#unconventional study methods | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strangererotica · 6 months ago

Text

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Art the Clown x Reader SMUT • headcanons, how Art fucks, what he gets off to, etc

big content warning! contains some stuff that may gross you out; read at your own risk: menstruation kink, piss kink, oral sex, anal sex, object insertion, blood kink, various weapons mentioned, bondage, human hair and bones, butts and what comes out of butts, public sex, cockwarming, mostly dom!Art and sub!reader

🔪 Remember the work desk with all of Art’s weapons and tools on it? He knows you want him to fuck you, but he’s got shit to do (meaning weapons to build) so he lets you sit under the desk, cockwarming him while he works. You’re on the ground between his knees, patiently holding him in your mouth. When he finishes constructing his latest instrument of torture/slaughter, Art pats his palm against his thigh, wordlessly telling you to climb up into his lap and ride him.🩸

🔪 Art enjoys blood and guts, so it goes without saying that during your period, he’s particularly eager to fuck you. He can detect the slight change in your scent, usually aware you’ve begun to bleed even before you know. He plays with your pussy like it’s a new, special toy when you’re bleeding, spreading your lips and tracing his name on your inner thighs in red. Seeing/touching/tasting blood that comes from you is special to Art. It’s the only time he gets to play in blood without it being the result of him hurting someone, so that makes the experience unique for him. He saves your used pads for ‘alone time,’ using them later as a ‘sleeve,’ to masturbate with.🩸

🔪 Art sometimes fucks you with unconventional objects, like the handle of one of his weapons (knife, axe) or the neck of a bottle. If you’ve displeased him but he still wants to fuck you, he might deny you his cock and instead use something else, like the handle of one of his knives or the barrel of an (empty!) gun, to make you come instead of his cock, as a degrading ‘punishment.’🩸

🔪 Art loves bondage. He knows what he’s doing when it comes to tying knots, as evidenced by the multiple victims you’ve watched him restrain. He enjoys the power dynamic of being in absolute control of another person. When that crosses over into sex, you both get off on him tying you up and doing whatever the fuck he wants with your body.🩸

🔪 Art’s methods can border on sadistic at times (I mean how could they not??) but because he wants to keep you around to play with for the long haul, he never pushes you beyond the limits of safety, no matter how many new ways he comes up with to plug every hole in your body. If we know anything about Art, it’s that he’s perceptive. He studies the way your body responds to different forms of stimulation and mentally catalogs the information for later. All of his skill in crafting tools of torture means he’s able to create customized ‘toys,’ to fuck you with. But the thing is, they’re never normal, or sweet; they always contain something fucked-up and sick. Art once surprised you with a whip he’d put together for you. Its strands were soft and felt so good gliding over your clit. You came so hard when Art whipped your pussy till it was puffy and leaking. It would have been a wonderful gift, if you hadn’t realized later, upon closer inspection, that the strands now wet with your cum were in fact strands of human hair. And the custom dildo Art made for you, the one that was so smooth and colored beige/white? You later found out Art had chiseled and smoothed down a human bone to make it for you. The information almost made you sick on the spot. Art found your horrified reaction hilarious, of course, and it didn’t stop him from laying you down and fucking you with it all the same…🩸

🔪 ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL …

He loves to fuck you in the ass. Art’s a nasty little motherfucker when it comes to the stuff that comes out of butts, and I’m not gonna elaborate here, but you can use your imagination to follow where I’m going with this…🩸

🔪 Art has zero inhibitions: he kills anyone, anywhere. Imagine that relating to sex; of course he’s going to fuck you wherever he wants, including places where you might get caught. Sex in public/risky spaces feels natural to Art, because he literally does not give a single fuck. Remember the first time you ever saw him? When you stumbled out the back door of that sleazy little bar in your home town, so drunk off your ass you thought you were leaving through the front? Art was in the alleyway behind the bar, black garbage bag hoisted over his shoulder, not even looking for anyone to fuck up but when he saw you, he knew he’d found a victim for the night. He’d planned to stalk you home and do unspeakable things to you-but as you took the lead and approached him, there in the alleyway, he was caught off guard, his whole plan upended the moment you slid your arms around his waist, stood up on your tiptoes, and placed a soft, sloppy kiss on his cheek. He was awestruck, and even if he could speak, Art would still have been at a loss for words. You walked him backward a few steps, lining him up against a dumpster in the alleyway. You began fondling him through his costume, grinning when you realized his body had already begun to respond. One thing led to another, and within minutes, Art had you bent over that dumpster, with a fresh hole torn in the front of his costume where your bodies were joined…🩸

