers. He let the moment stretch for a second longer than necessary before finally speaking again.

"Vingt-deux (twenty-two),” he mused, rolling the words over his tongue like he was tasting them, testing how they felt in the space between you. "Not bad."

You smirked, tilting your head slightly, matching his energy. "And you?"

His smirk deepened, like he had been expecting the question, like he had been waiting for it. There was something unreadable in his eyes for just a brief second—something calculating, something amused.

"Vingt-sept (twenty-seven)," he said finally, the number settling between you in a way that made the space feel smaller, more intentional, like the conversation had shifted into something just a little more personal.

And for some reason, you didn’t mind.

You hadn’t expected him to be twenty-seven. Maybe twenty-five at most, but hearing the number settle between you made you reconsider. It suited him—the quiet confidence, the effortless charm, the way he never seemed unsure of himself. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly who he was, someone who had already carved out his place in the world and wasn’t wasting time doubting it.

And really, was it a bad thing?

Rich, pretty, older than you? That was basically everything you wanted wrapped up in one dangerously charming package. He had the kind of presence that made people take notice, the kind of energy that drew you in without you even realizing.

Charles must have noticed something in your expression because his smirk deepened just a little, like he could read your thoughts, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. His eyes lingered on yours for half a second longer than necessary, like he was quietly enjoying your reaction.

"Surprised?" he asked, voice low, teasing, as if he already knew the answer.

You shrugged, refusing to let him see too much, keeping your expression neutral even though you could feel the way the conversation had shifted slightly. "A little."

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, like he was figuring out the best way to keep this moment stretching just a little longer. "Don’t worry, twenty-seven isn’t old," he mused, his tone playful yet steady, as if daring you to challenge him. "I promise I’ll keep up."

He handed you a glass filled with crisp white wine, the cool surface pressing against your fingers as you accepted it. The golden liquid shimmered under the soft yacht lights, casting reflections that danced with the gentle sway of the boat beneath you. There was something effortlessly smooth about the way Charles moved, like every action was carefully measured yet completely natural at the same time.

"Comment trouvez-vous Monaco? (How do you like Monaco?)" he asked, his voice carrying that same teasing lilt he had kept throughout the night.

This time, you actually understood—or, well, you understood one word. Monaco. The rest? A blur of syllables spoken too fluidly, too easily for you to process.

Still, there was no way you were about to admit that so quickly.

You mirrored his movement, lifting your glass slightly before taking a small sip, buying yourself a second of time. Then, after setting it down, you smirked. "Monaco," you repeated, nodding as if that was a perfectly valid answer.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slowly, setting his glass down for a moment. "That’s it?" he teased, watching you closely.

"That’s all I got," you admitted, laughing lightly, swirling your wine in the glass. "Something about Monaco. Am I close?"

His grin widened, and he exhaled through his nose, clearly entertained. "Close enough," he mused, swirling his own glass gently before taking a sip. "I asked what you think of it."

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing out over the water, the city lights shimmering in the distance, the soft hum of waves filling the quiet spaces between words.

"It’s… surreal," you admitted after a beat, looking back at him. "Like it’s not real life, you know?"

Charles nodded slowly, studying you for a moment, his expression unreadable—but curious.

"It’s a world of its own," he said, voice softer now, reflective. "Some people come here and never leave."

For a moment, you wondered if he was including himself in that.

You swirled your glass absentmindedly, watching how the golden liquid caught the yacht’s soft lighting, reflecting the quiet glow of the Monaco skyline in the distance. There was something surreal about being here, about sitting across from Charles, about the effortless way the evening had unfolded.

"Just like you?" you asked out of curiosity, tilting your head slightly, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your glass.

Charles' smirk remained, but his eyes held something softer now, something thoughtful. "I was born here, actually," he said, the words coming out effortlessly, like it was something he had explained a hundred times before.

You blinked, processing his words as you set your glass down. Somehow, the idea of Charles being born in Monaco made perfect sense—but at the same time, it caught you off guard. You had always assumed people came here, drawn in by the glamour, the exclusivity, the effortless luxury. But for him, this wasn’t just a place to visit. It was home.

Charles leaned in slightly, his smile lingering, the challenge evident in his eyes. He had been enjoying this, guiding the conversation just enough to keep you engaged, watching closely as you navigated your way through each question, each attempt at forming sentences.

"But I want you to answer," he said smoothly, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his wine glass. "In French."

You took a breath, steadying yourself, determined not to let this moment slip. French wasn’t easy for you, and answering on the spot, with him watching, only made it feel more intimidating. But you weren’t about to back down.

Carefully, deliberately, you put your best effort into the answer.

"J'aime cet endroit, surtout maintenant (I love this place, especially now)," you said, the words coming out slower than his but clear enough, confident enough.

Charles tilted his head slightly, considering your response, his smirk deepening just a little, like he was amused by the effort, impressed despite himself.

"Not bad," he mused, taking a sip of his wine, eyes still locked onto yours. "You like this place… especially now?"

You nodded, meeting his gaze, holding onto the moment just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.

"Yes," you admitted, setting your glass down, fingers grazing against the rim absentmindedly. "The lesson is helping."

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Ah, so I am a good teacher," he teased, sitting back, watching you like he was still figuring something out.

Charles moved in, slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you with an ease that made your pulse quicken. His presence was impossible to ignore, his confidence effortless, like he knew exactly how close he could get before it became too much—except this time, too much was exactly what you wanted.

The wine had settled in your system, warmth spreading through your limbs, but that wasn’t what made you lean in slightly, wasn’t what made you hold his gaze with unwavering certainty. You wanted this. You wanted him. Even though, just hours ago, he had been nothing more than a stranger who happened to help you park your car.

His voice was low, smooth, carrying that undeniable edge of amusement as he spoke. "Tu es vraiment jolie, tu le sais? (You are really pretty, you know that?)”

And for the first time tonight, you understood every single word.

You felt your breath hitch slightly, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.

"You think so?" you mused, tilting your head slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened in response.

"I know so," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, carrying just enough certainty to make the air between you feel heavier, charged.

The hum of the yacht, the quiet waves against the dock, the distant sounds of Monaco—it all faded into the background. Right now, there was only this.

Only him.

Charles’ breath was warm against your ear, his words barely above a whisper, yet you felt them—every syllable, every hesitation. They weren’t just words; they were an unspoken confession, a quiet unraveling of the careful, effortless charm he had worn all evening.

“Je te veux un peu. (I kinda want you)”

It was quiet. Careful. As if he wasn’t sure if he should be saying it at all, as if he was testing the weight of the admission before fully giving in to it. Until now, every glance, every smirk, every lingering touch had felt intentional, like he knew exactly how far to push without giving too much away. But now? Now there was something uncertain, something raw beneath his teasing façade.

“Is it weird?" he asked, his voice softer now, lower, suddenly hesitant in a way that didn’t feel like him.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, to catch the faint flicker of uncertainty in his expression, something rare, something unexpected. The space between you was dangerously small, but neither of you moved to widen it.

“You only kinda want me?" you asked, arching a brow, a teasing lilt in your voice—because you weren’t uncertain. Not even a little. You wanted him. More than hesitant words and uncertain breaths. You wanted all of him.

Charles exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against yours in quiet confirmation. His smirk returned, curving just at the edges, but there was something different about it now. Something heavier. Something decisive.

“Okay," he murmured, voice lower, thicker, like the hesitation had finally melted away. “Beaucoup. (A lot)”

Charles' eyes held yours, dark with intent, his grip firm against your waist, like he already knew what was coming—like he had been waiting for it. The tension between you had stretched for too long, simmering beneath each teasing exchange, each lingering touch, each second of withheld restraint.

And then, finally—

“Embrasse-moi, Charles. (Kiss me, Charles)”

You barely finished the words before he acted.

He kissed you. Hungrily. There was no hesitation, no teasing buildup anymore—just pure, undeniable want. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, needing you closer, needing more.

His lips moved against yours with intoxicating urgency, fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he drank you in, as if he had decided in that moment that this wasn’t just desire—it was necessary.

The warmth of his body, the steady hum of the yacht beneath you, the rhythm of the waves against the dock—it all blurred into insignificance.

His fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress, his grip tight but controlled, holding you in place as if he couldn’t stand even the smallest bit of distance between you. The yacht swayed gently beneath you, the rhythm of the waves mirroring the way his lips moved against yours—deliberate, intense, possessive.

You sighed into him, your own hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer, matching his urgency, meeting his pace.

Charles exhaled against your lips, his breath uneven, his grip tightening at your waist like he was trying to steady himself, like he was savoring the way you fit against him.

"Dieu… (God)” he murmured against your skin, voice low, rough, nearly a groan. "Tu es dangereuse. (You are dangerous)”

Charles' lips moved slowly along your neck, warm and wet, leaving behind red marks that tingled on your skin. Every kiss felt like a spark, like he was setting your nerves on fire with every press of his mouth. He wasn’t in a rush—he took his time, letting each touch sink in, making sure you felt everything.

Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as a soft sound escaped your lips—half sigh, half moan. You could feel him smiling against your skin, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did. He always did.

“Fuck, Charles,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t just desire in your voice—it was need. His name came out like a prayer, or maybe a plea, heavy with everything you were feeling and couldn’t put into words.

“J’ai besoin de toi chérie, de toi tout entier (I need you darling, all of you),” Charles whispered into the curve of your neck, his voice low, velvet-soft, and full of quiet need. The words wrapped around you like silk, and a shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed—not just by the sound of his voice or the way his hands knew exactly where to rest, but by the simple, impossible truth of it all. This moment. This man. You had never imagined anything like it, not even in your most daring, secret dreams. Yet here you were, wrapped in the arms of a man older than you, powerful, undeniably attractive, and utterly, disarmingly real.

─── SIX MONTHS LATER

The sun hung high over Bologna, casting golden light over the terracotta rooftops, warming the historic streets and filling the air with the scent of espresso and freshly baked bread. The city was alive, bustling with movement—locals chatting outside cafés, tourists wandering with cameras slung over their shoulders, the distant hum of a violin playing somewhere in the maze of alleyways.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. It was just a stop—an indulgence before heading to Neapoli to see your friend. A chance to walk these streets you’d always dreamed of visiting, to taste, to experience, to collect fragments of a place you had admired from afar for years.

But then—something made you pause.

A car.

Sleek, polished to perfection, black with a striking red and white stripe cutting through the front. It sat at the curb, motionless yet demanding attention, gleaming under the afternoon light like an invitation you weren’t sure you should take.

Your steps faltered.

You knew this car.

You had seen it before—maybe in Monaco, maybe somewhere else, maybe in a moment that had slipped from your grasp but never really left you.

Nothing seemed more fitting in the moment than pulling out your phone, filming the scene for your friend. You had vlogged your entire trip through Italy—every stunning view, every hidden café, every little unexpected moment. So why not this?

You held up the camera, steadying your grip as you zoomed in slightly, capturing the sleek black Ferrari resting against the curb. The sunlight gleamed off its polished surface, accentuating the striking red and white stripe that cut across the front.

“Questo è così familiare… giuro che ho già visto questa macchina da qualche parte (This is so familiar… I swear I've seen this car somewhere before),”you murmured into the phone, your voice lined with curiosity and amusement.

A fleeting thought pressed at the back of your mind, an eerie sense of recognition tightening in your chest. This car—this exact car—you had seen it before.

You hit record, adjusting your grip on the phone as you zoomed in on the Ferrari parked near the curb. Its glossy black finish gleamed under the Bologna sun, the sharp red and white stripe cutting across the front like a signature—bold, impossible to overlook. There was something undeniably familiar about it, something that made your heart pick up its pace, something that pulled at your memory in a way that you couldn’t quite shake.

“Ragazza, giuro che sembra una follia, ma io conosco questa macchina! (girl, I think I sound completely crazy, but I know this car!)” you exclaimed, your voice carrying a mix of excitement and disbelief as you pointed directly at the car, ensuring it was fully in the frame. The words felt almost surreal as they left your lips, but deep down, you knew it wasn’t just some passing coincidence. You had seen this car before. You had been near it.

Without hesitation, you sent the video to your best friend, watching as the message processed before disappearing into the chat.

Your phone remained in your grip, screen still bright, messages from your friend continuing to flood in one after another. Each notification made the situation feel even more surreal, like reality was still catching up, like fate had decided to drop something unexpected right into the middle of your plans.

You could already imagine her reaction—her shock, her excitement, probably yelling at her screen, demanding answers you weren’t even sure you had.

But before you could even type out a reply, before you could take a single breath to process the moment, a voice slipped effortlessly through the space behind you.

Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Non mi hai detto che parli italiano. (You didn't tell me you speak Italian.)”

The words sent a jolt straight through you, freezing you in place.

Your fingers tightened around the phone instinctively, your heartbeat picking up its pace, the world around you suddenly feeling different—like the sounds of the city had softened, like the warmth of the sun wasn’t the only thing settling against your skin.

Slowly, carefully, you turned.

And then—

Charles.

Standing just a few steps away, effortlessly composed, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity, the faintest smirk playing at the edge of his lips. The sight of him pulled something deep from your memory, something tied to warm nights and whispered challenges, something you hadn’t expected to feel again.

Charles watched you carefully, his gaze steady, holding onto that slight smirk as if he already knew how this was going to unfold. His posture was relaxed, effortless, yet there was something undeniably focused in the way he looked at you—something quietly deliberate, like he was taking in every detail, like he was committing this moment to memory.

You felt the weight of it—the unexpectedness of his presence, the quiet charge lingering in the space between you, the way time seemed to hesitate just long enough to make you wonder if fate really had orchestrated all of this.

It had been six months since Monaco, since nights stretched out on a yacht, since whispered conversations and stolen moments, since something shifted in a way that neither of you had fully defined. You had left knowing there was no clear path forward, no promises, no expectations—and yet, standing here, looking at him now, it was impossible to pretend that nothing had changed.

“You surprise me, chérie," Charles said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the teasing edge to his voice not quite masking something deeper beneath it.

You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of your lips despite the rush of thoughts tumbling through your mind. "Seems like I’m not the only one full of surprises."

His chuckle was soft, amused, but his eyes held something more—something familiar yet entirely new.

“It appears fate enjoys playing with us," he mused, his voice lower now, more measured, more certain.

Charles hesitated, his gaze locked onto you with a quiet intensity, like he was studying you, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. The sunlight slipped across his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the ease in his posture, the familiar warmth in his expression—soft, careful, holding something unspoken.

It had been six months.

Time had passed—fast, slow, uncertain—and yet, standing here, in a city neither of you had planned to meet in, it felt impossibly like none of it had passed at all.

His gaze didn’t waver. It lingered, taking you in, as if he was looking for the parts of you that had changed, the parts that had stayed the same—the parts he had memorized without meaning to.

“Will you stay this time, amore?"

The words left his lips slowly, carefully, carrying something heavier than just curiosity. There was no teasing, no playfulness—just quiet truth. Just a question that felt more like an invitation, more like a possibility, more like hope.

You felt the weight of it press against your chest, the way the words settled into the space between you, waiting—patient, deliberate, meant to be answered.

Stay.

Six months ago, the idea hadn't even been on the table. Monaco had been fleeting, temporary—a moment suspended in time, something that existed separately from reality. And yet, now, standing here in Bologna with Charles watching you, waiting for an answer, it felt like an entirely different choice.

“I will.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! My first longer Charles fic!! If you’re italian/french and spot any mistakes in the translation, let me know!!

[fear-is-truth]

THE DARKER THE FRUIT, THE SWEETER.

━╋ CHARLIE MAYHEW x nun!reader

♱. content warning: mature content 18+・blasphemy・unprotected p in v・english is not my first language

a/n: i’m sorry i don’t know what possessed me

FATHER CHARLIE MAYHEW sits back in a wooden chair, dark eyes following you closely, but not with the sanctity one expects from a man of god. he’s holding a bible in his hand, fingers idly brushing the worn edges, but the words that come out of his mouth have strayed far from the expected teachings.

“celibacy,” he declares, “is a widely misunderstood concept. it’s not about abstaining, but about control. mastery of the flesh, not rejection of it.”

you’re sitting across from him, hands folded neatly in your lap as you tried to maintain a composed front. you don’t bother to mask the skepticism in your tone. “is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, father? that indulging a little bit isn’t breaking your vows?”

the soft mockery didn’t deter him. if anything, it fueled him. his expression does not falter; in fact, he smiles wider. “ah, but sister. did christ not spend forty days in the wilderness, surrounded by temptation, and come out stronger? his words are laced with arrogance, each one delivered as if it were irrefutable truth. the towel around his waist slips just a little, revealing more skin, but he makes no effort to adjust it. his gaze never leaves yours, and the audacity of it all strikes you.

“is it not written that to know sin, one must overcome it?

under current circumstances, charlie mayhew is a man of contradictions—utterly confident despite his obviously flawed reasoning. it’s impossible to tell if he truly believed what he was saying or if he simply liked bending the truth for his own purposes.

“so what you’re telling me,” your voice carried a soft lilt, lips curling as you meet his gaze, “is that celibacy is… negotiable now? sounds a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

slowly, you rise to your feet, deliberately turning away before bending down. the slit in your black habit parts slightly, revealing fishnet stockings, the round curve of your ass visible through the thin fabric.

“indulgence is sin when it lacks discipline,” he replies without skipping a beat, but there’s a new, raspy quality in his voice now.

“but when it’s controlled—when you allow yourself to feel something and rise above it—that’s where true strength lies. that’s power. that’s faith.” he’s idly stroking himself, slow pumps of his hand around the throbbing length. taking your own sweet time, you made a show of adjusting the strap on your high heels and allowing him to see the red lacy thong underneath as the slit falls open a bit more.

“besides,” he continues, “what’s the harm in understanding sin—up close? is it not our duty to learn the limits of our restraint, to test our strength?”

not answering, you simply sashay toward the priest, heels clicking softly against the floor, until you stop directly in front of him. his eyes follow your every movement as you free yourself of your garments, though the smirk on his lips never falters. you reach down and tilt his chin up with one finger,

“for someone who preaches so much about temptation,” you purr, “you sure don’t seem eager to resist it.”

he raises a brow, but before he can respond, you swing a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness. your hand slides down his chest, fingertips brushing against smooth skin. his breath catches as one of your hands grazes over his toned abs, while the other squeezes his face with a teasing pressure.

“tell me, father.”

leaning in, you press your lips to his. when he doesn’t pull away, you deepen the kiss, gently pulling his lower lip between your teeth. his breath shudders as you release him, eyes scorching with lust.

“is this what you had in mind when you swore to be devout?”

a stretched groan escapes his lips when you guided the tip of his shaft between your slick folds. carefully, you sink down onto him, relishing in the tight, hot stretch—inch by glorious inch. your eyelids momentarily flutter shut as you were fully impaled on his cock, and just when you thought he’s about to kiss you again, charlie dips his head down. you gasped when you feel his tongue tracing slow circles around the areola before finally wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“ooh,” you manage to breathe out, and you immediately feel him smile against your breast. charlie starts to thrust up into you, his girth stretching you out to the extent that you can practically feel every ridge and bump of the veins that scattered along his length dragging against your walls. ripples of pleasure course through your body, the cross pendant you wore around your neck bouncing between your breasts with the motion.

the small room is soon filled with the slapping sounds of skin on skin, coupled with the wet suction of your pussy swallowing his cock, occasionally punctuated by your whimpers and his moans.

it doesn’t take long for the hot coil inside of you to snap. a powerful orgasm tears through your body, inner walls convulsing around him. within seconds, his seed is spurting into your womb, triggering aftershocks that left you trembling like a leaf in high wind.

charlie’s head falls back to rest against the wall behind him, as his cock continued to twitch deep inside you, residual spasms in sync with the weak fluttering of your pussy around him. your body is still tingling, a pleasant, dizzy warmth spreading through you.

“jesus…” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them. he chuckles dryly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand lazily trails up your back.

“no, sister.” he murmurs, toying with a strand of your hair, gently tugging.

“it’s ‘father charlie’ to you.”

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[ttdamian]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀໒⠀ ⠀in your eyes⠀⠀─── ა ྀིྀི

⸺ Summary ; In which your need to be seen by your family led you into the dark — and the dark, without mercy, swallowed you whole. ⸺ Authors note ; ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. usage of y/n. English isnt my first language. wc: 2,3k. Not beta read. ⸺ directory ; next

That night was gruesome.

Flashing streetlights flickered too deliberately, like eyes that blinked too slow to be real. The alleys whispered things you couldn’t quite catch, but still understood. Every building towered like it had something to hide—walls stained with secrets, windows that looked more like watching.

It was the kind of night that didn’t need rain to feel wet. The air itself clung to skin like residue. Like warning.

So, what were you doing here?

Someone like you who the city wouldn’t hesitate to swallow whole, leaving behind nothing but a name no one said out loud.