🔪 No one would associate The Miles County Clown with tenderness, but if they knew Art, they would see a softer side of him only you do. He’s still fucking deranged, don’t get me wrong. But Art also has moments of vulnerability, when there’s nothing he wants more than to hold you. Sitting in Art’s lap, he wraps his arms around you and stays still, so still, just enjoying the soft thump of your heartbeat against his, and the low hum of your breath on his chest. Your nearness calms the monster inside Art so well that sometimes, he forgets he is the monster itself…🩸

🔪 Another benefit of having you in his lap? Art realized he could use his strength to make you stay in his lap no matter how badly you had to get up and take a piss, forcing you to wet yourself all over him. You felt him gradually getting hard under you as you began to wriggle on his lap. Art could see your discomfort, and when you told him you needed to get up and take a piss, he refused to release you. You’d expect him to be smiling at you at a time like this, silently mocking you; but the look in his eyes was deathly serious, pitch black and full of a demented lust that would have had you locked you in place even if his arms hadn’t. Blushing into his shoulder, you accepted the fact that Art wasn’t letting go of you any time soon, and that he really was into this. He wanted this to happen. You allowed your bladder to empty, a soft trickle saturating your panties, followed by a steady stream of hot piss that spread over Art’s lap. His clothes were soaked through below the waist, your piss running down between his thighs and dampening the couch cushion beneath you. Art was rock hard by this point, his wet cock throbbing against your pussy. He lifted you off his lap just enough to reach between your bodies and position his tip against your entrance, then used your piss as a lube to slide inside you…🩸

1K notes · View notes

studyandsteep · 3 months ago

Text

don't want to study? try staring at a wall first

(unconventional study tips, part 3) - check out the full series here!

if you don't want to start studying, stare at the wall until you've grown sufficiently bored. then, get started on your homework or studying- you'll be bored enough that anything in comparison sounds fun enough.

this "wall-gazing" method of study gives your brain the chance to decompress and start focusing, making you more alert in your studying.

no, seriously. promise y'all it actually works it's insane

446 notes · View notes

sematarygirls · 7 months ago

Text

BOYFRIEND!RAFE x ACADEMIC!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ fem!reader, unconventional study methods, fingering, lots of talking, facts about the nervous system

NOTES .ᐟ boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe. this came to me while i was tediously taking notes for my psych class and wishing that i had a sexy rafe cameron in my bed.

You sat comfortably on your boyfriend's bed, your back pressed against his chest as you typed away on your computer, taking notes for your psychology class. His chin rested on your shoulder as he peered at the screen, reading a bunch of words he didn't quite understand while his hand rested on your thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles.

"What are you doing?" He hummed, his fingers dancing slightly higher. He knew what you were doing, but he wanted to hear you say it. He loved how excited you got and how you rambled on and on when you were telling him something you were passionate about. If he was being honest, it was kind of a major turn on.

"I've got a test tomorrow on the biological bases of behavior, so I'm just refreshing my memory on the endocrine and nervous systems," you explained, too focused on your notes to register that his touch was slowly sliding closer and closer to your clothed core.

"Oh, yeah?" He murmured, dipping his head down, his lips brushing against your skin as he began to pepper soft, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His hand continued upwards, his fingers lightly brushing you over your already damp underwear. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Rafe," you gasped softly, biting your lip. You tilted your head to the side, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to find your resolve and tell him to stop, but you couldn't help the way your legs parted for him. "I told you I have to study."

"You are studying. Cmon, tell me all about the nervous system while I touch you, baby. You can do both," he coaxed you, his long fingers expertly pulling your panties to the side and running along your wet folds. "Tell me everything that's in that beautiful brain of yours."

You let out a breathy moan, your breathing quickening as your head fell back against his shoulder. You racked your brain for any piece of information, his touch making your mind go blank. "The brain is um-" you drew in a sharp breath as his thumb nudged your clit. "The exterior brain structures are the cerebral cortex, cereb-bellum, occipital lobe, temporal lobe, frontal lobe, and parietal lobe," you managed to say.

"Mmhmm, and what about the interior?" He prompted, his fingers slowly pushing inside of you. "Tell me every little detail, baby. I wanna know everything." His voice was low and husky as he encouraged you to keep going, his breath hot against your skin.

"Rafe," you moaned, your lips parting in pleasure as his fingers worked expertly inside you. You couldn't focus when you could feel his long fingers dragging against your tight walls.