The answer wasn’t complicated.

You came to save the city. Or something like it. The word “save” didn’t sit right in your mouth—it felt borrowed, too big for your hands—but you clung to it anyway. Like a mission. Like a reason. You wanted to peel Gotham back, layer by layer, until you reached whatever rotten truth lived at its center.

You didn’t need to be a hero. Just a blade sharp enough to cut.

But the deeper you went, the more the city shifted. Paths twisted. Corners repeated. Familiar rooftops suddenly led nowhere. The air turned dense, muddled with smoke and old blood. The kind of weight that made your lungs ache.

Somewhere along the way, you’d lost the thread. The intel you’d followed—whispers from a back alley informant with a twitchy eye and stained fingers—had started to smell like bait. And now, standing in a dark building where every shadow looked like a mouth, you were sure of it.

This wasn’t a lead. It was a setup.

You stopped moving. Listened.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. Just that unbearable hum of too much quiet.

Your back hit a damp wall, the bricks still warm from whatever heat this place had been hiding. You adjusted your stance, hand drifting toward the blade tucked at your side, the only thing real enough to feel solid.

A breath escaped your lips, slow and sharp. “Fuck me,” you muttered, jaw tight. “Should’ve known better than to trust intel from a damn alley.”

The air didn’t shift.

But something had changed.

Not around you—within.

There was no thrill. No adrenaline. Just a creeping stillness that settled under your skin like cold.

You’d been led here.

You didn’t know who—or what—was waiting, but you were certain of one thing now:

This wasn’t your city to stalk.

And you’ve learned that the hard way.

In a way that resulted in blood.

It happened fast—too fast to be anything but intentional. One wrong step, one barely-there pressure against a sunken tile, and something in the ceiling shifted.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just a whisper of mechanics above you.

By the time your body registered the sound, it was already too late.

The shot came not with a bang, but a hiss—quiet, precise. You felt it before you saw it. A sudden, hot sting through the side of your abdomen, sharp enough to punch your breath out in a broken gasp. You stumbled back, hit the wall hard, hand snapping to your side on instinct. Warmth pooled instantly beneath your fingers. Thicker than you wanted to admit.

It burned.

Not enough to kill you.

But enough to remind you that you weren’t untouchable. That you didn’t belong here.

Not here.

Not in this place.

Not anywhere.

The corridor stretched ahead like nothing had happened. The trap had already reset itself—neat, invisible. Clinical. Like it didn’t need to kill you now. Like it could wait. As it if was toying with you. With your sanity.

You pressed harder into the wound, jaw clenched as you exhaled through your teeth. Blood slicked your palm. Your knees nearly gave.

And then, silence again.

That same kind of silence that had followed you since the rooftop. The kind that made your thoughts louder than your footsteps.

You should’ve turned back when the map stopped making sense.

You should’ve listened.

“Dick was right,” you rasped, voice dry and cracking around the edges. “Fuck…”

It slipped out before you could stop it. Quiet. Bitter. Like the words had been waiting behind your teeth all night.

Pain pulsed through the side of your abdomen —dull and rhythmic, like your body was keeping time with your regret. You pressed a hand harder against the wound and felt the heat of it, wet and insistent. The kind of injury that told you you’d made a mistake long before your mind was ready to admit it.

And still, through the static of your thoughts, his voice rang out. Clear. Unshakable.

“You can’t do this, Y/N.”

“I’m serious. Don’t follow us into this. You think you know what it’s like, but you don’t.”

“Please—just live a normal life. You can. You should.”

He’d looked at you like he already knew you wouldn’t listen. Like he’d seen the beginning of the spiral before you even took your first step. And maybe he had.

You remember brushing him off. Scoffing. Rolling your eyes. Because how could he possibly understand? He’d already had his chance. He’d already been seen—been chosen. What did he know about being left behind?

Now, lying here, the city bleeding noise around you, you understood.

You should’ve listened.

A low, choking laugh caught in your throat. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did. Not the sharp sting along your side, not the throb in your temple, not the taste of copper in your mouth. It all blurred together, slow and disjointed, like a dream you couldn’t wake from.

You could’ve had something else. Something quieter. Something softer.

But you hadn’t wanted quiet. You hadn’t wanted soft.

You wanted approval.

That’s all it ever was, really. All it had ever been.

You just wanted them to look at you the way they looked at each other. Like you belonged. Like you mattered. Like you were part of something.

And what better way to earn that than to become what they were? Vigilantes. Soldiers.

You thought if you bled the same way, they’d finally see you.

But now you were here, half-broken in the dark, and none of them knew where you were.

Your hand trembled as you pressed it harder to your side, trying to stay awake. To stay alive. The building was quiet, save for the occasional hiss of passing cars and the buzz of a broken streetlamp overhead. You wondered if someone would find you. If they’d recognize you beneath the mask. If they’d care.

Or maybe this was the answer.

Maybe this was what it cost to be seen.

Maybe your stubbornness hadn’t made you strong.

Maybe it had just made you disposable.

You didn’t cry. There was no one to cry for. No one to hear it. You just laid there, bones aching, heartbeat slowing, and thought—

So this is what it takes.

So this is how it ends.

As your world collapsed, a tick rang through your ears. Constant. Mechanical. Cruel.

And then the realization crept in—slow, deliberate, like a blade sliding through cloth.

This building... It was meant to bury you.

The ticking confirmed it. It wasn’t meant to scare you. It didn’t need to. Because you already understood. Somewhere, sealed behind these old bricks and corroded steel, was a timer. A device.

The final answer.

This place was going to blow. With you in it. And there was no one coming.

You blinked, your vision swimming for a second before the world came back into focus—too bright, too cold. A rusted pipe leaked somewhere in the corner, dripping steadily into a puddle that would never dry. The light above you flickered, unbothered, casting pale shadows that jittered against the wall like ghosts too tired to haunt properly.

You pressed harder into the wound at your side. The pain had dulled into something hollow—an ache that pulsed in rhythm with the ticking. Your fingers were slick with blood, the fabric beneath them soaked through. But there was no panic left in you now.

Only quiet.

You were going to die here.

And not in the way you’d imagined—fighting, standing, making a difference. Not even in the way you feared—screaming, reaching, pleading to be heard.

No. This was worse.

This was silent.

Unwitnessed.

Your hopes, your hunger to matter, your need to be seen—they would die in this rotting building. Trapped between bricks no one would care enough to unearth. Every piece of yourself, every broken shard you’d sharpened into something strong—gone in a burst of flame and dust.

You wouldn’t be found.

You wouldn’t even be searched for.

Your body would be nothing but soot in the rubble. A whisper no one remembered making. Maybe—if you were lucky—one of them would flinch when they saw the headlines. Unidentified vigilante caught in explosion.

Maybe they’d look at each other and wonder.

Could it have been her?

But they wouldn’t know. They couldn’t. You hadn’t told them. You couldn’t bear the way they might look at you if they knew—disappointed. Condescending. Pitying.

So, you stayed silent.

And now, your silence would outlive you.

You leaned your head back against the cracked wall behind you. Concrete pressed against your skull, cool and unyielding. You stared at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of water damage, wires, shadow. It felt strangely peaceful—like the world had already decided you were gone, and you were just catching up.

Your breath hitched. Not from fear. Not even from pain. Just exhaustion. Bone-deep and final. Like every part of you was letting go at once.

The ticking didn’t speed up. It didn’t need to.

You weren’t going anywhere.

And within your last moments,

seven minutes played.

Seven minutes of something fragile.

Something sacred.

The first and last time he truly saw you.

Bruce Wayne.

Not the vigilante. Not the symbol.

Just him. Just your father.

Just… still.

It was quiet that day—so rare, so painfully rare in a house that lived in alarms and shadows.

You hadn’t even noticed him at first. You were too focused, brush in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbow, smearing paint across a canvas that didn’t yet have a name. Your studio—a guest room, really, half-forgotten and too cold in the mornings—had become a haven. A place where the world didn’t ask you to be sharp, or strong, or invisible.

And then his voice, low and deliberate, had broken the silence.

“You’re good at that. You should pursue it.”

You’d turned, startled.

Not just because he’d spoken, but because he’d come.

To you.

To this little room where no one else ever lingered.

The compliment was simple. Unexpected. It hung in the air like something too fragile to touch.

You blinked at him, waiting for the catch.

There wasn’t one.

He stepped closer. Eyes on the canvas.

“Perhaps here you’d want to add more color,” he murmured, gesturing gently toward the corner of the painting.

His hand reached out—not to correct, not to critique, but to guide. Fingers hovering just above yours. Slow. Careful. As if he didn’t want to disrupt the shape of your world, only adjust it slightly.

It wasn’t masterful advice. It wasn’t even particularly useful.

But you took it like a gift. Like something you’d been waiting your whole life to receive.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. Almost afraid that speaking too loud would make it disappear.

And he’d smiled.

Not the polite smile. Not the forced one reserved for press photos or tense meetings. No. This one reached his eyes.

And for a moment—just a flicker—you weren’t another task. A liability.

You were his.

That was the first and last time he’d come into your space without needing something.

And it had only lasted seven minutes.

You didn’t know what he’d been doing that day. You don’t remember what you’d been painting. But the feeling—of being seen, really seen—had embedded itself in your ribs like a breath you never got to finish.

And now, as wires hummed behind the walls, and smoke began to drift through unseen vents, and the countdown narrowed to its final minutes…

You returned to that memory like a prayer.

You wondered if he remembered it too.

If that painting still sat in the manor, collecting dust.

If he ever looked at it and thought of you.

If he ever smiled the same way again.

You wanted to believe he did.

Because seven minutes with him were all you’d ever had.

And now, they were all you had left.

The memory lingered like smoke—faint, curling, impossible to hold. You clung to it anyway, pressing it against the inside of your ribs like it might shield you from what was coming.

The silence deepened. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t comfort. It was the kind of quiet that follows goodbyes. That waits for the end with its hands folded.

You couldn’t lift your head. Could barely feel your fingers. But you felt that ticking. Felt it settle in your teeth, in your bones. A rhythm beneath the blood. Beneath the hurt. The kind of rhythm that didn’t stop unless something ended.

The first pop was almost beautiful—soft, like a sparkler. A flash of light behind your eyes, even though your eyes were barely open. It didn’t feel like fire at first. Just pressure. A sudden swell of heat rushing in from the walls, the floor, the air itself. Like the building had decided to breathe one final time.

And then it collapsed.

The explosion wasn’t just sound. It was weight.

It folded the world in half.

The ground convulsed. The air disappeared. Flame bit through steel like thread. Plaster shattered. Walls curled inward like fists. You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. You simply watched the ceiling fracture above you, saw it split open like the sky.

Light. Heat. Dust. Then—

Nothing.

No pain. No sound.

Just weightlessness.

Just quiet.

And there you died.

Or so you thought.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

Taglist: empty. Ask to be added

[hhhwnr]

ꨄPublic Display of Awkward — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: fluff/comfort word count: 1,1k

paring: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings & summary: no warnings. Spencer isn’t used to public displays of affection—but with you, he wants to learn.

author’s note: lots of tenderness and public displays of affection! I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Spencer wasn’t the hand-holding type.

Not because he didn’t want to be, but because he wasn’t sure how.

In the quiet privacy of your apartment, he could press a kiss to your shoulder without overthinking it. He could hold your hand for hours on the couch, curled together beneath a shared blanket. But out there—in public, surrounded by eyes and assumptions and attention—it felt different. It felt… observed.

You were walking side by side, close enough that your jacket sleeves brushed now and then, but not touching—not really. The crowd around you moved in waves: parents tugging along kids, couples snapping photos, a street musician playing something jazzy near the café. Spencer kept glancing around, his posture a little tense, as he always was in bustling spaces.

You noticed the way his fingers twitched sometimes near his coat pocket—like maybe he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if it was the right moment. So you made it easier. You slipped your hand into his without a word, letting your fingers lace gently through his. A silent offer, no pressure. Just a question with skin instead of words.

Spencer went still for a beat. Not in panic, but in calculation. He looked down at your hands, then at your face, like he was double-checking your intent. You didn’t look back—just kept walking, giving him space to choose what to do with it.

And he did. Carefully, Spencer curled his fingers between yours and gave the faintest squeeze. Then, as you reached the edge of the sidewalk and paused to wait for the light, you felt it: his thumb brushing slow and deliberate across the back of your hand.

A small movement — thoughtful, almost fragile.

“Do you like when I do that?” he asked, voice soft, as if he might stop if the answer was anything but yes.

But you could only smile, feeling your heart thudding. “I do,” you said simply. “Very much.”

And he nodded—just once—like he was storing that information away somewhere important.

He thought about it later that night. He thought of how easy you made it look. How holding hands in public wasn’t a statement for you—it was just affection, simple and honest. How when people passed by, you didn’t drop his hand or change the subject or pull away. He thought about all the reasons it had always been hard for him: the scrutiny, the exposure, the fear of not doing it right. But more than that, he thought about how proud you looked when you had him close.

And he realized: if you weren’t ashamed of him, maybe he didn’t have to be ashamed of showing it either.

The next morning, while the two of you stood in line at your favorite little corner café—him reading the day’s specials with furrowed brows like he was reviewing a thesis, you gently swaying on your feet behind him—he reached for your hand again. No hesitation this time. His fingers found yours with a quiet certainty, warm and steady, and before you could so much as glance at him, he lifted it slowly to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Soft, casual even. Like he’d done it a hundred times, like it was something he did on every slow morning, in every line, surrounded by the half-asleep city.

“Spence?” You blinked, surprised, and tilted your head with a smile tugging at your lips.

He glanced down, eyes warm, a hint of mischief dancing there like sunlight on water. “What?” he asked, though he definitely knew.

“That’s… new,” you replied, grinning now.

He hummed, pressing another feather-light kiss to your knuckles—less hesitant, more familiar this time. “Well,” he said softly, “it’s what people do sometimes. When they’re in love.”

That startled something tender in your chest. You stared at him, caught off guard in the best way.

It happened again, days later, in the grocery store—aisles too bright, music too soft to recognize. The place was quiet for a Thursday evening. You were standing in front of the greens, comparing bunches of parsley like it was a life-altering decision, when Spencer drifted over to you.

He didn’t say anything, just came to stand beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You felt him there more than saw him—his quiet, comforting presence, the way he always fit next to you without effort.

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. A slow, thoughtful kiss. No hesitation, no awkward pause. Just his lips against your skin, gentle and grounding.

You didn’t move. Just closed your eyes for a second, let it happen, let yourself feel the way he was starting to settle into you—more confident in the way he loved you, in the way he showed it.

He pulled back slowly, hand grazing your lower back for a moment, and then wandered off toward the cereal aisle, as if he hadn’t just made your whole chest feel like it was glowing.

The “payoff for his efforts”, as Spencer later named it, was different — you were halfway home from dinner down the sidewalk when Spencer just… stopped walking.

It was subtle—just a quiet pause, like he’d remembered something important mid-step. You turned to look at him, brow slightly raised, but he wasn’t looking at the street or the sky. He was looking at you. Really looking. And not in that intense, cataloging way he sometimes had when he was working.

His hand found yours again, fingers lacing without effort, like muscle memory. There wasn’t a sound in the world except the soft clink of a spoon stirring coffee from a café behind you, the wet hush of tires on damp asphalt. And then Spencer leaned in—slow, hesitant for half a second—and kissed you.

It was soft, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything. That didn’t rush, didn’t take. Just… offered. The press of his lips against yours was gentle, steady, like he’d taken all the words he could never quite say and folded them into the space between you. It wasn’t his first kiss with you, not by far—but it felt like a beginning anyway. His fingers moved to your waist, squeezing it once, as if grounding himself. Your hand came up to rest lightly against his chest, where his heart beat quick and certain beneath your palm. And when he finally pulled back—just slightly, just enough to breathe—he stayed close, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

You were smiling. You hadn’t realized you were until he did too.

“I think I get it now,” he whispered.

You tilted your head. “Get what?”

“Why people do this kind of thing in public.”

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[kugikizuchi]

"The doctor and his devoted assistant."♡

Warnings: I decided to make it so that the character in our story is not the main character in the game, two different personalities. Our character is a girl. This is done for convenience. Yandere. Partial Stockholm syndrome. Obscenity towards a young female employee. Sexual pressure. Slight compulsion. Excitement games. A vibrator. A weak current through the body. Binding. The girl's submission to the doctor. Murder and brutality. The orange text is Harley's words, the pink text is your words. English is not my native language, I'm sorry for any mistakes!

Volume : 8,2k. Sorry, I overdid it.

Have fun reading! 🐉

"Everything has to be perfect" - these were the words that were on your mind when you laid out Dr. Sawyer's supplies on the table, finally receiving the position of assistant to such an honorable person in the company. In your eyes, he was the epitome of rigor and perfection. His calm and tired voice could overshadow any fears that you might not be hired for this service, but also make you wake up and jump from his harsh cold tone and rare shouts at employees who did not satisfy his desires.

But you tried so hard to become the perfect employee by literally learning the doctor's daily routine. You were willing to do anything to stay in such a prestigious position at a toy manufacturing company. And unfortunately, Harley Sawyer knew about your fanaticism to prove to your family that you are an independent person.

The first few days were hard. It's even too hard.. Your legs are shaking from constantly wearing heels and running around the floors, but I would like to deliver certain reports to different employees. It annoyed you deep down that you looked like a dog on wheels even to yourself, forced to run back and forth just to earn the impossible trust from the owner. But despite the Doctor's indifferent gaze and the sometimes sarcastic smiles of other employees, you just smiled, brushing off all the problems.

What a pity you didn't see how Sawyer liked that you could barely walk on your already aching legs. It might have given him the motivation to finally give you a reward, but he was giving himself the opportunity to delay the moment to the peak of its accomplishment.

And unfortunately or fortunately, the "Peak Height" was reached after almost half a year of your working shift with this young man. You're tired of being the secretary who was always described in jokes and anecdotes as the boss's girlfriend, who was ready to do anything for his pleasure, descending even into the very niche of debauchery. The way you tried to talk to Harley at first, always saying respectfully, "Dr. Sawyer, please, could we talk a little bit about my work shift and my responsibilities?" You always got a calculating look from under the glasses of the man who filled out the next document for you and his slight manic smile that made you twitch a little. "No, Assistant, I don't have time for idle conversations right now if they have nothing to do with the idea of improving the company. And judging by your words and body gestures, you clearly don't want to talk about the happiness of the company, so please take this document and don't try to disappear for more than 10 minutes. It's just another building. You'll get there fast. "he said it over and over again, while you were biting your tongue in your mouth, so as not to spit out the poison. He never even addressed you by your first name, although it was always written on the badge like all employees, but he took it for a special occasion.

And now your patience was over, you were ready to start swearing if you even needed to turn on your artistry, because it's not just your boss who can pretend to be a second person. But as soon as you crossed the threshold of his office, closing the door behind you, the man seemed to be already ready for this meeting and, without looking up, ordered you to close the door in his usual empty manner. You did so, as if out of habit, which was reflected on the doctor's lips with a smile and a relaxed look, to which you flinched slightly, not knowing how you spoiled him with your obedience. As soon as you got closer to the main figure in this room, your body was pressed against the table, your hips were painfully pressed against the table, and your hands were twisted behind your back, while the second man's hand covered your mouth, preventing you from uttering a whisper or a cry of pleading for help, judging by your frightened darting eyes, while you were trapped between the table and the tall figure. "Don't shout or deny it, the more resistance you put up, the more brute force I'll have to use on you, Assistant. " he was talking and you couldn't understand - your legs were shaking so much from fear because of the current situation or from the discharge of excitement, being in such a precarious position that it was not clear whether you would really quit tomorrow, or remain an obedient assistant.. Unfortunately, you both knew the answer from his calm smile and your heavy breathing when the dialogue began, although no one let you out of the man's strange embrace.

And now you have achieved your goal. Isn't that right? Now you didn't have to run around the floors, rub your feet to the knees and whine to your friends about the idiot boss. No, you didn't even have to wear heels now, because they would only get in the way while you were sitting on the elder's hip, watching his well-honed hand movements with a listless look as he drew another monst- ...toy for children. The silhouette of a huge purple-colored cat loomed while you read its name, sometimes disinterestedly swinging its legs dangling from the edge of the chair. Your hips, waist, and hair suffered the most. When someone infuriated the doctor by bringing him to a white knee, you could only stifle a groan, which the elder never liked, while his hands squeezed your hips, moving to your waist and hugging tightly, as if the child did not want to let go of his favorite plush toy at night, which could ensure his safety in the dark. The most unexpected thing was when the sadist's elegant hands found their way to your chest, squeezing it, and someone else's lips stopped right in front of your ear, red with embarrassment and shame." What do you think is worse for those employees who can't even complete their assignments properly, like being fired or getting a lot of work, much more than usual? " he asked you, massaging your chest through the fabric of your shirt, forbidding you to wear any additional fabric in his office in the form of a jacket, vest or dressing gown, " I think it would be better for them to do more work than usual" you say, swallowing, having already learned that your words could often acquire weight and leave employees with torn nerves and a nervous breakdown, or, which was rare, because the company needed employees, to throw out completely poorly working people from the company.

But the worst part, as you convinced yourself, even though you were grinning nervously alone, was remembering the events that happened to you when you unknowingly flirted with some of the staff, leaving Dr. Harley in a bad mood. What can you say? He was furious. You could get used to the compressions that left bruises on your body later. But you couldn't get used to the man's jealousy when you re-entered his office, kicking off your heels and closing the door, as per the usual ritual. You wouldn't have entered this room knowing what was waiting for you. In less than 15 minutes, you were standing on trembling legs, leaning your torso on the table, not completely, but only with your waist and arms, whimpering and slightly swaying your hips from how pleasantly and painfully the elastic and smooth head of the vibrator slid, caressing your femininity, and the body of your boss pressed close did not give you a chance to move. And all I can do is choke on moans and sobs. Sometimes getting slapped on the hips, you twitched, whining, but rather from how at such moments it was pleasant and humiliating for a toy to torment your clitoris, pressing against your labia, but focusing on a lump of nerves, bringing you to tears and removing the vibrating object from your body again when you had a little bit left before climax, and your natural lubricant was already flowing down your legs, staining the floor. "Repeat what a good assistant should do and how he should treat his boss, even if he is not in charge of the company, but in charge of a subordinate" the man whispered threateningly in your ear, hearing with sadistic pleasure your hoarse apologies for allegedly cheating, which you did not allow, but in the perverted mind of the elder, you could do anything wrong, just to untie his hands and give him a reason to torment you and bring you to the edge of ecstasy. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dr. Sawyer" you apologized in a trembling voice, moaning, rolling your eyes with treacherous pleasure when men's hands squeeze your bare breasts thanks to your removed shirt and bra, which makes you bite your tongue, which you shouldn't have talked much to other people, while your knees are weak from rough play with your nipples. "Please forgive my assistant, I will never again pay so much attention to those who do not deserve anything, but I will give all my attention only to the genius of science and surgery, you, Harley Sawyer" you begged with a hoarse voice, pleasing his ego, rolling your eyes when the toy returned to your clitoris. get the long-awaited orgasm, but the doctor's silence never ended such evenings of punishment and obedience. You could only lie down on the table with your chest, trying to catch your breath, and with excitement and horror you could hear the sound of your fly being unfastened and the almost lightning-fast pressing of the elder's erection with a languid sigh, which meant that for you it was not at all the end of re-education.

"You got what you wanted. You're not overworking anymore" the man said carelessly, holding you in his arms, while Rob ran a pencil over a piece of paper, drawing out different poses for an entity called "Yarnaby." "Yes, it's true and I'm grateful to you for that, but maybe you'll still give me at least a little contact with the staff, I spend time with you from morning until late at night" you timidly answer, looking away and not daring to get up from someone else's lap while his head rests on your shoulder. your shoulder, and your back is pressed against his chest. You hold your breath, hearing that grin right in your ear again, "Is there something you don't like, Y/N? You really wanted to avoid running around platforms and seeing the smirks of some employees. I'm just fulfilling your wish. "he was saying, which made your toes feel a little tight, because even though he fulfilled your wish, he did it in such a sophisticated way and turned everything around to his advantage, as always. Once again, you were left without the opportunity to argue your answer, sighing and continuing to rest in strangely caring and proper hands. You could only bite your cheek and reflect that both you and the young man know about your situation with trying to appear as a higher person in other people's eyes and that Harley would use this against you every time you had at least one thought about leaving him. Only sometimes, glancing at the notes on different sheets left at some time to the owners of this office, you are distracted from dark thoughts. And an intriguing question for you was - who is Riley and why do I need to check her every day on.. bouts of aggression?

You were distraught when you were fired from your job right after Sawyer went missing. You couldn't answer what hurt you more, the fact that he ran away, the fact that you were fired because of him or because of his possible report on you, because if he's not in the workplace, then you shouldn't be either. At least that's what he kept saying when he dragged her into his bed, arguing that if he had a day off, so did you. And it means that you will limp again later in the evening from making love to him. But now. You were broken and confused, returning to the apartment, which was now so lonely without yours.. A lover? You didn't even know what kind of relationship you were in with him before he disappeared. That's all you could say for sure. You've become more attached to him than you planned, wanted, or could have been.. It scared you and made you cry without the affection of your beloved doctor. And his sometimes persistent kisses.

But here. After almost a few years, returning to the factory with your employee, having overcome so many dangers and living creatures that you saw only with children and only with smiles, thinking that they were harmless. You could only realize with horror that all this was an illusion, and judging by the tapes that you listened to with bated breath with your colleague, each of the experiments suffered. And you suffered the same way because of your former boss Sawyer, which made your heart sink into your heels and you were ready to collapse on the floor, not realizing that you had always been so close to a real monster.

And now. While you heard your friend running away from the mechanical bodies, you only screamed faintly into the fabric of your skirt, which was torn off at your bottom and covered your mouth from the way the wires bound your body, tightening the same on your miniature figure, clasping your hands behind your back again, while other bare wires slid over your though and a body covered with clothes, but still sensitive to weak electric shocks. And these blows were imitation kisses, while you stared wide-eyed at the humanoid creature standing above you, not allowing you to move or get up from the table on which you were sitting like a prisoner. Just the way he likes it... You just stared with horror in your eyes at the TV, which displayed a single eye that described all your features and the fact that you had hardly changed in any way over the years. His mechanical hand rests on your chin and with deliberate tenderness presses on it, forcing you to swallow out of habit from the learned signal sign - to be closer to the boss, which you do, leaning towards the figure, not even giving yourself an account of the actions, but only mechanically doing the work itself. "I've been waiting for you for so long, my beloved assistant. You've missed and missed me too much, Y/N, but don't worry. I won't leave you alone anymore. Never. "

[yup-no-way]

Astro Observations pt. 3

Hi there! So here comes another astro observations post. But before I have to rant. Man…uni is kicking me in the butt (average engineering student). Like wdym I have a month till my finals and I have a research paper, 3 projects, 2 lab reports, 2 Tests and one lab exam due. And I have to start studying for my finals as well. ߹ ᯅ ߹

These observations are based on my personal experiences so don’t take it as full facts. These placements can also be influenced by other things in someone’s chart like degrees, houses and aspects. Also if u have any suggestions for what content you’d like to see feel free to let me know. English is not my first language lads so don’t drag me for grammatical errors. xoxo

Venus trine Ascended aspect: how does it feel to be life’s favourite . Like these people just have it like that. They are genuinely beautiful people and while that can manifest as conventional attractive, from my personal experience, their beauty is very unique , depending on other aspects in their chart. But whatever style of beauty they have, they embody it fully and they turn eyes wherever they go. Also these are the type of people who’s beauty is influenced by how they feel about themselves so if you practice self love and acceptance then that’s when you radiate the most.

Pluto 10h: huuuuge issues with authority figures. Mostly these people fall into 2 categories. First one, they always feel suppressed but push back therefore getting into arguments with those authority figures. Second one, they feel suppressed but don’t say anything, they prefer to lay low and not confront those issues. Overall for each case it’s a heavy placement and causes heavy friction in your life. These people also almost 100% have (or had) a lot of arguments with their parents. BUT, if you channel this energy by learning how to play the cards you’ve been dealt and manipulate situations without coming so upfront then this placement is so powerful, especially in regards to career. CEO energy. These people rlly would much rather work for themselves. I could go on hours talking ab Pluto, but I’ll leave it for another post because this planet is so interesting and people need to learn how to harness its energy better.

Lilith Gemini: worst nightmare for these people? Being perceived as dumb. They will rather be called ugly, weird etc. than being called stupid. And the best part? They aren’t stupid at all. Their most cunning aspect? Their intelligence. For some, they might’ve actually been perceived as slow when younger but worked hard just to not be associated with that imagine anymore.

4th house in Gemini: for a lot of these people, their home never felt that welcoming when young. This placement indicated a home/environment where growing intellectually/academically was very important (more important than their emotional state). Geminis 4th house experienced a lot of shame regarding their grades in their home/school or faced immense pressure to be “the first in class”. Also, this placement can be harder to navigate because due to the lack of support they might’ve felt in their environment. I wanna give you guys a big hug, seriously. You are more than your academics. Lots of love to yous xoxo

Venus trine Pluto: these people are magnetic. They are also mostly perceived way differently than they are (kinda sad tbh). So many people with this placement are hard to approach, even if they are genuinely nice people, at least once in their life, someone told them they look intimidating. This placement might not get hit on as much because of it. People tend to have fantasies regarding this collective, specifically in the house of your Pluto. For example if you have a Pluto in the 2nd house, they might fantasise about you taking them out for a shopping spree or them taking you out and spoiling you. If you have Pluto 10th house, then maybe they are very attracted to your work persona and might fantasise about some forbidden work love. You get the point. This placement is very intense but it can attract unhealthy relationships. You need to learn your toxic pattern and make sure you do not repeat it.

I hope you guys enjoyed this as well! I will be diversifying my content soon, I just had some more placements I wanted to talk about before I start smth new. Also I don’t have that many observations today since I have been focused on writing another Astro blog that is coming soon (I am so exited). Before my next astro observations post I’ll need to gather more info (aka psychoanalyse all my friends and the people around me)

Till next time xoxo

[notesofthemountain]

♡ This is my first piece of writing and English is not my first language. I hope it makes sense — I'm still learning, so thank you for your patience if anything sounds off! ♡ ♡ ♡

♡ Content: Angst, Reflection, Hoshi being a bit strict, OT13 / 14th member of Seventeen

We had been in the practice room for hours, rehearsing one of the new choreographies for the upcoming comeback. Despite all the time dancing, there were still a few steps I couldn't quite get right. I could feel the frustration building by the minute. The guys looked tired too — sweat glistened on their skin, and their shoes squeaked against the floor with every move.

"One more time. Some of you still aren’t hitting the step properly" Hoshi commented, giving me a quick glance.

I knew he was talking about me. Still, I held back any reaction and tried to focus on the choreography.

The song started again. One more time.

My legs followed the rhythm as best they could, moving the way they were supposed to — at least in theory. My body moved like it knew what to do, but my mind kept drifting further and further away, almost against my will.

When I reached that step again — that damned step — I messed it up once more. I felt Hoshi's gaze land on me again, this time more intense. He made a gesture, and the music stopped. Everyone froze in place.

“Okay, let's take a five-minute break and come back,” says S.Coups, exchanging glances between Hoshi and me.

Slowly, I walked over to a corner of the room and sank to the floor without thinking. My body was hot and drenched in sweat, but the floor was cool and soothing. The contrast made me close my eyes in relief, letting myself drift for a few seconds.

Loud, fast footsteps echoed toward me — someone was approaching, clearly upset.

"Could you at least try, Y/N? You should’ve had this choreography down by now. What have you even been doing lately?" Hoshi growled from above.

"I know. I’m sorry. I just… can’t get my foot to turn the right way. I swear it’ll work today,” I lied, even though I knew I was far too exhausted to keep going much longer.

“Fine. But this ends today,” he muttered, walking away to talk with Dino.

I closed my eyes again. Just for a moment, I let myself forget about the choreography, the sleepless nights, the skipped meals, and how I'd pushed my body so far it barely felt like mine anymore. And yet, I could still feel a gaze on me — distant, but intense.

The five minutes slipped by too fast, and the pressure to keep dancing returned just as heavy as before.

“This time, it has to go well. Okay?” Hoshi said, raising his voice slightly.

“Fighting!” DK cheered, lifting his arms and flashing everyone a smile.

The song started, and I moved swiftly into position — from the corner, to center-right, next to Joshua, behind Woozi. I stepped into the idol role, the one that had taken years of effort and tears to earn.

But suddenly, my body stopped cooperating. My legs, now slightly numb, couldn’t move or jump like they had earlier.

I didn’t let that stop me. I forced them to keep going, to move — even if I had to soak them in ice later and be unable to walk for days.

My drive to get everything right vanished the moment I had to cross paths with Mingyu. My right leg froze to the floor, like it was glued down. And when I insisted on pushing forward anyway, I fell hard — my knee took most of the impact, and my chin hit the floor with a dull thud.

For a few seconds, the music kept playing… until the leader shouted to cut it. A flurry of feet gathered around me.

Pain shot through my right knee almost immediately, but I didn’t make a sound. My face was still against the ground, and I didn’t move. Was I too tired to react? Or was it shame that held me still? Maybe both. My exhaustion was catching up to me fast.

Then I heard a soft voice. “Are you okay?” It was Jeonghan, gently stroking my head, his voice full of worry.

I didn’t answer, and panic spread through the group.

“Someone call for a car. We might need to go to the hospital,” S.Coups said, alarmed by my silence.

Mingyu and Wonwoo carefully turned me over, and I could see the shock on everyone’s faces.

“Blood,” DK pointed out, eyes on my chin.

Jeonghan cupped my cheeks, and it was then that I realized — I was crying. Silently, without meaning to.

“It’s okay… help is coming. You’ll be alright,” he whispered close to my ear.

Jun brought over a cold towel to clean off the sweat and blood, while Dino rushed to get water. I saw Hoshi standing silently nearby, his hands covering part of his face, trembling. He looked like he might cry too.

Despite the pain and the tears, all I wanted in that moment was to close my eyes and disappear. Jeonghan was the closest to me, and without thinking, I collapsed into his arms. He held me gently — warm and safe — and kissed the top of my head, his hand softly running through my hair.

I heard someone say the car was ready, that we could head to the hospital… but I had already blacked out in Hannie’s arms.

At least for a little while, I could sleep peacefully, safely — after so many nights barely closing my eyes.

For a moment, it felt like being that little girl again — tired from dancing and laughing, ending her nights curled up in the arms of those she loved, and waking up each morning with the hope of chasing her dreams.

/ᐠ. ｡.ᐟ\ᵐᵉᵒʷˎˊ˗

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMIGRAINE * SPENCER REID

SUMMARY　::　Spencer has suffered from headaches since his teenage years, but nothing like the one he's experiencing now. When a bad migraine decides to hit him during his work time, Y/N is right there to help him, just like she promised she always would.

FEATURING　Spencer Reid x reader　　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　Somewhere between ep 11 and 12 from season 6 | Migraine, pain, throwing up, Spencer being "babied" and taken care of (just like it should've happened when he had his migraines).

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The first time Spencer Reid experienced a migraine, he was sixteen years old. At the time, he had chalked it up to stress. It wasn’t unusual for him to push his mind and body to the limit; classes by day, independent studies by night, and taking care of his mom full-time.

But, like most things in his life, Spencer adapted. He found ways to manage the episodes, learning which triggers to avoid. Over time, the migraines became something he lived with. He rarely talked about them; they felt too personal, too vulnerable. And vulnerability wasn’t something he had been taught to show, not in childhood and certainly not in his line of work now.

Since joining the FBI, the migraines have remained manageable. Sure, the stress of chasing unsubs and staring at evidence under glaring lights could sometimes bring on a headache, but they were rare enough that he didn’t worry. Until today.

The pain started as a faint pressure, a dull throb behind his eyes as soon as he woke this morning with a call from Hotch, Y/N's warm body against his own doing nothing to ease it, but he had dismissed it, thinking it was just lack of sleep since they've just got back from a case in New Mexico.

Y/N's eyes were sure to catch it all, how his shoulders were more hunched, his steps just a touch slower, and the faint crease between his brows that seemed to just stay there. She knew his body language like the back of her hand; something was off.

But Y/N didn’t hover or prod. She knew Spencer’s rhythm, his boundaries, and she knew that he didn’t need her hovering or asking every ten minutes if he was okay - he hated that. She trusted Spencer to come to her if it became too much.

Instead, she slid a small glass of water and Spencer's usual medication across the counter to him, pairing it with a piece of toast slathered in butter and his first cup of coffee.

She didn’t say a word about it, only kissed his cheek softly as she leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper as she murmured "I love you", her lips lingering for a moment.

And Spencer was sure that her kiss would magically make him feel better in no time - silly him. By the time they arrived at the BAU, the ache had deepened, expanding until it felt as though his entire skull was caught in a strong fist.

Now, in the middle of the afternoon, sitting at his desk, Spencer struggled to focus. His temples throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sending jolts of pain that spread down his neck and shoulders.

A sharp sensation had settled behind his left eye, making it impossible to fully open without a stabbing pain shooting through his head. He pressed his fingers to the sides of his head, attempting to massage away the discomfort, but it was futile.

A tingling sensation kept creeping along his arms, the nerves in his fingertips hypersensitive to the touch of his pen. Even the faint friction of his clothing against his skin felt unbearable, leaving him breathless. His limbs kept moving around in his chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make his muscles feel like they were ready to snap.

Across the bullpen, Morgan leaned casually against the edge of his own desk, glancing momentarily at Spencer while talking with Ashley, a teasing smirk growing on his face as he noticed the younger's pace while flipping pages - it wasn't slow, but surely slower than 'Spencer's normal'.

"Looks like someone’s slower than usual today." Morgan called, his tone lighthearted as he hoped to pull Spencer into their usual playful demeanor.

But Spencer didn’t respond - which wasn't news when the genius was concentrated, squinting his eyes at the too bright lights above him, sending harsh glares on his desk that seemed to burn straight into his brain.

He tried to look up in a tentative of looking at Derek, but as soon as his eyes moved, his vision sparked with white flashes that momentarily blinded him, not noticing how Morgan's smirk faltered as he exchanged a concerned glance with Y/N across the room, who had been shooting Spencer glances for quite some time now.

Frustration started to bubble inside Spencer as the pages of the case file in front of him seemed to blurry even more when he moved his eyes back to it, the letters swimming across the paper as if they were mocking his attempts to work.

The sounds around him only seemed to make things worse. Across the bullpen, Prentiss's deep voice rose in conversation with JJ, sharp and too loud for his own taste. The gentle tapping of Ashley's keyboard sounded like a woodpecker drilling into his ears. The steady rustling of paper, the faint squeak of wheels on rolling chairs, even the scratch of Y/N’s pen on paper, it all seemed to close around him, leaving him struggling to breathe. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together in an effort to keep himself from snapping.

But the worst part was the impossibility of concentrating - Spencer’s mind was usually his greatest ally, a place where he could retreat and find order even in chaos.

He stared at the case file in front of him, the report on Andrew Jacobs, a killer who had brutally murdered several women, including his own wife. Spencer knew the details of the case intimately, had memorized every little thing, every piece of evidence. But now, as he tried to write his report, the words wouldn’t come.

His pen hovered over the page, trembling slightly in his hand as the muscles in his fingers twitched. He pressed the tip of the pen to the paper, determined to start, but his mind was blank. No, worse than blank, it was fractured.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to write a sentence.

Andrew Jacobs exhibited narcissistic tendencies, as evidenced by-

The thought dissolved as another burst of pain shattered his focus. The rest of the sentence was lost, replaced by another white flash. His hand tightened around the pen, and he nearly snapped it in half as he exhaled a shaky breath.

He tried again.

Jacobs selected victims that resembled-

The throb in his temples flared, and he dropped the pen, his hand too weak to hold it.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, desperate to shut out the light, the noise, the overwhelming sensations. He hunched over his desk, his breathing shallow and labored, trying to ride it out without drawing attention to himself - well, more.

Maybe caffeine would help. It had worked before, maybe inconsistently. But it was better than nothing.

Pushing back his chair, Spencer stood, determined to exterminate his pain. But the pace in which he did it sent a wave of vertigo crashing over him, the room tilting precariously to one side.

His vision narrowed as he stumbled, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the edge of the desk, but his fingers missed the mark. His foot caught on the leg of his chair, and he tripped forward, nearly knocking over a stack of case files in the process.

Lucky him.

"Spence!" Y/N’s voice cut through the cloud of his disorientation, filled with concern.

Before he could even process what was happening, her hands were on him, one steadying him by his biceps, the other catching the stack of papers before they could scatter across the bullpen.

Spencer forced a quick, shaky smile, hoping it would be enough to stop her worry.

"Sorry." He said, his voice as steady as possible. The effort to sound okay only made the pounding in his head worse, and he winced slightly as he tucked a very short lock of hair behind his ear - still used to having it longer. "I'm okay. I just tripped."

Y/N’s brow furrowed as she studied him. Her hand lingered on his arm, her grip gentle but firm, as if she was afraid he might fall again.

"Spence, are you sure? You don’t look-"

"I’m fine!" Spencer cut her off, his voice a touch too loud, earning a questioning glance from Prentiss across the room. He cleared his throat, softening his tone. "I just need a refill." He added, holding up his empty coffee mug as if it were some sort of shield. "Do you need one? I can get you it if you want!"