"Cmon, my smart girl," he cooed, his other hand snaking around your waist and splaying his large hand across your stomach to keep you in place. "You know it. I know you do." He continued drawing his fingers in and out of you as his thumb rubbed your puffy clit firmly.

You did know it. You'd even forced Rafe to help you make stupid flashcards, so you could memorize the parts and all their functions. But, he had a way of making you forget everything and turning your brain to mush when he had his hands on you.

Your voice was shaky and breathless as you spoke, feeling your orgasm building low in your stomach. "The interior brain structures are the-the amygdala, hippocampus, medulla oblongata-" you gasped, your back arching into his touch when his fingers hit that spot inside you that had you practically seeing stars. You hesitantly kept going, trying to focus because knowing Rafe, if you stopped, he would too. "P-pituitary gland, thalamus, basal ganglia, hypothalamus, midbrain, and pons." You were pretty impressed with yourself that you managed to remember all that while your boyfriend was knuckle deep inside your dripping cunt.

He groaned, feeling himself grow harder as he listened to your breathy voice tell him all about your studies. "You're so fuckin' smart," he found that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking gently. "My brilliant girl."

Your walls fluttered around his fingers at his praising words. He was always so interested in what you had to say, never dismissing you or brushing you off when you started rambling aimlessly and throwing random facts his way. He listened intently, showing genuine interest that made you feel so loved and seen.

"Keep going, baby," he rasped, his fingers speeding up in a way that had you gripping his bicep—needing something, anything to keep you present. "What do all those big words do, hm?"

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Well, the um- the hypothalamus controls the pituitary gland, which releases hormones that regulate bodily functions," you explained, smiling softly at how fitting that fact seemed to be.

"Mm, like the hormones that are rushing through your veins right now, making you all hot and bothered for me?" He asked, his voice low and taunting, his teeth lightly nipping at your neck. He pushed his fingers deeper, curving them up to hit that spot that always made your legs shake.

"Uh huh," you moaned, your nails sinking into his bicep through the soft material of his sweater. His fingers curling inside you as his thumb continued swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge.

He hummed against your skin, his tongue laving over the spot where his teeth had marked you. "Cmon, pretty girl," he whispered, feeling your body tense up. "You did so good. Let me feel you come apart on my fingers."

Your eyes fluttered shut, back arching into his touch as his words sent you over the edge. A whimper of his name fell past your parted lips amongst a sea of soft moans as you came, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers while he continued to drag them in and out of you, prolonging your high.

He groaned as he felt your velvety walls flutter and squeeze around his fingers, your sweet cries of his name spurring him on. He worked you through it, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit until you were a boneless, panting mess in his arms.

He peppered kisses along your jaw as he carefully pulled away from your weeping core. "Who knew you could make biology sound so sexy,"

"Technically, it's psychology," you corrected him, chest heaving. You turned your head to look at him as he brought his fingers to his lips, sucking your release off of them with a low groan. You bit your lips at the sight, his lips glistening as he pulled his fingers back.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he flashed you a grin before leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

You moaned softly into his mouth, reluctantly pulling back after a moment. "If you keep distracting me, I'm never going to finish."

"Hm, that's weird because I'm pretty sure you just did," he hummed, feigning confusion as a cocky smirk tugged at his lips.

"Oh, shut up," you laughed, feeling your cheeks heat up at his innuendo. His hand slid up your arm, tracing soft shapes on your bare skin. You looked up at him, seeing the way his pupils dilated and feeling the evidence of arousal digging into you from behind. "Five more minutes and then I'm all yours, deal?" You raised a brow. You figured you had studied enough over the last couple days, and your oh so patient boyfriend deserved some of your attention.

A sly grin settled on his lips. "Deal, but don't think that I'll be keeping my hands to myself during these five minutes," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

You turned back to your computer, giggling as he dipped his head back into your neck, already kissing and sucking at your delicate skin. His hands started to roam your body, and as you tried to focus, you found yourself wondering if you would make it five minutes before you surrendered to him.

842 notes · View notes

22ayla21 · 1 month ago

Text

When Discipline Meets Chaos

The arrival of a new teacher at Night Raven College brought a lot of chaos among the students who already adored their new teacher, but Divus was not particularly happy about it.

Rumors of a new teacher at Night Raven College spread like wildfire. Not that Divus Crewel cared about gossip, but when even his class, known for respecting (or at least fearing) him, was talking excitedly about some “cool and fun” teacher, he couldn’t ignore it.