He didn’t give her a chance to respond before stepping out of her grasp and making a beeline for the coffee station. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away, but he didn’t turn back.

Reaching the coffee maker, Spencer set his mug down with trembling hands, the slight clink of ceramic against metal sounding impossibly loud to his hypersensitive ears. He focused on the simple motions of pouring the coffee, hoping the familiarity of the task would anchor him.

The smell of the freshly brewed coffee hit him, and his stomach churned in response. He swallowed hard against the wave of nausea but pressed on, filling the mug to the brim.

The first sip burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. He gulped it down, the heat spreading through his chest like liquid desperation. Maybe the caffeine would kick in quickly, stopping the edges of the pain enough for him to concentrate.

But as he drained the mug, the room began to spin again. A nauseating dizziness wrapped itself around him, pulling his vision into darkness for a moment too long. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white as he fought to stay up.

His stomach churned violently now, and his head felt like it was splitting apart. His legs wobbled beneath him, threatening to give way, and he knew he couldn’t keep standing. He needed to sit down. Now.

Spencer scanned the room for the nearest chair. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he half-stumbled toward the breakroom table, collapsing into a chair before his legs could betray him entirely. He set the empty coffee mug down on the table with shaking hands - almost missing it - and rested his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

The sound of Spencer’s body collapsing against the chair reverberated through the bullpen like a thunderclap. Heads turned instinctively toward the breakroom, curiosity quickly giving way to concern when the sound was followed by a groan. A deep, guttural groan of pain that struck Y/N.

She knew that sound.

Her head snapped up, her pen clattering onto her desk, and in an instant, she was on her feet, moving toward it with determination.

"Y/N?" JJ's voice called after her, tinged with confusion, but she ignored her.

As she entered the room, the sight before her made her heart squeeze. Spencer was slumped in one of the chairs, his body hunched forward, his arms clutching his stomach. His hair was a mess, sticking to his damp forehead, and his shirt was rumpled, the fabric pulled and creased as if he’d been tugging at it in desperation to rid himself of the sensation of it against his clammy skin. Sweat dripped from his temples, his face pale and drawn, his eyes half-closed as though the effort of keeping them open was too much.

"Spence?" She whispered, her voice steady despite the panic rising in her chest.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly near his, afraid to make things worse but desperate to comfort him.

"Hey, what’s wrong? What are you feeling?" She asked, her tone filled with concern. Her eyes scanned his face, searching for any clue, but the only response she received was a low, pitiful whimper.

The sound broke her heart.

Before she could press him further, Spencer’s body stiffened, his face contorting as a sudden wave of nausea overtook him. His stomach grumbled violently, and he gagged, a sharp, involuntary sound that echoed through the room.

"Oh my-!" Y/N gasped, realizing what was happening just as he tried to stand, his weak limbs shaking under his own weight.

He only managed to rise an inch before his knees buckled, sending him crashing back into the chair. His hand flew to his mouth as another gag wracked his body, his face twisting with misery. The effort to move had only made things worse.

Y/N acted on instinct, her heart pounding as she spotted the small trash bin tucked beneath the desk behind him. She grabbed it quickly, her movements fast, and positioned it under him just in time.

Spencer bent forward, his body heaving as he retched violently into the bin. His stomach emptied itself in painful spasms, each cough leaving him weaker. One of Y/N's hands cradled his shoulder to keep him from falling to the ground, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"It’s okay, sweetheart." She murmured softly. "I’m right here. Just let it all out. You’re going to be okay."

Her fingers traveled from his back to the back of his head, intertwining through his damp hair, tucking the short strands behind his ears as she continued to whisper reassurances. The sound of her voice was low and soft, grounding him.

Outside the breakroom, Morgan and Prentiss had gathered by the coffee station near the door, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm as the muffled sounds of gagging reached their ears. Morgan had been the first to step forward, concern taking over his face, but Emily stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Give them a second." She said quietly.

Inside, Spencer’s nausea began to ease, though his body still trembled, probably because of exhaustion. Y/N kept knelt by his side, her hands never once leaving him, wiping the sweat off of his forehead.

When he finally stopped, Spencer sagged against the chair, his face pale as a ghost, and his breathing shallow and uneven. Y/N quickly took off her jacket, gently wiping his mouth and chin before brushing the hair from his face again, creating a mental note to throw her clothing inside her washing machine as soon as they got home.

"Y/N, you don’t have to do this-" Spencer started, his voice weak but laced with sincerity as he tried to lift his head and meet her gaze, trying to push her jacket away with his hand.

Y/N didn’t let him finish, shaking her head.

"You make it seem like taking care of you is hard work." She cut him off with a soft smile, her free hand slipping over his lifted one, her thumb rubbing gentle circles into his knuckles, lowering them.

Spencer's eyes darted away, his cheeks coloring faintly in embarrassment. He hated that she was seeing him like that - so sick and so not him.

"But taking care of you." She continued, her other hand coming to rest on his thigh, warm and grounding. "Is the easiest thing in the world."

Spencer hummed softly in response, the sound noncommittal but tinged with gratitude.

"Now." She said, her eyes searching his as she lowered her head to his high, searching for his eyes. "What’s going on?"

Spencer shook his head weakly, his lips pressing into a thin line. He was too drained and too overwhelmed to explain the relentless storm of pain that had consumed him in such a small period of time.

Y/N exhaled softly, her worry deepening as she took in his refusal to answer. She glanced over her shoulder, debating whether to call for Hotch or JJ.

"Okay." She said gently, leaning closer so he could hear her. "You don’t have to talk right now. Just breathe. I’m here."

The smell of vomit began to permeate the room, clinging to the air in a way that would have turned most stomachs. But Y/N didn’t flinch. She’d seen and smelled worse in her years with the BAU. Compared to that, a little puke was nothing.

"My head..." Spencer’s voice cracked as he whimpered several minutes later of silence, his words barely audible as his hands flew to his face, fingers pressing harshly against his eyes.

Y/N’s heart clenched, and she instinctively reached for his wrists, her hands gently tugging his away from his head. His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and glassy, pain etched into every line of his expression.

"Oh, honey." She cooed softly, brushing the strands of hair from his forehead. "It’s your migraine again, isn’t it?"

A faint, almost imperceptible nod was all he managed.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" She asked, her voice gentle. "You should’ve said something before we even left your apartment this morning."

He shook his head weakly, as if the mere thought of explaining himself was too much effort.

Y/N sighed, her fingers brushing over his temple in a soothing motion.

"Alright." She said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We’re going home, okay?" She paused for a beat, watching him closely. "Can you stand?"

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He stayed hunched over, breathing unevenly, his shoulders trembling slightly as if he was waiting for his body to answer for himself. Finally, after a long moment, he whispered.

"I don't think I can. I’m dizzy... really dizzy."

Y/N’s expression softened even further.

"That’s okay." She assured gently, her hand rubbing slow, comforting circles across his back. "There’s no rush, Spence. We’ll wait until you feel ready, alright?"

He didn’t answer, but the slight relaxation of his posture told her he’d heard. She stayed by his side, her fingers trailing up to his shoulders, massaging the tension she could feel knotted beneath his crumpled shirt.

"I’m going to grab some water for you, okay?" After a moment, she whispered. "Just something to rinse your mouth and maybe settle your stomach." She began to shift, preparing to stand, but the soft wince that escaped Spencer stopped her in her tracks.

He reached out, his hand trembling as it found her arm, his grip gentle but insistent. His big puppy eyes met hers with a silent plea.

"Can you stay?" He asked lowly, his fingers loosening slightly but not letting go. "I don't need water."

He actually needed it, but it could wait. He preferred her by his side.

"Yeah, okay. I’m not going anywhere." She assured him, nodding. "I’m right here."

She settled back into her position beside him, her arm draped protectively over his shoulder. They stayed like that for several minutes, Y/N murmuring soft reassurances while Spencer focused on taking slow, measured breaths.

Eventually, he shifted slightly, his posture straightening just enough to signal he was ready.

"I think... I can stand now." He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N nodded, throwing her jacket over her shoulder before her hands moved to support him as she stood, then gently helped him to his feet. He swayed slightly, heavily leaning against her, his weight a little awkward against her frame, but she didn’t mind.

"Easy." She murmured, her voice calm. "One step at a time. I’ve got you."

With painstaking care, she guided him out of the breakroom, her focus entirely on him. Their teammates noticed them, their concerned gazes following, but Y/N didn’t pause to explain.

She led Spencer to the bathroom, not caring to turn on the lights, knowing that it would just make his situation worse. She eased him down onto the small bench near the sinks, watching as he sank into the seat with a groan, his head drooping forward again as though even holding it upright was too much.

"Hang tight." Y/N said softly, brushing her hand over his shoulder before turning toward the sink.

She turned on the faucet, letting the water run cold, and dampened a handful of paper towels. Returning to Spencer, she knelt in front of him and gently pressed the cool towels to his face and neck. He sighed faintly at the momentary relief, his body relaxing slightly under her care.

"There we go." She whispered, dabbing away the sweat on his brow and cheeks. "Just a little longer, alright?"

She smoothed down the rumpled fabric of his shirt, adjusting it to make him more comfortable, and ran her fingers through his hair, untangling the damp strands.

"You’re doing so well, honey." She murmured, her voice gentle. "We’ll get you feeling better soon, I promise.

Spencer blinked at her, his pain-clouded eyes filled with love. He didn’t have the will to speak, but the way he leaned into her touch said everything he couldn’t.

Y/N smiled softly, her thumb brushing lightly over his eyebrows before standing again.

"Come on." She said, offering her hands. "Let’s get you out of here."

Spencer took a deep breath, summoning what little strength he had left, and let her guide him to his feet. Y/N steadied Spencer as they exited the bathroom, her hand firmly wrapped around his right arm - it would be barely 20 steps to the elevators. She could handle that. She tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but commanding.

"Spence, close your eyes for me, okay? The lights out there are only going to make it worse. I’ll guide you, I promise."

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then nodded weakly and let his eyes flutter shut. Y/N adjusted her hold on him, now wrapping his waist, taking most of his weight as they slowly started their journey through the small path to the exit doors.

The hum of conversation in the office dimmed as curious eyes turned toward them. Y/N’s jaw tightened, her sharp gaze sweeping the room, sending a hard glare to anyone who dared look too long or seemed close to say something, as if to warn don’t even think about it.

Her eyes found Morgan when they crossed the glass doors, who was watching them, his expression full of concern. He tilted his head slightly, silently asking if she needed help. She gave him a curt nod, Spencer's body against hers starting to make her legs feel tired.

Morgan moved swiftly, stepping ahead to press the elevator button, ensuring the doors would be ready for them. Then, without hesitation, he came to Spencer’s other side.

"Let me take him." Morgan said gently, sliding his arm around Spencer’s shoulders to ease the weight off Y/N.

Spencer stiffened for a moment at the unfamiliar touch, but as Morgan steadied him, a flicker of recognition crossed his face. He relaxed slightly, leaning into Morgan’s strength, though his grip on Y/N’s hand remained loose, as if afraid to let her go entirely.

Morgan gave him a reassuring smile.

"Hey, pretty boy." He said lightly, his tone warm and familiar. "How are you feeling down there?"

Spencer’s lips twitched faintly, a weak attempt at humor breaking through the haze of pain.

"Not so pretty right now." He murmured, his voice hoarse and strained.

Morgan chuckled softly, his hand giving Spencer’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Nah, you’re still prettier than most of us, even like this."

Y/N allowed herself a small smile at Morgan’s effort to keep the mood light. She adjusted her pace to match theirs as they finally reached the elevator. Morgan shifted slightly, ensuring Spencer stayed upright while Y/N pressed the button for the parking level - he really looked like he was about to pass out, and none of them wanted that.

The elevator ride was quiet save for Spencer’s shallow breaths and the occasional comforting words from Morgan. Y/N kept her hand on Spencer’s one, her fingers tracing calming circles above his skin.

Morgan’s grip was steady as he guided Spencer to the car after they reached the garage, Y/N walking ahead to open the passenger door.

"Alright, pretty boy, here we go." Morgan said softly, helping Spencer lower himself into the seat. Spencer groaned faintly as he settled in, head resting against the headrest.

Morgan straightened, closing the door carefully before turning to Y/N, who stood nearby with her keys clutched tightly in her hand.

"You good, Y/L/N? You sure you got this? I can follow you, help get him settled if you want."

Y/N shook her head.

"I’ve got it. Thank you, though. He’ll be okay. He just needs some rest and quiet." She offered Morgan a small but grateful smile. "Can you let Hotch know that we had to go earlier? I'm gonna text him later to explain it all better, but I know he will be worried."

Morgan studied her for a moment before nodding.

"Yeah, you got it. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will." Y/N replied.

Morgan gave her upper arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back, waiting until she climbed into the driver’s seat before heading back inside.

Once the door was closed, Y/N glanced over at Spencer. His breathing had already evened out, his face slack with sleep. A twinge of sadness pulled at her chest, wishing she could take all his pain away. She reached out gently, brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead.

"You’ll feel better soon, baby." She whispered softly.

With the car in motion, Y/N quickly decided that taking him to her apartment would be the best option. Spencer’s place, though obviously comfortable, required climbing a flight of stairs, and there was no way she was going to risk him - or herself - having to deal with that. Her building had an elevator, and she knew he’d be just as safe there.

The drive was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the engine. Spencer didn’t stir, his head tilted slightly against the cool window as the motion of the car lulled him deeper into sleep. Y/N drove carefully, taking turns gently and avoiding any sharp stops, all the while stealing occasional glances at him to ensure he was okay.

When she finally pulled into her building’s parking garage, she cut the engine and let out a breath. Turning to Spencer, she hesitated for a moment before reaching over and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Honey." She said softly, giving him a gentle shake. "Hey, we’re here. I need you to wake up for me, okay?"

Spencer let out a quiet groan, his eyelids fluttering as he slowly began to rouse. He squinted, grimacing as if the mere act of opening his eyes was too much.

"I know, I know." Y/N cooed softly, her voice full of understanding. "I'm sorry, baby. Just a little further, and you can sleep again. Come on, I’ve got you."

With sluggish movements, Spencer let Y/N unbuckle his seatbelt and help him out of the car, cringing slightly at how useless he felt and looked right now. His legs were unsteady, and she quickly wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the building’s entrance.

By the time they reached her apartment door, the sound of clicking nails on the floor echoed as Snow, her fluffy little Shih Tzu, padded over excitedly to greet them.

"Hey, Snow." Y/N whispered softly, nudging the dog back with her leg as Spencer swayed slightly beside her. "Not now, sweetie. Go lie down."

Snow, almost sensing the mood, tilted his head, nudging lovingly at Spencer's leg before trotting off to his bed in the corner of the living room.

"Alright, Spence. Let’s get you to bed, too." She guided him carefully into her bedroom.

Her free hand swiftly clicks her bedside lamp on, the soft glow of it casting warm light across the room.

Helping him sit on the edge of the bed, Y/N crouched down, quickly unlacing his Converse and slipping them off one at a time. Next, she loosened his tie and removed it, setting it gently on her dresser.

"Let’s get this off too, okay?" She murmured as she unbuttoned his crumpled white shirt.

Spencer didn’t resist, his limbs too uncoordinated to help her, only moving them to press his palms hard against his eyeballs again, but his action was quickly - and gently - stopped by Y/N.

Once the shirt was off, leaving him in just his pants and mismatched socks, she eased him back against the pillows, ignoring her mind telling her that he would be mad for 'going to bed in outside clothes, do you know how many germs there is in this?'

Spencer sighed softly as he sank into the mattress, the lines of tension in his face easing just a little. Y/N adjusted the blankets, pulling them up to his waist to keep him warm before brushing her fingers softly through his hair, tucking the messy strands away from his face.

"There we go." She whispered to herself, her voice as soft as the dim light of the room.

Satisfied that he was settled, she straightened up and turned toward the door, ready to let him get the rest he desperately needed. But just as she took her first step, she felt a gentle tug on her wrist. The touch was weak, barely there, but enough to stop her.

Turning back, she saw Spencer’s hand wrapped loosely around her wrist, his long fingers barely curled. His eyes were still shut, but his brows were drawn together, his lips parting as he whispered, voice hoarse and fragile.

"Can you... stay here? Just for a little more."

Y/N immediately sat in the mattress, by his hips side, her heart skipping a beat with his tone of voice.

"Of course, honey." She murmured, brushing the top of his fingers softly with her thumb. "I’m not going anywhere. I promise."

Spencer let out a shaky breath. His grip on her wrist didn’t tighten. If anything, it was soft and almost reverent, like he was afraid to hold on too hard.

"Sorry." He murmured, his voice cracking, so quiet she almost missed it. "I’m... sorry for all of this. For making you deal with this."

The apology was so honest but so unnecessary that it sent a pang straight through Y/N’s chest. She leaned closer, resting her free hand gently on his cheek, her thumb tracing along his jaw.

"Spencer." She whispered, her tone firm but warm. "Don’t be stupid." She smiled faintly, noticing how his right eyebrow moved slightly up, the way it always did when he was feeling confused. "You’ve done this for me so many times. How many nights have you sat with me when I wasn’t feeling my best? How many times have you made me tea, or read to me until I fell asleep, or stayed up just to make sure I was okay? You never complained. Not once."

Spencer’s lips pressed into the faintest semblance of a smile, barely there but still enough to make Y/N’s heart squeeze. His hand slipped from her wrist to her own hand, his fingers curling around hers, warm despite the cool sweat still lingering on his skin.

"Thank you." He whispered, his voice raw, like it was taking everything in him to get the words out. And maybe it was. Being transparent with his feelings was the hardest thing for Spencer - something he was trying to change since putting his eyes on Y/N for the very first time.

Y/N leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a moment as if to let him feel every bit of affection she carried for him.

"You don’t have to thank me." She murmured, her lips brushing against his skin. "This is what love is, Spence. I’m here because I want to be here. Because I care about you."

Spencer’s grip on her hand stayed soft as his features relaxed again, the tension melting away. But just as she began to pull back, her tone shifted, still gentle but also firm.

"In the morning, we’re going to the doctor, okay?" She said softly, her tone sounding rhetorical, as if not waiting to hear his opinion.

Spencer’s brows knitted together, his lips parting in protest, but he didn’t immediately respond.

"Spence." She continued. "I know you’ve dealt with migraines since you were younger, but this? This wasn’t normal. It came out of nowhere, and it hit you so hard. You have to have it checked out."

Finally, he spoke, his voice cracking.

"But... what if... what if it’s not just migraines?" His voice wavered, and he squeezed her hand tighter. "What if it’s... what if it’s something worse? What if it’s like my mom?" His voice broke on the last word, and he swallowed hard, his breathing shaky. "I can’t... I can’t risk that. I can’t risk knowing that now. I can’t risk losing you because of it."

Before Y/N, Spencer had been trying to do every test and clinical exam that would show him how close to schizophrenia or Alzheimer's he could be - his college years had been full of them - but now he did his best to stay away from it. He just couldn't risk it.

Y/N’s face fell at his words, and the fear evident in his expression. She cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at her, even if his eyes fluttered open for only a moment.

"Spence." She said, her voice thick with emotion but steady. "You’re not going to lose me. Ever. Do you hear me? Whatever happens, I’ll be right here. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’re not alone in this."

He closed his eyes again, his features crumpling as he absorbed her words. He wanted to believe - he needed to - but the example he had from his father had been everything but perfect.

"Don't keep worrying your head with this. We’ll talk more in the morning, okay? Right now, I need you to rest. Just rest."

"I love you." He murmured, his voice softening. "So much."

Y/N let out a shaky breath.

"I love you more." She whispered back, smiling softly, brushing her fingers through his hair one last time before pulling back. "Get some sleep." She said gently.

This time, he didn’t protest as she stood and stepped toward the door. Quietly, she slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She let out a breath, her shoulders sagging slightly as the tension of the day began to melt away. Snow trotted up to her, tail wagging gently as if offering quiet support.

"Alright, boy." Y/N murmured, scratching Snow behind the ears. "Let’s get this place in order and make something to eat for later, huh?"

© vanteguccir

[nemisuki]

Good Soup

Fantasy AU | In a world of whimsical wonders and magic, the only thing you're curious about is why the blonde suddenly got shy at a simple goodnight. The language barrier between them is what keeps them closer. 

᧔o᧓ || Katsuki Bakugo x f!reader, no manga spoilers, no nsfw, pure fluff, no angst, aged up, mutual feelings, split pov, language barriers, bkg learning english, silly bestie kirishima included, love confessions gone wrong, oneshot, bkg is a softie, 2.1k word count

"Go on! You can do it!"

An encouraging smile forms on her face. Her hands clasping together as she practically jumps up and down from mere excitement that he finally agreed to her request. 

Her eyes are completely on him, not wanting to look away. 

It takes a moment for Bakugo to register her words. Attempting to recall what she's been teaching him. 

He assumes she's saying something encouraging, given that bright smile of hers.

He can't believe he's doing this. If it was anyone else he wouldn't even be attempting this shit. But one look at her excited expression made his mind think otherwise.

Plus she's been bothering him about this for weeks now. 

Under his breath, he grumbles a handful of curses in his native language, courtesy of his tribe. He switches his weight onto the other foot, crossing his arms over his chest.

She is quick to notice his sudden fidgeting. A sign of discomposure.

But she thinks it's charming. So she'll keep it to herself.

Y/N takes a step forward in his direction, softening her eyes at the sight of him. Realizing she may have unknowingly put too much pressure on him, "Oh I'm sorry! You don't have too, if you don't want to-"

"N-ɳαɱҽ.... αɾҽ... Bαƙυɠσ Kαƚʂυƙι...."

 ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ 

Her heart hastens at the sound of his deep voice. His slow and hesitant words echoing in her ear. The foreign accent made her skin tingle with bliss.

After his words, she lets a few giggles escape her lips. Not directed at him, but because the way he avoids eye contact was simply adorable.

She can tell he tried his best.

"Almost!" she says while gently taking a hold of his hand. His body tensing as she makes physical contact.

His eyes darted back and forth between her hand and delicate eyes. She speaks gradually to correct his wording, "my name.... is.... bakugo katsuki.”

She nods in his direction for him to try again.

The sensation of her much smaller hand holding his, the warmth of it, gives him an odd sense of tranquility.

How stupid.

"M-Mყ ɳαɱҽ ιʂ Bαƙυɠσ Kαƚʂυƙι"

"Yes! You did it!"

She squeals with delight. Having to restrain herself from pulling him into a hug. Knowing he'll probably shove her off not a moment after.

So instead she simply squeezes his hand. Honestly a bit shocked he hasn't pulled away yet-

Without warning, she can feel his fingers slowly intertwine with her own. Causing a shiver to go up her spine. 

What is he...

"Gσσԃ.... ɠσσԃ ɱσɾɳιɳɠ"

Huh?

Y/N stares at the blonde, now perplexed at his words. He must've picked it up from their travels together. But does he know what it means? It's not morning but night time.

She tilts her head and lets out a small laugh. How refreshing.

"Hm? Did you mean goodnight?"

The tips of his ears quickly turn red as he hears her laughter.

“Gσσԃɳιɠԋƚ" he says, tightening his grip on her hand. Looking into her eyes, now a bit more sincere with his words.

"Ah- you're going to sleep already? I suppose you do sleep early" she hums while nodding in his direction.

"Goodnight Bakugo!"

She's about to pull away yet his grip on her doesn't lessen. His eyes slightly widening at her words.

The blush from his ears immediately spreads across his cheeks in a light dust of pink.

"G-Gσσԃɳιɠԋƚ Bαƙυɠσ?" he mumbles to her in slight disbelief.

"Huh? Uh- yeah... Goodnight Bakugo" she says now bewildered by his reaction.

He doesn't move for a few seconds but then his own eyes soften. Completely catching her off guard.

She's never seen such a calm look on his face. And she didn’t know how she lived up til now without seeing it. 

Y/N watches as he pulls his hand away from hers. Now feeling cold without the physical contact. Her fingers twitch, wanting to feel that warmth again.

He takes a hold of the red necklace that's resting along his collarbone. Tugging it off and draping it over her head instead. Lifting her hair so it could sit perfectly around her neck.

She can feel her cheeks warm up at the gesture, "what- your giving this necklace to me? But it's yours" she says, looking down at the red pendants hanging off the black string.

"ʏ/ռ Gσσԃɳιɠԋƚ"

His hand lifts up to gently touch her flushed cheek. Only making her more bashful by the minute. 

What's up with him?

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ  ⎯⎯ ✦

The next morning was quite chaotic.

Y/N emerges from their tent, still feeling drained from her sleep. They’ve been traveling a lot recently and haven’t had the chance to rest up properly. 

She steps over to the campfire, joining Bakugo and Kirishima for some breakfast. Seems like the blonde is cooking some soup. 

"Hi you two" she says, yawning and attempting to rub her eyes awake.

She didn’t even have the time to sit down when-

"Y/N?! Why are you wearing Bakugos necklace?!" Kirishima quickly whispers to her, looking baffled and sending a suspicious look her way. 

Kirishima was completely fluent in the English language unlike Bakugo. Apparently when dragon kind are mere fledglings, they're especially quick to pick up multiple languages.

Hence this left Kirishima to be the translator for the trio. 

The duo found Y/N a few months ago, a rogue traveler who enjoyed exploring the world. She practically clung to the two after they helped her take out some bandits, who previously attempted to steal her rare items such as unicorn hair and some potions. 

She grew fond of the duo and decided to tag along ever since. At first Bakugo was completely against the idea. But the red haired dragon took a quick liking to her. So against Bakugos will, Kirishima allowed her to join them.

And so they’ve been traveling together since then. Exploring the world and taking on quests for gold. 

For now they needed rest, so they set up a little camp for a few days. 

"Huh? Oh this!" her hand gently traced over the variety of red beads. A sheepish smile sneaked on her face as she recalled yesterday's events, "Bakugo gave it to me last night when you went out to collect more firewood.”

The blonde ignores the whispered chatter behind him, continuing to stir the pot of soup around. Well not like he could understand what they are saying anyways. 

Meanwhile, Kirishima practically jumps out of his seat from her words. Looking at Y/N as if she had two heads.

"Kirishima? What's wrong?"

"You're telling me Bakugo willingly gave that to you?! Did he tell you anything else?!"

"Uh- well... he just told me goodnight is all"

"Goodnight?"

But before she could respond, Bakugo was already walking towards them. Holding two bowls of warm soup and handing one to Kirishima. 

His head then turns to look at Y/N, holding the other out to her. He seems to be in thought, trying to recall the right words to say, "...ԋι... ʂσυρ... ϝσɾ ყσυ?"

 ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ 

"Good Morning Bakugo! Ah thank you so much" she takes the warm bowl and looks back up at him. Feeling her body tingle with joy. A warm smile displayed across her face. 

Kirishima's eyes are practically bulging out of his sockets as he looks between the two. Having a sudden realization.

He quickly looks in Bakugos direction and starts speaking in their native tongue. 

"BαƙυႦɾσ! Aɾҽ ყσυ ƚɯσ σϝϝιƈιαʅ?!"

The blonde's mood suddenly switches as he stares at Kirishima. Immediately soured at the dragons words, "Tƈԋ ɳσɳҽ σϝ ყσυɾ ԃαɱɳ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ ʂԋιƚƚყ ԋαιɾ!"

"Hσʅყ ƈɾαρ ყσυ αɾҽ! Yσυ ɠαʋҽ ԋҽɾ ყσυɾ ɳҽƈƙʅαƈҽ αɳԃ ιƚʂ ƚɾαԃιƚισɳ ιɳ ყσυɾ ƚɾιႦҽ ƚσ ɠιʋҽ ιƚ ƚσ ყσυɾ σɳҽ ƚɾυҽ ʅσʋҽ! Cσɳɠɾαƚʂ ɱαɳ!" he shines an excited grin and pats Bakugos back encouragingly. His wings fluttered involuntarily with pure delight.

"Hαɳԃʂ σϝϝ ԃαɱɳ ιƚ!" Bakugo yells back, trying to shove his hand away. Followed by a couple of empty threats directed at the red head. 

After a few seconds, confusion suddenly dawns on Kirishima. He takes a peek back at Y/N who is sitting down on a log calmly eating her soup. Already used to the twos bickering so much that it doesn't faze her. 

"Wαιƚ, ԋσɯ ԃιԃ ყσυ ƚɯσ ҽʋҽɳ ƈσɳϝҽʂʂ? Dιԃ ყσυ ƚҽʅʅ ԋҽɾ ιɳ Eɳɠʅιʂԋ?"

"Lιƙҽ I ʂαιԃ Ⴆҽϝσɾҽ! Nσɳҽ σϝ ყσυɾ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ!"

"Aɯ ƈ'ɱσɳ BαƙυႦɾσ! I'ɱ ƈυɾισυʂ!"

The blonde lets out an annoyed sigh. Knowing Kirishima won't stop his pestering anytime soon unless he answers. So reluctantly he speaks in a quiet grumble, "I ʂαιԃ.... goodnight ƚσ ԋҽɾ"

A moment of silence passes between the two. 

Kirishima tries processing his words but he furrows his brows completely lost, "Uԋ σƙαყ? Sσ ɯԋҽɳ ԃιԃ ყσυ ƈσɳϝҽʂʂ ƚσ ԋҽɾ?"

"Hαԋ? I ʝυʂƚ ƚσʅԃ ყσυ ʂԋιƚƚყ ԋαιɾ!"

"Wαιƚ- ɯԋαƚ?! Nυ υԋ!"

"I ƚσʅԃ ԋҽɾ goodnight! Aɳԃ ʂԋҽ ʂαιԃ ιƚ Ⴆαƈƙ!"

"Hσʅԃ σɳ, ԋσʅԃ σɳ! BαƙυႦɾσ! Wԋαƚ ԃσ ყσυ ƚԋιɳƙ goodnight ɱҽαɳʂ?"

"Eԋ? Wԋαƚ ƚყρҽ σϝ ϙυҽʂƚισɳ ιʂ ƚԋαƚ! Iƚ ɱҽαɳʂ I ʅσʋҽ ყσυ ιɳ ҽɳɠʅιʂԋ!"

Kirishima couldn't believe what he was hearing. From Bakugo out of all people. 

The dragon practically bursts into a fit of laughter. Holding his stomach and wiping tears from his eyes that started to form at this revelation.

Bakugo stares at him baffled then a look of embarrassment forms on his face,"ԃσɳ'ƚ ƚҽʅʅ ɱҽ-"

"D-Dυԃҽ! Goodnight ԃσҽʂɳ'ƚ ɱҽαɳ I ʅσʋҽ ყσυ ιɳ ҽɳɠʅιʂԋ!" Kirishima manages to say in between his relentless giggles.

"Mρԋ-" Bakugo quickly turns around to hide his face. He couldn't believe it. But it makes sense now, last night's look of confusion on her face.

The way she went straight to the tent after he gave her the necklace. He just assumed she was just as shy as he was. 

"Hey what are you two talking about?" Y/N says walking in their direction with a look of interest in her eyes. 

"Nothing, just Bakugo thinking he confessed-"

At the sound of his voice, the blonde spins around and slaps the back of Kirishima's head. Not understanding much but knowing he's up to no good. Making the dragon stop mid sentence to whine and rub his scalp.

Bakugo eyes travel to Y/N, more specifically the necklace around her neck. His necklace. 

He huffs and points at the piece of jewelry. Then proceeds to open his hand at her. Asking for it back silently.

He waits, expecting her to hand it back. 

The blonde was beyond embarrassed that she didn't understand his motivates yesterday. Thankfully she seemed oblivious to it all. 

In his tribe, it's tradition for males to pass on their necklaces to their lover, signifying eternal devotion and trust. Yet the two weren't official after all like he originally thought. 

He'll just give it to her another time. When he learns how to properly confess.

But then all his thoughts pause when he sees Y/N pouting and shaking her head no. Holding the necklace closer to her body so he can't snatch it away.

"I want to keep it please" she says softly to him, hearing her own heartbeat in her ears from the nerves. She doesn't know why he wants it back, but she feels closer to him this way. It's the first thing he's ever given her.

Kirishima being the third wheel, quickly translates to Bakugo with a sly grin.

Bakugo listens then lets out a sigh of defeat. Waving his hand dismissively to her, allowing Y/N to keep it. She smiles brightly and nods towards him, “thank you bakugo!” 

He grunts in response and walks away to serve himself a bowl of soup. Or perhaps to hide the flushed look on his face. 

One day he'll learn how to confess. Maybe he’ll ask Kirishima for some help later on. 

What a pain.

But little did the blonde know.

Y/N was already planning to ask Kirishima the same thing. Trying to learn Bakugos native language in hopes of confessing her feelings. 

Kirishima could only bite back his tongue to hide his knowing smile. Looking at the oblivious pair as they all eat breakfast around the campfire.

Though he couldn't help but to let out a small chuckle at the sheer coincidence of it all.

"Hm? What's so funny Kirishima?"

He dismissively waves his hands at Y/N's comment and smirks, "nothing at all, just realized I forgot to say goodnight to you yesterday" he says, holding back a laugh as Bakugos head snaps in his direction. 

The blonde sends Kirishima a deadly glare. Standing up to teach him a lesson. Seems Bakugo reached his daily limit of the redheads teasing, "Yσυɾ ԃҽαԃ ʂԋιƚƚყ ԋαιɾ!"

That's how Kirishima ends up hiding behind her as Bakugo stomps towards the two. Leaving poor Y/N as a human shield.

She still has no idea what's going on but laughs alongside Kirishima as the three chase each other around the campfire. 

What a good day…. and night?

✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⎯⎯ ✦

A/N ||| This fanfic was inspired by a Fantasy Bakugo x Reader piece I read a LONGGGG time ago on Wattpad. When I was younger, I was obsessed with this fic as a newbie reader & mha fan. Unfortunately it never had a proper ending, as it's incomplete like many other forgotten fanfics out there. I’ll add the link here to credit them but please remember it's INCOMPLETE! And the author won’t update it anymore so fyi! This was oddly healing to my younger self, kinda funny how I went from being a reader to the writer :)

[libbybee]

A ROGUE'S TOUCH — SA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!rogue!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 2.8K ◜cw: porn without plot, masturbation [F], neck kissing, sweet-dirty talk, semi-public, overstimulation.

▹ summary. trapped in a goblin fortress, you and astarion stumble upon a locked door blocking your path. though you're inexperienced with lockpicking, astarion insists you try, offering a hands-on 'lesson' that quickly turns into a distraction.

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST

‎

The air was dense in the goblin’s fortress with the smell of decay and their gross scent.

Every step you took echoed too loudly in the quiet silence of the hallway as you looked for a way to get out, making you almost tremble due to the fear of being discovered. Astarion was a silent, ghostlike presence beside you, with his hand near the hilt of his dagger to strike at any moment if necessary—always prepared. You envied how easy he made this all seem.

You both halted in front of a heavy wooden door, its iron reinforcements dark and covered in rust. It was imposing, with an ornate lock gleaming against the faint light cast by the candlelight.

“This should be the way forward.” He murmured while his crimson eyes narrowed, studying the lock. “Unfortunately, it's blocked. We’ll have to pick it.”

You looked at him. “We? I don’t know how to pick locks.”

He smiled arrogantly, his lips sharply as a blade. “Oh, but you'll learn. It's a skill every adventurer should master, darling. Besides…” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a delicate set of lockpicks and placing them into your open palm. “I insist.”

You glanced back the way you both came. The thought of learning now while someone—or something—may find you both made you feel more anxious. “This isn’t the time for—”

“Trust me. I’ll guide you.” His expression turned serious as he cut your words.

With a sigh, you crouched in front of the lock, feeling uncertain as you inserted the pick into its mechanism. The metal was harsh and unfamiliar in your hands, and you felt your mind block as you had no idea what you had to do. Behind you, Astarion kneeled close enough for you to feel his chest against your back, then he placed his hands on your hips to steady you.

“Relax, darling. You’re trembling.” He whispered against your ear; his voice close to you was enough to send a cool shiver down your neck. “Here. Let me show you.” He settled his left hand over yours, his fingers firm but kind as they enveloped yours around the lockpick. Slowly, he guided your hand, moving the pick precisely until a soft click occurred. Your movements felt fluid thanks to him, instinctive, like he could do this while sleeping.

Meanwhile, his other hand slid from your hip to your thigh as if trying to calm your nerves, trailing his fingers with a light touch that sent a tingling along your body. He lingered just for a moment before gliding inward to the delicate spot between your thighs. The pressure was subtle at first—a teasing drag of his fingertips that shifted into measured rubs over your pussy. He made the constant friction soft, and his breath remained steady, as if he weren’t just breaking the deadly tension of the moment only by touching you.

“You’ll feel a slight resistance—there, do you feel it?” His voice was a low murmur, velvety smooth and calm, while his fingers guided yours on the lockpick, moving with ease, coaxing the mechanism to yield. All this should have been instructional—his control, his preciseness—but his intentions betrayed him.

With the other hand, he shifted a bit higher to deftly undo the button of your trousers, slipping beneath the waistband of the slackened fabric with sinful fluidity. Just to find with his fingertips the delicate heat of your core against your panties, brushing with a feathery touch while still guiding your attempts. His stimulation seemed to mock the skill he demonstrated with the lock.

Your hips leaned involuntarily into his hand as your fingers stumbled with the lockpick. “Astarion—” You managed, with a tense tone of warning and plea.

“Shh,” he quieted you. “Pay attention, darling. This is important.”

A shudder ran through you. “How am I supposed to—”

“Focus?” He finished for you, his smirk clearly perceptible as he kept his stroking on you. “I wouldn’t want to make this too easy for you, now, would I?”

Your thighs clenched around his wrist, but he only scoffed at your futile attempt to stop him with a low tongue click. Dipping his fingers effortlessly beneath the final barrier of fabric, he found your clit and began tracing lazy circles around your bud. He made every movement the perfect combination of pressure and pattern, played with terrible skill for that moment, stripping away the fragile threads of focus you tried to cling to.

The tools trembled in your hands as the mechanism refused to cooperate; each time you thought you had the pin in place, his fingers rubbed harder and faster against your delicate clit. A sharp jolt of pleasure radiated through you, making your grip falter and the aching throbs he elicited sending your concentration scattering like leaves in a blustering breeze.

You slipped more of the lockpick in the lock while his other hand rested just over yours to 'guide' you. The brush of his cool fingertips on your knuckles was a stark contrast to the heat he was building in your pussy. He got lower, circling the entrance of your wet folds and tracing your slit to your clit again with infuriating slowness with his slender fingers, never giving you the satisfying sensation of more.

“Mmm, feel that?” He hummed lowly, his voice like a sensual caress against your ear, making you hold your breath when he finally pushed his middle finger inside. The intrusion slow and gradual.

You tried once more to adjust the angle as his finger curled within you to stroke your G-spot while using his thumb to massage your clit, coaxing your pelvis to rub involuntarily against his hand until your lips allowed a weak moan you barely managed to suppress.

A soft click echoed in the quiet hallway at the same time, but it wasn’t the one you were hoping for. The lock didn’t open—yet it gave another subtle shift, a hint of close to open but just out of reach.

“Ah, there it is. Feel how it responds?” He whispered. “It’s all about finding the right angle… and knowing when to push with the right touch.”

“Astarion!” You wailed quietly, tightening your grip on the lockpick in frustration.

“Yes, my sweet?” He purred with wicked satisfaction while he kept sinking his finger inside you. He was meticulous in that tortuous slowness, as if to intensify the sensation—each push deeper than the last, never fully withdrawing, only ever teasing you with a rhythm that made it impossible to think of anything but him.

“Am I distracting you?” His whispers were like a lover's touch against your ear, just low enough to be heard. His left hand moved to orient yours with an almost cruel precision, ensuring the lockpick remained poised at the exact angle needed. The parallel was impossible to ignore—the skilful manipulation of the lock imitated the careful stimulation he exerted on your pussy too well.

The cold, damp air of the fortress did nothing to diminish the heat flooding your body as his uninvited finger penetrated deeper inside you. It wasn’t just the intrusive pressure; it was the rhythm of each gradually increasing thrust that made everything else—everything else—fade into the background. Your walls clenched around him subconsciously, desperate but bound by the task at hand. The lock was still before you, and it felt a thousand times more impossible to manipulate; its intricate mechanism was a cold contrast against the warmth he was unleashing.

“I can’t—” You whispered, trembling with frustration and the torment he inflicted.

He chuckled lowly against the sensitive curve of your ear—that characteristic smell of his so close. Then you felt his lips when he planted a soft kiss on your neck, kissing over your pulse. “Oh, but you can,” he murmured, dulcet with a dangerous edge, more of a command than a guarantee. “All you need to do is focus, sweetheart… We’ll be here all night if you don’t.”

Before you could even think of anything else, a second finger plunged inside you with distressing slowness, stretching you further than before. The suddenness of it made the grip on the lockpick falter, and in a second, the tool slipped, falling with a soft clatter against the cold stone floor—a noise that rang out too loudly in the silence, mocking your failure.

His fingers inside you curled deeply to intentionally touch against that sweet, sensitive spot that made you jerk in response, pressing your hips into his hand. Your mind screamed at you to focus, but the feeling of being filled just by so little of him—how he was ruining you so, so easily—was enough to make you want more despite the circumstances.

The quiet atmosphere of your deadly situation was impossible to ignore; every sound, every movement, was amplified in this repugnant place. Yet the danger lurking in the shadows—of goblins, of discovery—disappeared, insignificant against the relentless storm he was creating within you. The fortress could collapse around you, and yet all you could think of was the feelings of your body and the way he manipulated your senses.

Panic twisted inside you as you pressed your hand against your mouth, trying to muffle the frustrated moans that slipped past your trembling lips. But even with your palm tightly pressed, the sound still quivered through your fingers.

His left hand shot out to seize your wrist and yanked your hand from your mouth. “Not a chance, love.”

You bit down hard on your lip, forcing yourself to steady the tremors in your hands as you reached down to retrieve the lockpick from the cold stone floor.

As your fingers closed around the lockpick again, you heard his voice. “My sweet, good girl…” His praise was syrupy, sweet. “You need to be more careful, darling; you’re rushing. Be patient… and it will open up to you, just like you want.”

All he said was simply meant to provoke you and keep you on edge, and you could feel the unnoticeable giggles radiating off him, knowing exactly how to needle you. Every part of him was a temptation—his touch, his voice, his nearness—all aimed at luring you further. But you weren’t giving in. Not now. You would finish this—despite him.

His fingers dug in even deeper, inching inside you with an excruciating pace. Each thrust seemed to draw a little more from you, his knuckles rubbing against your inner walls as he fucked you, stretching your entrance. His palm ground against your clit with every thrust—a hot, torturous, constant sensation. It was all you could feel, making your resolve shudder and your pelvis act defenceless against his attack.

A quick, focused motion brought your fingers back to the lockpick, pressing down with the right amount of force. Another click—a momentary release of tension, but not enough. The mechanism was still holding firm, teasing you with its near surrender.

“That’s it,” he murmured, so softly, so mocking, almost cruel in its dulcet tone. “You’re doing so well… but you need to be more gentle, darling. Focus.”

A curse hissed through your teeth, frustration pooling as you tried to steady your hands, but they faltered again. Behind you, he was watching with that infuriating smile still playing at the corners of his lips, with no kindness in his gaze and only cold satisfaction and desire.

And then he moved.

Instead of offering aid, he thrust into you with an angrier that made your channel clench roughly around him. Pulling each inch of his fingers from you, only to push back in quickly to the level of making lewd sounds despite your clothing as he kept curling his fingers.

“Trying to hurry through this, love?” He purred against your skin. “If you rush, you’ll only make it worse.” His thumb found your clit then again to start drawing tight, fast circles that had your lips parted in a breathless whimper before you could choke it back. He only smiled as if your weakness was the most delicious thing he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing.

He withdrew with slow elegance, only to slam back into you abruptly, pushing you closer to the edge with those relentless motions. The lock you’d been desperately trying to manipulate felt more distant with each passing second; each twist of the lockpick seemed more futile now, slipping through your fingers as the growing tension between your legs coiled tighter.

But then his other hand established yours again; the contrast was jarring. He guided it with an unexpected tenderness, positioning your fingers with precision, as if you were both playing a riskier game, the stakes higher than ever.

“You’re close.” Astarion murmured, a low growl as his fingers sped up. The strokes against your clit were like fire and ice in one—a storm of sensations that jolted through your cunt. The pressure inside you was building, unbearable, a crescendo that left you teetering.

“You’re so close, my love…” His voice was a throaty hum against your ear, brushing it with his lips. The heat of his breath lingered, teasing, coaxing, before he lowered his mouth to trail tender, messy kisses down your neck. His lips were soft, but the pressure increased as he pressed a sloppy kiss just beneath your jaw, then dragged his tongue across your skin.

A flicker of desire curled in your stomach as he nipped at your pulse, the warmth of his mouth contrasting with the cold air around you. Grazing his fangs lightly over the sensitive spot just beneath your ear before he licked a languid path up from the base of your neck, tasting you with an intensity that made you feel weaker.

“You’ve done so well…” he purred. “Don’t stop now.”

Your jaw clenched, a low tremor racing through your hips as they kept rubbing against his hand. You were desperate to stay focused and finish the task at hand, but the thrusts of his fingers and the stimulation on your clit sent waves of fiery heat through your core, making you ache with need. You could feel the lockpick slipping again, sliding out of your grip, threatened by the chaos swirling in your mind. It was an impossible challenge.

His other hand curled around your trembling fingers, the pressure of his grip forcing your hand to move, to continue. Your fingers shook as you slipped more of the pick into the door lock. His fingers—those long, skilled digits—pushed deeper, faster, finding a tempo that was both hard and euphoric.

Your body reacted without your consent, being consumed by the pleasure he was drawing from you. His thumb stimulated your clit with rapid, exasperating circles over your sensitive bud, just about driving you mad with desire. Your grip trembled as Astarion’s fingers curled with each swift thrust; he didn’t even give you a moment to adjust. He didn’t allow a single breath to escape your lips without pushing you closer to a breaking point, as his pace was unforgiving and fast, never slowing down.

And then, just as the lock felt completely impossible to open, your guided hands finally twisted it into place. You barely registered the decisive click, though; you were too caught up in the chaos of sensations until the pressure inside you exploded.

Your pussy convulsed and clenched around his fingers as you lowered your head and shut your eyes, while a sharp cry escaped your lips as your orgasm tore through you, crashing every nerve. Astarion didn’t stop, didn’t relent, keeping his rhythm as he milked every last spurt of your juices with his hand, keeping you pinned against his chest. Both with his hand now on your neck and his fingers working tirelessly between your thighs to prolong your release and make it last far longer.

Once it was settling over, your body and your legs still quivered in the aftermath, and you leaned firmly against him for support. His fingers remained inside you, savouring the way your walls fluttered and vibrated weakly around them, as if you were reluctant to let go. But he finally withdrew slowly, leaving you achingly aware of just how thoroughly he’d unravelled you.

“Bravo, my sweet,” he murmured, his tone a low, smug purr as he brought his lips teasingly to your ear. “You managed to unlock it. I’ll admit… I’m rather impressed.”

“You… you’re impossible.” You whispered harshly, breathless, while you gave him back his tools.

“And you’re adorable.” He replied smoothly, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek as he guarded them in his pocket.

You shot him a look that could kill him, your fingers trembling as you fumbled with the buttons of your trousers to quickly button them. “You could have done that in half the time…”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he said with a lazy shrug, straightening as he rose and offered you his hand. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You glared at his outstretched hand before begrudgingly taking it.

“Now,” he said as he helped you to your feet, “come along. We’ve wasted enough time.”

The faint sparkle in his eyes and the way his smirk lingered just a touch too long made you wonder if this had been his plan all along.

‎

[mj0702]

Whatever she wants 🔞

Minors do not read - SMUT

Follow up to "Whatever she needs"

“Cari... sit down” Alexia said calmly before she lifted her coffee mug to her lips

“But Ale...” you whined quietly your leg bouncing nervously

“The plane won't land any quicker the more often you race to the arrival board looking at it...” the blonde replied calm “... it's bad enough you made me drive here two hours early”

“But what if...” you started again your eyes flickering to the board with the flights again

“She lands when she lands Cari... calm down... you want a sandwich? Jamon Ibérico?” Alexia kept her whole demeanor calm not to fuel your nervous energy even more

“No...” you said quickly glancing past your blonde girlfriend again

“You haven't eaten all day...” the blonde mused “... what do you think Jenni will say when I tell her that?”

“She won't like it...” you mumbled ashamed

“So... what would you like to eat?” Alexia looked at you expectantly

“Jenni” you blurted out making the blonde snort into her coffee

“Later Cari... I meant actual food” the blonde smirked amused

“Can we go to La Pepita when Jenni is here?” you asked hopefully

“Cari... you know Pepita doesn't open until 7 at night... it's 1PM now... there's no way I will let you run around without any food until then” Alexia now getting serious

“I'm not hungry” you whined again

“Cariño...” the blonde warned you and you huffed “Either you choose or I'll choose and you'll eat whatever I put in front of you”

“Patatas?” you asked quietly

“They don't have Patatas here...” Alexias voice turned soft again “... pollo o Ibérico?”

“Pollo...” you mumbled feeling like a kid getting scolded by its mother

“Gracias...” the blonde smiled getting up before bending down whispering in your ear “... if your ass leaves this seat I'll make sure you won't be able to sit on it for at least a week”

A few minutes later a chicken sandwich gets put down in front of you a bottle of water with it. You immediately started to start eating now noticing how hungry you in fact were. Alexia just rolled her eyes smiling watching you how you absolutely inhaled that sandwich. Her and Jenni found out quite early in the relationship that you were the perfect sub. You didn't want to have to make decisions – you were happy with whatever they two decided on. It also put some pressure on Alexia and Jenni making sure you were looked after. The only time you didn't need them was when you were on the pitch. If it was for training or at a game didn't matter – you were a beast on the green. You played defense but you could also pass as a midfielder. You looked up to Lucy Bronze your whole career and even to this day a praise from Lucy let you smile light up a whole city. You came to Barcelona before Lucy but at the time the two of you were playing on international level for quite some time – even frustrating the spanish team together with Millie and Rachel. So when the english defender joined you in Barcelona with Keira following too you were ecstatic. Up to the point where Alexia REALLY had to stay calm and not let the jealousy she felt take over making the new signings feel welcome and treat them like everyone else. It was so hard for her – for weeks she only heard “Lucy here” - “Keira there” - “Can't we sign Tooney too?”. Jenni only just laughed when Alexia called her to vent as she was waiting for you to finish training. The moment she saw how you jumped into Lucys arms picking them up (making Alexia pick them up since you lost your license for six month because of speeding) the blonde excuse herself quickly speeddailing Jenni the second she turned around. Of course the Madrista just laughed tears when Alexia ranted about how easily Lucy caught you not even looking just catching you – to Lucys defense.. she had years of training. Alexias mood turned instantly when she learned that Lucy and Keira were dating and you were basically their adopted kid. You helped them settle into the spanish lifestyle and the spanish play. It was mesmerizing to watch the connection Lucy, you and Keira had on the pitch. Lucy pushed you to put yourself more out there on the pitch to make yourself available and get more into plays. Keira tickled that last piece out of you that everyone knew you had in you but were too shy to commit to it. But the second you sit down in Alexias Cupra the door closed behind you you immediately fell back into letting Alexia taking control letting her making decisions like dinner, planning the rest of the day or movie choices.

Just as yo were about to bite into your sandwich Alexias phone pinged with a new message making you look up with a mix of excitement and deer caught in the head light. The blonde on the other Hand decided to take another sip of her coffee before picking her phone up reading the message humming in acknowledgement.

“Jenni here?” you asked your excitement visible in your voice

“Eat Cari…” was the only thing Alexia said after she put her phone back down

“Alexia” you whined not satisfied with her answer

“Cariño” the blonde warned and you begrudgingly took a bite of your chicken sandwich

“You really are a child sometimes” Alexia rolled her eyes smiling as she reached over the table removing some sauce with her thumb from your cheek

“And you are annoying” you shot back your mouth full

“And if YOU don’t watch it Bebé” the blonde raised her eyebrow at you

“Lo siento” you mumbled

“Hm” Alexia hummed again seeing how most of the sandwich was gone now so she decided to let you of the hook

“Jenni landed safely in Barcelona sí” the blonde said calmly knowing the second you would hear her confirmation you would run

Of course she was right. She wasn’t even finishing talking before you shot out of your chair weaseling your way through the tables that were between you and the arrival area before jumping over the cafés rails ducking through the sea of passengers. Alexia huffed lightly as she watched you dodging a group of Asians by basically jumping over their luggage dancing around the people. She knew she’ll find you pressed against the barrier between the luggage claim and arrival area later – if not the police would be her next stop. Wouldn’t be the first time you’d be get picked up by the airport police. The first time Jenni came back from Mexico you jumped over the barrier before Alexia could get a hold on you and you got tackled to the ground resulting in two games on the bench because you got a concussion. Since then you only leaned so far over the rails that you glance inside the baggage claim area whenever the automatic doors opened. Just as she thought Alexia found you standing up on the second rail to get a good glance inside when she finally made it over to you.

“Cari… get down” Alexia scolded you glancing around if anyone noticed you

“But then I can’t see…” you grumbled

“You’ll see her the second she gets out here” the blonde said firmly

“Ale… I’m 1.60… I don’t see shit if I’m not having a higher point of view” you grumbled as your girlfriend gently but firmly pulled on your shirt signaling you to come down again

“I know Bebé…” Alexia chuckled pulling you into her side

You were by far the smallest in the whole squad but that didn’t stop you from being an amazing hotheaded football player. You often used your height to your advantage zooming around the bigger players (Alexia herself including) or simply slipping through their arms (or legs in Jennis or Wendie Renards case). Jenni often teases you by using you as a bar table easily leaning on your head with your standing there huffing and puffing and pouting. You also never backed down from a challenge or a dare. Which mostly resulted in Alexia having to step in and either pull you away from an opponent or get in between you and the ref when you decided to “voice your concerns” once again.

“I think I see her” you exclaimed excited starting to jump and your blonde girlfriend had to step in once again by grabbing your shoulders holding you down as she saw the police glancing over

“Cariño… if you can’t behave I’ll look you in the car” Alexia grumbles not wanting to attract more attention that you already had

Your answer was a low pitiful whimper knowing that Ale would pull through with it. Alexia could feel the excitement radiating off you so she just pulled you flush against her front starting to whisper sweet praises into your ear

“Be good Cari and I promise Jenni and I take care of you later…” she whispered getting you to calm down immediately “… that’s it…. I know it’s hard but you’re such a good girl if you want to be”

After what felt like forever for you you saw that familiar silhouette and black hair of Jenni who had a backpack over her shoulder pulling a suitcase after her. Alexia kept hold of you until Jenni exit the baggage claim area stepping out to the public space. The second you felt the blondes hold loosen you shot forward jumping into the dark haired ones arm koala hugging her while she easily caught you with one arm.

“Missed you” you mumbled into her neck where you pressed your nose into her skin inhaling her sweet scent

“Yo también te extrañé bebé” Jenni chuckled while Alexia followed you gracefully

Jenni let go of her suitcase holding her arm out for the blonde to step into the embrace. Alexia pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of her girlfriends mouth smiling knowingly

“Someone missed you” the blonde smiled letting the older one pulling her into her side

“At least one of you” the lanky spaniard teased kissing Alexia softly feeling how you tighten your hold on her frame

“Didn’t want to spoil you” Alexia smirked “Your ego is big enough as it is”

“Not only my ego” Jenni smirked wriggling her eyebrows making Alexia laugh

“Pervertida” the blonde punched her partner playfully

“Only for you” the older one snorted “Cari… come on… let go so we can go home”

“Nu uh” you sighed into Jennis neck completely happy with where you were

“I can’t…” Jenni started but then just groaned knowing there wasn’t any use in arguing “… fine”

“Softie” Alexia mumbled under her breath as she grabbed the handle of Jennis suitcase pulling it behind her not leaving Jennis side

Getting you to let go of Jenni was a task on it’s own. You fought tooth and nail when you should get in the backseat while Jenni was about to get into the passenger seat. THEN you complained that Alexia got into the drivers seat until the blonde snapped at you that someone HAS to drive but you just quipped up that there were always Taxis. Jenni had a hard time hiding her laughter her body shaking quietly while Alexia and you argued over how to get back home. It got to the point where the dark haired one had to step in seeing how both of her girlfriends got frustrated with each other by just fishing the car keys out of Ales fingers pointing to the back seat where you and the blonde climbed in.

“Cariño” Jenni said once the door was shut behind you three her her voice stern making you flinch “… down”

You immediately sunk to your knees hanging your head low making Alexia turn around in surprise as she was walking in front of you two

“What?” the blonde asked confused

“You really think I would let her behavior slide? Acting like a brat in public” the dark haired one growled as she walked passed you “…. I also won’t let tolerate your behavior… so you better strip and be bend over the bed when I make my way into the bedroom”

With that Jenni was gone. She walked through the living room into the kitchen smirking to herself when she heard Alexia scrambling down the hallway. She made her way back to you a cup of hot tea in her hands

“What should I do with you Cari….” the older one mused “… you know I actually wanted to reward you for being so good and well behaved the last two weeks… Alexia and I share everything you know… a house… a life… you… she told me how good you were doing… that you DESERVE a reward… but you just had to act up again didn’t you…”

She circled your kneeling form while she touched you lightly teasing you trying to get a reaction from you – but you knew better. You knew the second you’d react she’d strike like a King Cobra striking at it’s prey.

“Hm…” Jenni hummed surprised “… nothing to say?”

The lanky one waited three seconds until she spoke again “Vale… you’ll come around at one point – I’ll check in with you once I dealt with Alexia”

You whimpered quietly when you heard Jennis feet padding down the corridor.

The next hours where pure hell for you. You heard everything since Jenni left the bedroom door partly open. You heard how Jennis hand connected with Alexias ass over and over again. How the blondes pained grunts turned into pleasured pants and moans. You heard Jennis quiet murmurs not understanding what she said but just hearing her mumble things to Alexia not you pained you. How the blonde reacted to the older ones words. The quiet moans the louder groans. You heard the handcuffs click shut you heard the harness buckles snap close. You knew what Jenni was doing with and to Alexia. It was the usual re-establishment of Jennis dominance. The dark haired one made sure both of you knew who was calling the shots. Her. Jenni Hermoso. Alexia might be La Reina. You might be called La Duquesa. But Jenni was the one making both of you kneel.

You heard Alexia whimper and whine. You heard her begging for more and for Jenni to stop. It came to the point where you were teething on the edge of it getting too much. You knew you were allowed to make yourself known if it really was getting too much but you weren’t sure how. You knew the second Jenni pushed the head of the strap into Alexia. At the guttural moan that left the blondes throat you even knew WHICH strap the dark haired one used. The way the blonde screamed Jennis name when she came told you it was the last orgasm for the time being for Alexia.

A few minutes later you heard the low squeak of the bedroom door getting opened

“Look at that…” you heard Jennis voice “… looks like you can behave after all”

You still didn’t dare to move a muscle not knowing if the older one was testing you but she got you out of your misery quickly

“With me” the dark haired spaniard said simply already on her way back to the bedroom

“Jenni” you whispered quietly looking up carefully

“Hm?” your girlfriend turned around and eyebrow raised in question

“I think my knees died” you admitted shyly

Jenni needed a second to process the information before she turned around again

“Then crawl” you heard her as you entered the bedroom again and as humiliating as it was – you knew you better get in that room quickly otherwise she’d make you pay for it.

“Took you long enough” Jenni said once you made it inside your shared bedroom “… bed”

You winced slightly your muscles arching from the uncomfortable position she left you in as you ungracefully got on the bed. You didn’t know what to do so you just settled next to Alexia whose body was covered in a thin layer of sweat her hair in a messy bun some of them sticking to her forehead. The blonde had a satisfied smile on her face her breathing still a little bit labored. You could see Jennis marks on her neck her chest even her thighs. You could see that Alexias ass had a nice shade of red and that scared you of what would happen to you.

“Don’t worry Cari…. I know it’s not your thing” Jenni pulled you out of your thoughts like she could read them “… you asked for something the last time we spoke about sex… would that still be something you’d be interested in?”

You looked at her with wide eyes like someone was holding you t gunpoint

“That’s a no then” the black haired woman mumbled

“I just…” you stuttered but then didn’t know how to voice your feelings

“Uncertain? Scared?” Jenni tried to help you out

“Yes… no… yes” you whined getting overwhelmed

“We’ll revisit the topic later…” the older one said calmly starting to pull your shirt over your head unceremoniously “… now… we still have some boundaries to set”

Alexia watched interested how Jenni got you out of your clothes before she push you face forward into the mattress

“Since you love talking back to Alexia so much… use your mouth” Jenni grumbled pushing you towards the blonde again

“I…” you stumbled over your words and before you found yourself in between Alexias legs her glistening pussy centimeters away from your face

“Get to work” your girlfriend growled from above you her hand between your shoulder blades while Alexias hand found the back of your head

You wriggled forward as much as the restraining of your girlfriends let you move so you could press a soft kiss to the blondes pubic bone making her growl

“Stop it and do what you’re supposed to do… didn’t you hear Jenni?” Alexia growled darkly knowing that you find it quite turning on

“Sí La Reina” you mumbled quickly before you started to push your tongue inside her warm wet pussy

“Fucking finally” the blonde moaned and you knew thanks to Jenni it wouldn’t take long to make her come if you did it the right way.

Which meant constant pressure even if your jaw hurt or cramped. You knew you only had a small window of getting it just right otherwise Alexia would get impatient and then you would spend literally hours in this position. What you didn’t expect was that this time Jenni wouldn’t just watch like she usually did. No, this time she decided to get involved too. Her weight still held you down her hand still between your shoulder blades but her OTHER hand – you forgot with your task that both your girlfriends had two hands. So the second you felt Jenni hand in between your legs you jolted forward into Alexias cunt making her groan.

“What Cari … you didn’t forgot about me did you now?” the older one teased you feeling how wet you already became “… so wet…. I presume that’s for me this time?”

You moaned against Alexias middle making her groan deeply her hand tightening in your hair as Jenni started to draw light circles on your outer lips

“That’s my good girl” Jenni smirked “… make Alexia come – then I’ll decide if and how often you’ll come”

“Jenni” you heard Alexia keen above you feeling how close she was – tasting how close she was

“It’s okay Ale…” Jenni said softly “… come”

Alexias nails digged into your scalp holding you in place as she rocked harshly against your face. You held still and let the blonde use your tongue making herself come on it.

“Bona noia” Jenni praised Alexia softly and even you could hear the Madrid accent when she spoke catalan “… was she good to you? Does she deserve the reward we talked about?”

“Sí” the blonde panted out

“Bueno… you’re lucky Cari” the dark haired smirked “Don’t you want to thank her?”

You didn’t know what Jenni expected from you so you just stayed still while she continued to gently tease your entrance. Alexia was the one showing pity on you in the end pulling your face away from her cunt gently coaxing you upwards so you laid on top of her as she kissed you gently

“You trust Jenni and I sí?” she asked you softly in between kisses

“Mhm” you confirmed enjoying the change of pace

“Bueno…” the catalan smiled “… I promise you’ll enjoy it”

Alexia distracted you just long enough that Jenni could strap up again know kneeling behind you her large Hand on the small of your back

“First you gonna come on my strap Bebé…” Jenni said her voice low “… you still acted like a spoiled brat… so you’ll just take it”

Jenni saw and Alexia felt how you immediately tensed up. The catalan started to kiss you again trying to sooth your anxiety while the Madrista started to gently stroke over your back

“You can take it Cariño” the lanky one said softly “… I wouldn’t even consider it if I had any doubts… if you feel too overwhelmed – you remember your safe word sí?”

“Mhm…” you nodded breaking the kiss to lean your head against Alexias collarbone

“Words Cari…” Jenni urged you

“Pine” you mumbled

“Good girl” the older one said leaning down pressing a kiss to your spine “… what if you need a break?”

“Dallas” you whimpered your mind already started racing again

“You can take it Bebé” the Madrista said gently caressing your back pushing her hips forward nudging the tip of the strap inside your tight heat

You whimpered trying to move forward and away but Alexia held you in place by your hips not letting you get away

“If you need to…” Jenni smirked finding the blondes eyes over your shoulder “… just bite Alexia”

The blonde quickly flipped her girlfriend off before she started to praise you while the dark haired spaniard pushed steadily forward stretching you to the point where you were about to break when Jenni finally bottomed out

“Mierda Alexia…” Jenni groaned her voice dark with lust “… fuck she looks so good… so so good”

Alexia was more occupied with making sure you were okay pressing kisses to your temple as Jenni stroked over your back giving you a minute to adjust. The second the older one felt your muscles relax under her hands she started to move. Pull out. Thrusting back into you. This was the Jenni you loved. The Jenni who used you to her satisfaction but still was looking out for your well-being and your satisfaction. In the beginning her thrusts were slow but powerful. The more she felt you relax, the more you accepted her the faster and harder her trusts became. With each thrust Jenni pushed you forward to the point where Alexia basically got fucked through you the whole bed moving. The Madrista lost herself in the sensation even more when even Alexia started to moan while you just tried to hold on somehow.

“Jenni” you begged feeling your orgasm approaching

“First me…” Jenni growled “… then you”

“Por favor” you begged pitifully

“First ME” the dark haired one growled darkly

“Ale” you cried out

“Ssssshhhh Cari….” the blonde tried to sooth you “… you can hold it… you did it for me… you can do it for Jenni too”

“I can’t…” you’re voice breaking “… I can’t… I can’t… I…”

Suddenly Jenni stopped. You were so close and she just… stopped

“Oh so you can for her but not for me?” Jenni asked her voice on the edge of angry

“I…” you tried to get some air into your lungs

“Cari…?” the Madrista asked now concerned

“Jenni….” you panted gripping blindly onto anything trying to ground yourself

“Come” Jenni demanded searching for solution to your misery

“Ale…” you begged

“Come Cariño…” the blonde said softly kissing every inch of your face she could reach

With the permission and the extra trust Jenni provided you with you came. You came hard. Not the black out squirting hard – that Jenni and Alexia definitely could provide – but hard.

“Buena chica” the older one said gently seeing your body trembling between hers and Alexias

“Jenni” your blonde girlfriend said lowly “… you really want to…”

“Let’s try it…” the black haired spaniard answered just as quietly “… she let go… she got all the bottled up feelings out”

“Are you sure?” Alexia asked again

“Yes… lets give her a minute” Jenni said calmly before carefully pulling out making you subconsciously groan

You came back came to it feeling Alexia draw lazy circles on your back

“Hi” you mumbled against her skin

“Hola” the blonde chuckled ���Back with us?”

“That felt really good” you murmured and sighed deeply

“Hm…” Alexia hummed “… we noticed”

“How long…?” you asked ashamed

“A few minutes… Jenni’s still in the bathroom cleaning up” the catalan answered softly “… do you want to try anal Cari?”

“I’m not sure…” you mumbled

“What makes you question yourself?” Alexia asked trying to see if it was something solvable or if you just weren’t ready

“What if I don’t like it?” you started to get uneasy

“Then we stop…” the blonde answered easily “… anal isn’t something you get… used to… either you like it and explore it more or you don’t like it”

“You like it…” you said as a matter of fact

“Not always… I enjoy it some days and in general yes…” Alexia answered honestly “… but there are times where I’m just not in the mood”

“Can you…?” you asked carefully

“You don’t trust Jenni with it?” the catalan asked surprised having spotted Jenni already leaning in the doorframe

“I do…” you said quickly

“But…” the blonde pressed the matter a little bit

“You… know how it feels” you admitted

“You think Jenni doesn’t?” Alexia chuckled after a minute

“No?” you looked confused

“Cari…. Believe me… she knows” the blonde pressed a loving kiss to your forehead smiling against your skin

“What… how…. What?” you got even more confused

“You think I don’t enjoy some experiences as well?” now Jenni made herself known smirking

“You never let…” you stuttered

“You just don’t pay enough attention Cari…” the older one snorted “… I don’t particularly enjoy getting fucked but I do enjoy some anal play”

“Oh…” you said embarrassed hiding your face

“If you don’t like it we stop okay Bebé” Jenni said gently after she laid down next to Alexia and you pulling you in between the two

This time it started out slow and sensual. Both of them wanted to make sure you were completely relaxed and comfortable. Four hands started to explore your body again. Soft strokes. Gentle kisses. You felt yourself falling deeper into this completely relaxed state of body and mind. That was until you felt Jenni grab your ass cheek not roughly but firmly

“Relax Cariño” Alexia whispered against your lips “Trust us”

You sagged back against Jenni silently confirming that you indeed trust them . Again the Madrista grabbed your ass cheek and this time you flinched a little but didn’t jump like before. Jenni kissed and nipped at you shoulder blade letting her hand wander around inching closer to were she wanted to be since the moment you brought it up. She gathered some of your juices up gently spreading it around your virgin hole. She repeated the action over and over again until she felt you relax under her hands.

“Ready Cari?” Jenni mumbled against your back Alexia claiming the front of your body

“I think so…” you said in awe half coherent state

“Ale…” the older one murmured and immediately the blonde pulled your leg over her hip holding it there opening you up for the Madrista

“Relax Cariño” Jenni pressed kisses to your skin while she gently but firmly pushed her index finger into your tight hole

You grunted when you first felt Jennis finger breach your tight muscle ring not knowing if you liked it or not

“Ssssshhhh… you’re doing so good Bebé” the dark haired one hushed you gently pushing her finger further into your tight asshole

“Feels weird” you grunted

“That’s normal Cari…” Alexia smiled softly “… but still okay sí?”

“Sí” you confirmed

“Bueno” the blonde kissed you again still holding your leg over her waist

You felt Jenni pull her finger back a little bit before she pushed back in every time a little deeper. After a while you felt how you started to enjoy the things that your girlfriends did to and with you so you let yourself fall letting them take care of you

“There we go…” Jenni whispered the praise into your ear feeling how you relaxed

She tried a second finger when she felt you getting lose but quickly decided against it feeling you tense immediately. You let your girlfriends manipulate your body into a deep state of white mind that at some point you were so far gone that Alexia stopped Jenni convincing her to just let them enjoy the moment. You floated on the cloud of submission that wasn’t new to you but it was extremely rare that you reached that level.

Jenni and Alexia made sure you could enjoy that state for as long as possible. The transition from your submissive state to sleep was blurred and your girlfriends decided to just let you sleep instead waking you up to talk about the new experience. You just slept through the night just feeling happy and save in between your girlfriends.

[loricciardo]

CHAPTER ONE | SO THIS IS HOW IT STARTS?

tags. original female character, jos verstappen, depictions of physical and verbal abuse in reference to max & jos, mild references to childhood loneliness and emotional isolation, mentions of of pressure and high expectations in youth sports, neglectful parenting.

taglist. want to join or be removed from my taglist? send me an ask or comment below!

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The first time Natalie Schumacher met Max Verstappen, she was seven years old.

They were in Wackersdorf for the weekend. It was another karting event, another lineup of engines echoing across the tarmac and the familiar scent of petrol clinging to everything. Natalie already had grease under her nails and a smear of oil on her cheek from helping Mick zip up his suit too fast.

In the beginning, her mama had been hesitant about letting her race. Not because she didn’t believe Natalie could do it but she’d seen too much of what the sport could take. The injuries, the pressure, the loneliness that sometimes came with living life on a pedestal. “One Schumacher on the track is enough,” she’d said once, half joking. But Natalie wanted it too badly. She wanted to follow in her papa’s footsteps, to chase what her big brother Mick chased. It wasn’t expected of her but it called to her. And eventually, her mama stopped protesting. Not because the fear went away, but because she saw how Natalie lit up every time she got behind the wheel.

But what mattered the most, arguably, was that their father was here. Not just in the “he brought us and paid our entry fees” way, but really here. Michael Schumacher had been away a lot that year, just like every year, swallowed up by Ferrari duties and sponsor meetings. Luckily, it was his last year as a driver. And this weekend, he had cleared everything just to watch them race.

Natalie knew that because she’d asked him twice.

Now, sitting criss-crossed on a folding chair next to their kart, she picked at the velcro strap on her glove while Mick paced the tent with quiet nerves. He always got like that before the race started. His mind would buzz in circles. Natalie liked to think it was because he wanted to win, but deep down, she suspected it was because he didn’t want to disappoint their dad.

“Meinst du ich sollte in Turn 5 später bremsen?” Mick asked suddenly. (Do you think I should brake later in Turn 5?)

Natalie shrugged. “Sie haben dort das letzte Mal abgeschlossen.” (You locked up there last time.)

“Ich habe fast abgeschlossen.” (I almost locked up.)

She raised a brow. “Okay… Du wärst fast ins Schleudern gekommen.” (Okay… You almost spun into the gravel.)

That earned a look from Michael, who was crouched by Natalie’s rear tires, double checking the pressure gauge like it hadn’t already been done by five other track mechanics. “You two, be nice,” he scolded in English, without turning around. “You’re both here to learn. No one’s perfect.”

Natalie held back rolling her eyes at him. Papa always said that. No one’s perfect. Even though, to her, he was.

Mick frowned but nodded slowly. Natalie leaned back in her chair and watched the other kids trickle into the circuit. Some in karts, some dragging helmets behind them like they were too heavy to carry. Regardless, all the boys looked older, taller. More serious.

She didn’t feel out of place, despite being the only girl. At least, not in the way people expected her to. Natalie didn’t flinch when boys stared too long or made snide comments under their breath. She was used to it by now. The double takes, the raised eyebrows, the occasional series organizer asking her if she was in the wrong tent. None of it mattered once the kart turned on. Out there, she wasn’t someone’s sister or someone’s daughter or that girl who thinks she can race. She was just a racing driver. And that was all she needed to be.

Michael stood up, brushing his hands off on a rag, and turned to look at them both. “Remember,” he smiled gently, “you don’t have to win. Just drive your best. That’s enough for me.”

Natalie tried not to smile too hard. She hated when Mick called her soft. He always did it in that annoying older brother way that meant he did care, but didn’t quite know how to say it. Mick always got weird when their papa said things like that. Like he didn’t know how to hold onto praise taking it to heart. Natalie understood that a little.

Natalie Schumacher did not expect to win that race.

She knew she was fast but this track was always brutal to her used tires. Papa always insisted that he put them on her and Mick’s karts. He said it was to teach them how to adapt. To feel the loss of grip, to wrestle with unpredictability. “You have to learn how to win with worse equipment,” he told them, tightening a lug nut with calloused hands. “I didn’t grow up with the best parts. I would fish them out the bin. If you can drive well on these, you’ll fly on brand new ones.”

And of course, the name Max Verstappen had was being whispered all weekend. Her papa had warned her about him, too. “He’s aggressive,” he’d told her, kneeling beside Natalie’s kart that morning. “Clever as well. You’ll have to be smarter, not just quicker.”

And the Max boy was quick. He took different lines than she did. They were wider, riskier ones. He would break late, causing her to almost fly off track. In practice, he had flown past her twice. It had made Natalie’s jaw clench, made her papa sigh, and made her stomach twist in that sickening way it always did when she felt like she was falling short.

But that wasn’t the case for today.

Today, she drove that kart with fire in her veins and dirt under her tiny fingernails. She fought for her spot every turn, and when the chequered flag dropped, she crossed the line first. Barely, in front of the Max boy, but she did.

Again: Natalie Schumacher had just won her first karting race.

She couldn’t stop smiling as she slowly climbed onto the taller podium, her blonde hair a mess beneath her winners cap, her race suit dusted with mud. The cheers of the small crowd were loud, and the sun caught the edge of the little gold trophy in her hands, making it glint like something bigger than it was.

But something felt off.

Max, the boy who was supposed to be standing beside her, wasn’t there.

His name was still printed neatly on the silver trophy that lay on the second place pedestal, waiting for his little boots to fill the space. But he never came. The officials called for him once, maybe twice, before giving up and continuing with the ceremony. Natalie frowned, scanning the crowd, trying to spot that unmistakable bright orange and white helmet or the sharp blue eyes beneath the weight of his little scowl.

Natalie didn’t see Max near the tents. Instead, her eyes caught movement far behind the motorhomes barely visible beyond the chain link fence.

Ah! There he was!

Max stood stiff and still, his face bright red, head cast toward the ground. A tall man hovered over him, speaking rapidly in some foreign language. The language wasn’t German. Not French either. Natalie’s young self couldn’t place it, but the meaning didn’t need translating. The scary man’s hand was clenched tight around Max’s shoulder, shaking the boy once, sharply, before releasing. Max didn’t flinch, but even from this distance, Natalie could feel something sour twist in her chest.

The scary man wasn’t just angry. He looked furious. She wanted to march over there and tell the scary man how hard Max fought her for first. And honestly, the thought made Natalie wish she had gotten second. She didn’t understand the words, but she didn’t need to.

Natalie had never seen a parent look at their child that way before. Her papa never raised his voice like that. Even when she messed up, or rather, especially when she messed up. His voice stayed calm, steady. We’ll work on it, he’d say. You’re getting there.

Before she could watch any longer, a sudden POP! beside her made her flinch.

“Hah!” a young boy’s voice chirped, high and teasing.

Small but mighty, there was Charles Leclerc, triumphant in third place, grinned as he sprayed her with cheap pretend champagne, half of which missed and splattered onto her race boots. Natalie squealed, laughing despite herself, raising the little bottle in defense and catching him in the chest.

And just like that, Max and the scary man disappeared. Natalie Schumacher felt like a real race car driver.

Natalie sat on the steps of the Schumacher motorhome, her tiny race suit rolled down to her waist, the arms tied in a loose knot around her hips. Her hair was still messy from the fake champagne, and her cheeks were warm from the evening German sun. Across from her, their papa crouched low over the little fire pit he’d built out of bricks and gravel, carefully turning the sausages he’d set on a metal grate.

“Paaaaa! Don’t poke them so much,” Mick spoke from behind him, nose wrinkled. “They’ll split.”

“They won’t split,” Michael replied, amused as he looked at his son. “They’re fine. Do you want yours burnt, or not burnt?”

“… Not burnt.”

Michael grinned. “Then stop giving advice and let the sausage master work.”

The fire hissed, and the smell of charring meat mixed with the nearby scent of gasoline and fresh cut grass. Someone else at the campground was cooking too. It was something buttery and smoky, yum. And with the sun slowly setting, it was finally starting to cool off. Natalie was realizing that this was her favorite smell in the whole world: grease, petrol, and campfire.

She was still holding her little gold trophy in one hand. She hadn’t put it down yet, not really out of pride. Well, yes, she was proud, but, because the weight of it in her hand reminded her that it had actually happened.

Natalie leaned her head against the edge of the doorframe, eyes scanning lazily across the lot. Until a sharp slam cut through the quiet.

Her gaze snapped to the source of the noise. It was Max. And that scary man from before.

They stood a few motorhomes down, under the weak yellow glow of a lamp post. It was the second time that weekend she’d seen that man yell at him like that.

It was happening again. Worse, maybe. The man was louder this time, more animated. His hands sliced through the air like he was trying to cut something that wouldn’t go away. Max stood perfectly still, staring up at him with this blank sort of expression. He’d learned a long time ago that it was better not to respond. His face was red from holding his tears all in.

She didn’t know what the scary man was saying, but it was clearly bad. He looked very mean. He was the kind of grown up that made your stomach knot just from being in the same space.

The man turned to walk away, then spun back around suddenly and shouted again, louder this time. Max flinched, just barely, but didn’t move otherwise.

When the man finally stormed off for good, Max stayed behind. He just sat right there in the grass beside his motorhome, legs pulled up, elbows resting on his knees. His hands moved automatically, picking at the dirt and stray blades of grass. It was something to do, something to focus on instead of whatever had just happened.

Natalie’s cautious, curious eyes stayed on him longer than she meant to.

“Dinner’s ready,” Papa smiled gently beside her, handing her a bun with a sausage tucked neatly inside, wrapped in kitchen roll.

“Danke,” she murmured, taking it with both hands. But instead of taking a bite, she stared down at it.

Then she glanced sideways at Max again. Still sitting there, still quiet, still alone. She shifted on her feet. Thought for a second. Then looked up at her papa.

“Papa?” she asked, softly. “Do you.. think I could give one to him?”

Michael looked up again, this time following her gaze. He saw little Max Verstappen, alone in the grass, and his expression changed slightly. His brow creased, just a little. He took a breath, slow and steady.

Michael, of couse, had raced against Jos Verstappen. He remembered him well. Not for his skill, which was average at his prime, but for his temper. The way Jos shoved mechanics in the garage. The way he barked orders at engineers like they were below him. He remembered the way Jos had spoken to people when he thought no one important was listening.

And everyone had heard the numerous stories. Everyone knew that Jos was hard on his son. Way too hard. Hell, he even boasted about it! Michael had never seen it up close, but he had heard things. Seen the way the little boy flinched when Jos raised his voice behind the fences of junior events.

Michael looked back at his daughter, her little face scrunched with concern, thumb nervously brushing the edge of the paper napkin.

“Nat… I think it’d be a very nice thing to do,” he spoke finally, his voice quiet. “But you can’t take it personally if he doesn’t say thank you.”

Natalie slowly nodded, trying to understand why Michael would mention such things.

“You have to remember, he’s not used to kindness, Kleine,” Michael added, almost more to himself than to her. “Not from people who don’t want something from him.” (Kleine = little one)

She looked up at him, confused. “But.. Papa, I don’t.. want anything from him?”

Michael smiled softly. “I know you don’t,” He nodded, slowly. “You can go ahead,” his voice quiet. “But don’t stay too long, okay?”

“I won’t, Pa,” she promised.

Natalie spun around and walked across the gravel with no hesitation, sausage bun in both hands, toward the boy no one seemed to look at twice. Her eyes moved from the food to Max, then back again.

The boy didn’t look up right away. He was crouched low, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the dirt. His fingers were smudged with mud, busy pulling up little weeds just for something to do.

But when her racing boots crunched softly against the grass, Max tensed. His head snapped up, and cold blue eyes met hers. Wide, suspicious, a little red around the edges. Natalie froze; she hadn’t expected his stare to feel like that. She felt her face go warm, suddenly too aware of how quiet it was between them. But she held up the hotdog anyway.

“Um… hi,” she slowly smiled.

Max didn’t answer. Just blinked at her, not moving an inch.

They hadn’t spoken before. Not even once. She didn’t know if he spoke English. Or German, or anything she knew. But she figured she had to try something.

“I… I brought you food,” she added awkwardly, holding it out a little further.

Max glanced at the hotdog, then back at her. His shoulders stayed hunched. His small face didn’t soften.

“Why..?” he asked confused, voice quiet.

Natalie shifted her weight, unsure what to say. She didn’t have the guts to explain all of it. That she’d seen the way his father yelled, how it reminded her of stories Papa never told but the adults sometimes did. That she didn’t think anyone should have to eat dinner alone, especially not after working so hard to win a race.

So instead, she shrugged. “Because you didn’t get one,” she settled on. “And it’s good. And I thought you might’ve wanted one.”

Max looked at her like she’d just said something in a completely foreign language. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment she thought he might stand up and walk away.

But then, slowly, carefully, Max reached out and took the hotdog from Natalie’s hands. Their fingers brushed for a second, and he flinched, just barely, but didn’t let go.

Natalie smiled, relieved. “See? Not poisoned.”He didn’t smile back, but he didn’t scowl either. Which felt like progress.

Natalie sat down beside him in the grass, close enough to be friendly but not enough to crowd him. Her knees brushed against a dandelion, and she plucked it absentmindedly as he stared down at the food like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“You can eat,” Natalie raised a brow, glancing sideways at him. “I told you it wasn’t poisonous.”

She watched with quiet curiosity as Max slowly unwrapped the hotdog in his lap. His tiny fingers moved carefully, like he was afraid of tearing the paper wrong, or maybe just buying time. Then, without saying a word, he tore the hotdog in half. He glanced sideways at her, a little shy, then held one half out in her direction.

She didn’t move at first, too surprised to. “Huh? You can have it,” Natalie said softly. “It was for you.”

Max shrugged, still holding it out. He didn’t explain, and Natalie didn’t push him. Eventually, she took it from his hand, their fingers brushing again for the briefest second. It wasn’t a big piece, but her stomach was grateful anyway. She hadn’t even realized how hungry she still was.

With a smirk, she took an overly dramatic bite, exaggerating the chew and letting out a satisfied “Mmm” that made Max’s lips twitch. Then he giggled. Just a little, barely more than a breath. Natalie tried not to make a big deal out of it, but it made her grin widen.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he finally brought his half to his mouth and took a small, cautious bite, like he was waiting to make sure it wouldn’t disappear before he could finish it.

“Natalie,” she spoke after a moment, pointing to herself. “I’m Natalie.”

Max tilted his head, swallowed his bite, and echoed, “Nah-lee?”

“Close enough,” she smiled.

He paused, then pointed to himself. “Max.”

“I know,” she shook her head, and then laughed softly. “You’re very fast.”

Max blinked, surprised by the compliment. His face shifted a little. It was less guarded, and more curious.

“You too,” he acknowledged, the words slow and thick with what she realized was a Dutch accent. “Very fast.”

Natalie nodded, chewing the last bit of her food. She liked the way he said it. His voice sounded better now, separated from the fright of his father.

They didn’t talk much after that. There wasn’t really a need to. They sat there in the grass, the firelight from the camps scattered around the grounds casting flickers of gold across Max’s face as he ate quietly beside her.

When they finished, Natalie stood, brushing crumbs from her knees. Max looked up at her unsure.

She reached out and took the crumpled kitchen roll from his lap, combining it with hers in one hand. Max blinked at her, clearly surprised, but didn’t argue. Just folded his hands awkwardly in his lap.

“Uhm… Bye,” Natalie offered him a little wave and a small smile.

Max hesitated, then returned it with the same tiny wave. “Bye.”

And just like that, Natalie turned and walked back toward her motorhome, toward the warm hum of her father’s voice and the quiet comfort of knowing she was loved. Never realizing that for Max, that hotdog and that five minutes of peace might be the kindest thing anyone had done for him in months.

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

10 Writing Exercises

Keep a journal. One fundamental way to become a better writer is to practice daily writing in a journal. Setting a daily writing time can help you get into the consistent habit of writing and help you push through writer’s block. Freewriting can also turn into blogging and eventually lead to published pieces. The best way to confront the blank page is to keep writing with regularity.

Choose a setting. If you’re having trouble getting started on a piece of writing or want to practice with a writing exercise, choose a location and structure a story around it. Choose someplace with which you have familiarity or are able to thoroughly research.

Describe a real person. One way to get the creative juices flowing and practice writing character development is to freewrite about a real person. This could be anyone in your life: an ex-boyfriend, a former English teacher, or even your younger self. This is a great way to strengthen your powers of description.

Write a series of first sentences. A fun writing activity for your practice sessions is to seek out or create your own prompt sentences that you can use to start a piece of writing. Using a good creative writing prompt can be a fun writing activity that gets you out of your head and helps you put your thoughts onto the page.

Join a writing workshop. Seeking out writing courses can be a great way to meet fellow writers and get a step-by-step approach to the writing process from a teacher you trust. A writing instruction course or workshop is often a more informal group of writers who trade things they’ve written and give suggestions and feedback. A writing class often has a lesson plan with distinct writing lessons that will give you a chance to practice different writing techniques. Teachers of a writing class might give a writing assignment between classes in order to help you develop a specific skill.

Break down your favorite pieces of writing. One good way to develop your own style and learn about the writing process is to analyze a written work that you admire. Look for books or essays by a great writer whose style you would like to emulate and do an in-depth close reading. For instance, if you like Ernest Hemingway, take some time to read The Sun Also Rises while paying close attention to story structure, diction, and stylistic choices.

Write an outline without feeling the pressure to use it. A tip for first-time writers is to spend time outlining and pre-writing ideas without committing to turning them into fully-fledged written works. This practice exercise applies across genres, whether you’re writing a novel or starting out in essay writing.

Edit something you’ve set aside for a while. The best writers never speed through the editing and revising stage on a writing project. First drafts are meant to be revised and it’s important to put the time into editing your work in order to produce something worth reading. Dig up something you haven’t worked on in a while, and practice editing it. Note how your writing sensibilities have changed over time.

Experiment with different genres. Just because you have more experience or familiarity with a particular type of writing doesn’t mean you shouldn’t experiment in other genres. A great way to develop your own writing and gain practical know-how is to dabble in something out of your comfort zone. Fashion bloggers might try writing short stories and novelists might try their hand at business writing.

Brush up on the rules. Studying grammatical rules and stylistic guidelines can be a great way to spend your time during a writing practice session. Even if you feel that you know grammar inside and out, a little refresher will improve your writing and make you more confident.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[eowynstwin]

NSFW Alphabet — Valeria “El Sin Nombre” Garza

Pairing: Valeria “El Sin Nombre” Garza x f!Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings: femdom. knifeplay mention. cucking fantasy. MEAN MEAN MEAN Valeria. Can be interpreted as lesbian Valeria if you like!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

One of the rare times that you get to see the soft inner world of Valeria Garza is after she’s rocked yours. She is the dominant, active partner in your relationship, through and through, but no one under the kind of pressure she is can go without some sort of relief. So when you’ve come down from the highs she’s brought you to, Valeria is curling up against you, stroking your face with tender, soft fingers, whispering in mingled Spanish and English that you’re the only person on the face of the earth that really matters to her.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Valeria is very proud of her looks from top to bottom. She knows she’s hot as fuck, knows it only takes a quirk of her brow and a twitch of her lips to have men and women alike falling over themselves for her favor. If she had to choose a feature specifically, she’d choose her hips. She’s proud that she takes up space, proud that her femininity has more power than all of the men under her command combined.

On you, she’s actually quite partial to your belly, breasts, and thighs—all of the softest parts of you drive her wild. The way her hands sink into you, the softness of all that delicate skin? If she doesn’t have a hand on you at any given moment, she’s thinking about how soon she can.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

A personal goal of hers, when your sexual relationship begins, is to figure out how to make you squirt. She’s very methodical about it, which is deeply unfair, because her experimentation with your body has you writhing and whimpering at the ends of her fingers while she, by comparison, doesn’t look affected at all.

Of course, that’s not true—you learn her expressions at the same time that she learns yours, and you know how to recognize as time goes on the flex of her brows and the angle of her chin as signals of her own arousal. When she finally accomplishes her goal—when you soak her arm to the elbow as you scream her name—she’ll carry around the high of that pride for a month. And use your wetness as lube to go again immediately after.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Valeria has no dirty secrets. She is not shy to express anything she wants of you, at any time. Every notion of shame she ever possessed, she crushed years ago, and she trains it out of you, too—she wants you open and naked in every possible way with her, eager to tell her what you want, eager to hear her own desires.

Is what she’d tell you.

In truth, there are things El Sin Nombre keeps so close to the chest that they live behind her sternum. She thinks of white dresses, of gilt-draped mariachis, of thirteen solid gold arras piling up in your cupped hands. She thinks of hands linked together and lazy walks along the beach, gentle waves lapping at your feet. She thinks of waking up beside you with nothing to do other than to admire you.

She’s already sized the rings. You will know none of this for a long, long time.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Valeria has a wealth of experience. She has always been charismatic, confident in what she wants out of life and not afraid to seize it by any means necessary. And she has no reservations about utilizing that experience in your shared bedroom, no circumspection about showing off for you. Knowing that she can wreck you like none other, and knowing that you know that, is a high she can’t get anywhere else.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any position in which Valeria has you at her mercy is her favorite one. You tied up, a vibrator taped to your thigh, while she sits casually across the room with a remote in one hand and tequila in the other? The best kind of night, for her. Rarely does El Sin Nombre enjoy handing control over to someone else, even someone she trusts as much as you.

That doesn't mean she isn't fond of an old-fashioned scissoring, however. It simply depends on what mood strikes her in the moment.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous?)

MEAN. Valeria is mean. She learns you very quickly, learns the razor-thin line between good hurt and bad hurt, and loves to get right up to the edge of that line as often as she can. She can't help it—she loves your little helpless whimpering and crying, and will merely lick your tears off your face and give your abused nipple a twist. She's enjoying herself very much, and you'll be able to admit later that you are, too.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

Valeria strikes me as someone with a landing strip. Perfect way to show you exactly where she wants your mouth to be.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Part of the reason Valeria likes to overstimulate you so much is because it keeps you from seeing, she thinks, the real depths of her feelings for you. She thinks that if you could look into her eyes properly as she fucks you, then you would know exactly how much of her is yours, and she's not willing to hand over that much power to you. (It doesn't work, of course. She treats you too gently afterwords for someone who wants to hide her love so badly.)

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

She's always so busy. Keeping her empire under control does not keep her stress levels manageable, and so she will go long stretches between moments of self-pleasure. Then, when you enter the picture, she doesn't need to do it by herself; she's got a pretty little thing like you to boss around, upon whom to take out her various frustrations. Her lieutenants will gossip that her mood has much improved once she's taken you under her wing (NEVER within her earshot, of course.)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

She really enjoys the roleplay of cucking her aforementioned lieutenants. A young queer Valeria grew up watching the girls she was hopelessly in love with go for boys she felt nothing but loathing for, and the sum total of those experiences wrote themselves indelibly upon her sexual psyche.

You, in virginal white or cream lingerie, supposedly waiting for Diego in the guest bedroom of Valeria's house. Her entering. Not leaving when she sees you, and cornering you. Eventually she winds you up into a confession--you love Valeria, you've always loved Valeria, you just didn't even think she could feel the same. Then she shuts you up with a brutal kiss and hungry hands forcing themselves underneath your bra.

She's especially sweet to you after, on those nights that you indulge her.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

She's never opposed to a bed, but the many plush couches in her lavish estate have a novelty to them that never wears off. Having sex in the living rooms of her house feels joyful and open, absolutely refusing to hide away from a world that still struggles to accept her, and it provides a pleasure that is heady and rich and addictive. She likes to fuck you on her couch and make you something to drink after, a dry bar or the kitchen only a few steps away.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Moments in which you show Valeria genuine and open affection plant seeds low in her belly. The touch of your hand to hers, a kiss to her shoulder, your soft caress through her hair. You could, also, be dressing up for her enjoyment, doing sweet little spins in pretty dresses that she buys you. Signs that you're happy, that she makes you happy, make her want you with a power that she works hard to hide.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Valeria has few qualms in the bedroom. If you need her to paddle you, she will. If you need her to slap you around, hold you to her pussy by the hair while she sneers at you for being a needy little whore, she will. She is happy to use clamps, chains, whips, and even knives on you to great effect, but the one thing she will not bring into the bedroom is her gun. She will not take even the slightest risk that someone sneaks a bullet into the chamber outside her line of sight.

Also, she will shut down conversations about her work and your possible participation in it. She's keeping you safe, querida, the filthiness of running an empire is hers to deal with. It is not allowed to touch you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill)

Giving for Valeria is so. much. fun. Especially in conjunction with her cucking fantasy. And she's sooo good at it too, the kind of lover who pays so much attention to your body language and reactions. She almost never has to ask things like "is this good" once she's had you a few times. She already knows. I think she likes to give and receive in equal measures, though; the thought of your head moving and bobbing between her thighs gets her through even her hardest days.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

It all depends on context. A romantic night in is meant to be savored; she will drag out the seduction and the pleasure she promises agonizingly slowly. However, if she’s trying to make a point, she’ll work you up faster than you can keep up with, and leave you dizzy with how quickly she can make you come. Usually this happens when she’s worked up, herself, angry about something from her work and needing to let off steam.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If it were up to her, you’d be at her side at all times, on call all day, available every moment she wants you, your mouth, your fingers, or your pussy. Brief little five minute diversions to take the edge off. She likes the idea of keeping you on a leash for this, something velvet and studded with diamonds.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

With your safety? Never. With getting caught? Absolutely. To be more specific, Valeria doesn’t give a single shit if everyone knows what’s happening behind the door she’s closed after pulling you into it. This is her empire, and she’ll do whatever she damn well pleases in it. No one gets to see, but everyone should know: Valeria’s got a soft, sweet little thing who sings for her and her alone. Even when she makes it hurt.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

As long as you wanna go, querida. She knows you’re a spoiled little brat. She made you that way. You can have her mouth, her fingers, whatever cock you choose from her frighteningly diverse collection of them. Just be careful what you wish for. You might end up satisfied long before she is, and she will get what she wants from you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or on themself?)

Valeria collects sex toys like old white men collect baseball cards. Funny enough, the evenings in which the two of you experiment with whatever new contraption she’s bought turn out to be some of the most playful, innocent nights you spend together. She’ll have food delivered; you’ll share a bottle of liquor between you, eschewing the crystal glasses she’s got displayed somewhere near by. Valeria rarely giggles, but when you’re both trying to figure out what goes where and how many times you have to press a button and dios mio why is it shaped like that, she’ll laugh like the world has never once rested on her shoulders.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Valeria is synonymous with unfair. Why should she give you what you want, when it’s so easy to make you come, hmm? You can wait. She’s enjoying herself.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

Not loud at all, actually. In the throes of pleasure, Valeria’s moans are low, breathy, like she’s trying to hide them. This is your chance; murmur to her about how beautiful she looks, about how much you crave her when she’s away. Listen as those moans sharpen, heighten into quick, stabbing whimpers, as if she’s relaxing just enough not to think about how much noise she’s making. She’ll almost never scream for you, but every noise you can draw from her inscribes itself in your memory as if chiseled into stone.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Valeria’s into men the same way a vegetarian might be into burgers. She tried them, she liked them, and she doesn’t blame others for partaking. She’s just found that not only can she live without them, but she actively prefers her other options. If you like men, she sincerely enjoys indulging your crushes; she finds that she enjoys them more through you than anything else. Just remember—you belong to her.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

There’s no denying it; Valeria is fit. Gringa gymfluencers wish they could be her. A narrow waist, flared hips, the best fucking ass in Las Almas; if she bothered with instagram, her thirst traps would go viral every time. But more than this, Valeria is sturdy. You can pick out the individual muscle groups in her back every time she stretches her shoulders, the swell of her biceps when she curls her arms. She doesn’t quite have the height to manhandle you properly, but she can certainly hold you down if you start squirming more than she likes. Her grip strength is also something to behold; she only needs to cup your throat in one hand to remind you of it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

She’d have you every day if she could. Barring exhaustion or distraction, she always wants you. Every thought of you she has is woven through with thread of pure want, like a sweet tooth aching to be sated.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Honestly, Valeria couldn't sleep if she tried. When you fall asleep, she watches you, tracing the planes of your face with a gaze more tender than you will ever see. Valeria’s world is cruel and bloody; there is not a single soul she works with that isn’t eager to see her fall, to take her place. She can’t miss a single step. She can’t make one mistake. Her existence is balanced on a knife’s edge, every single day.

But when she looks at you, she forgets. Maybe only briefly, in the space between heartbeats. But she does, and in those tiny spaces she can think about the rings she has hidden away, the dress she’s going to buy you, the villa in Spain waiting for you to light it up together. This is why she wants you so badly; why you are the only goddamn person on this earth who matters to her. She is not El Sin Nombre with you; she is just Valeria, deeply in love, and—for once in her life—at peace.

[carnalcrows]

YANDERE ROCKSTAR

☆ name: Ryu Jiho (류지호 | 柳智昊) → “Wise and Brilliant Willow”

☆ ethnicity : Korean

☆ age : 19

☆ gender : Male

☆ mbti : ENFP

☆ his story : [click below to proceed]

From the moment he picked up a guitar at age ten, music became his escape. His talent was undeniable, and by the time he was seventeen, he had joined one of Korea’s rising rock bands as their lead guitarist. Fame came fast, but so did pressure. His father, once a promising musician himself, had abandoned music after a tragic accident—one that nearly took the life of his younger brother. When he was fourteen, a reckless drunk driver crashed into their family’s car. He survived with minor injuries, but his younger brother was left severely injured and in a coma for months. The guilt of not being able to protect him has haunted him ever since.

Now, at 19, he is balancing college and international fame, all while carrying the weight of his past. Though he appears cool and distant at first, those who break through his icy exterior find a fiercely loyal friend with a heart of gold. His PTSD manifests in subtle ways—flinching at sudden loud noises, avoiding car rides whenever possible, and gripping his guitar like a lifeline during anxiety episodes. But he never talks about it. He refuses to be seen as weak.

☆ appearance:

Dyed blonde hair, usually messy from long nights of rehearsals

Deep-set dark brown eyes that seem unreadable until he smiles—then they light up

6'1", lean but toned from constant performances

Always wears glasses or contacts (his vision is terrible)

A silver ring on his right hand, a gift from his younger brother

Black nail polish on his right hand, a personal quirk that started as a joke but stuck

☆ personality:

Has the ultimate resting bitch face—people assume he’s cold, but he’s just lost in thought

The definition of a golden retriever after you get past his initial standoffishness

Protective of his bandmates and fiercely loyal to those he loves

Hates conflict but will throw hands if someone messes with his younger brother

Struggles with expressing emotions—he prefers to let his guitar do the talking

Hides his pain behind sarcastic jokes and witty comebacks

Loves small, meaningful gestures over big dramatic ones

☆ with a lover:

The type to pretend he’s chill but is actually a hopeless romantic

Writes songs about his feelings but will never admit who they’re about

If he likes someone, he teases them mercilessly but will also drop everything if they need him

Physical affection makes him shy at first, but once he’s comfortable? Good luck getting him to let go

Protective but not possessive—he trusts fully but will glare at anyone he deems suspicious

Remembers the little things—favorite drinks, random stories, the exact way they laugh

☆ strengths:

Unbelievably talented guitarist—he can make a song sound like it’s speaking

Creative and quick-witted, always coming up with ideas for the band

Surprisingly responsible despite his chaotic tendencies

Amazing at comforting others, even if he can’t do the same for himself

Can learn a song by ear ridiculously fast

☆ weaknesses:

Terrible at asking for help—bottles up everything until he crashes

PTSD triggers he refuses to acknowledge (sudden crashes, flashing lights, sirens)

Reckless when it comes to pushing himself—he will practice for hours without eating

Has a bad habit of shutting people out when he’s overwhelmed

Avoids car rides, sometimes even taking absurdly long routes just to avoid them

☆ relationships:

Younger Brother: His world. He’d drop everything for him without hesitation.

Bandmates: His second family. He acts like he’s the responsible one, but they all know he’s a mess.

Fans: Loves them but gets flustered when they compliment him too much.

Professors: They either love him for his talent or hate him for always being late.

Love Interest: Good luck breaking through his walls, but once you do? He’s all in.

☆ extra:

Fluent in Korean, English, and basic Japanese for interviews

Loves bubble tea but refuses to admit it’s his comfort drink as it’ll make him look basic

Collects guitar picks from every country he visits

Low-key terrified of dogs despite acting like a golden retriever himself

Secretly has a soft spot for romantic movies but pretends they’re “for research”