She had appeared unexpectedly, bursting into the teaching staff as easily as she had entered a classroom, bringing with her an atmosphere of freedom and ease. Crewel immediately realized: she was the type of teacher he couldn’t stand.

In her classes, no one sat at attention, afraid to breathe once more. The students laughed, felt comfortable, but, most outrageously, they actually studied.

- So, hacks, are you ready for the test?

- Yes...

- But to be honest?

- Not quite...

- Another thing.

Divus literally felt his authority cracking at the seams. His methods were iron discipline, strict control and unquestioning respect. And here - the complete opposite.

One day, walking down the corridor, Crewel heard a conversation and immediately tensed up.

- Are you finishing your Potions assignment right in class? - the new teacher's voice was light, but there was a subtle condemnation in it.

- And if Professor Crewel finds out? - his friend asked him warily.

- He won't find out.

- I see, we'll write it down as suicide.

Anger flared up instantly.

- Amazing, - Divus' cold voice cut through the air. - Now the students are discussing how to hide their laziness from me?

The students immediately fell silent, but his colleague only raised an eyebrow, not even trying to look embarrassed.

- Just a statement of fact, Professor Crewel, - she replied with an innocent smile. Her tone, her manner, her look - all of it irritated him. But what irritated him even more was that he liked it.

From that moment on, a silent rivalry began between them.

Crewel could not pass by if he heard his class discussing her "unconventional methods."

- Yesterday she made us argue about magical theories! - one of the students said admiringly. - And, you know, I actually remembered the material!

- Professor, why are our lessons so... strict? - one of his students once dared to ask.

- Because discipline is the basis of success, - he snapped, but irritation was already boiling inside.

Every conversation with the new teacher was a fight.

- Students learn because they are interested, not because they are intimidated, - she once said, folding her arms across her chest.

- They learn because they know the value of discipline, - he retorted.

- Really? Don't you think that fear and respect are different things?

- Don't you think that excessive freedom leads to negligence?

- No, I don’t think students are machines that have to work on someone’s orders.

It was at moments like these that he realized that she was the only person in this college who didn’t bow to his authority.

And it angered him. And he liked it.

And then everything changed one evening when, out of habit, he lingered in his office and heard a familiar voice behind the door.

She was talking to one of the students, and there was no trace of severity in her voice, only softness and lightness, but at the same time unshakable confidence.

- You think you can’t cope? Nonsense. Everyone learns at their own pace. If knowledge came easily, it wouldn’t be so valuable.

Silence.

- I didn’t learn everything at once either. Once…

Divus didn’t hear the rest. He just stood in the darkness of the corridor, realizing that his irritation had never been real irritation.

It was affection. He had fallen in love. But he'll never admit it.

Unless one day, when she challenges him again, he smiles a little softer than usual. And that will be the start of something new.

#twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #divus crewel #divus crewel x reader

163 notes · View notes

dirtyvulture · 1 year ago

Text

Envy and Venom - Part 2

Heiress!Natasha Romanoff x CEO!Beefy!Fem!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You are the notorious playboy who just inherited one of the biggest tech companies in the world. Your first move? Sleeping with the heiress of your rival company.

Word count: 4911

AN: Didn't think I'd write this, but the opportunity was too good to let pass. :)

Click here for Part 1!

DAY 2

“I can’t believe you,” Tony says, watching as you anxiously like a caged animal. “I mean, I can, because Romanoff is smoking hot, but really? On your first day?”

“I didn’t know who she was!” you snap, your stomach churning in knots. You hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, even ignoring the hot black coffee your secretary Wanda had waiting for you like usual when you arrived to the office.

“Literally the daughter of the guy of our biggest rival,” Tony says, clearly only trying to make you feel worse than you already feel.

“I know who he is!” you bark, well familiar with Alexei Shostakov, the enormous, bearded and beer-bellied Russian who had once been on the board of directors at Envy Industries. Alexei was long gone from your dad’s company by the time you entered the scene, and at that point had formed Black Widow Corporation into a juggernaut. Word on the street was that Alexei used “unconventional methods” to stay ahead of competitors and now you wondered if you had fallen right into one of those traps.

“Why was Romanoff even at the party in the first place?” you ask.

“Why do you think?” Tony scoffs. “Daddy probably sent her to mess with you and no offense…but it worked.”

“We don’t know that,” you defend, although your gut is telling you that Tony is right.

“So, what did you tell her?” Tony asks, kicking his chair back to wobble on its hind legs.

“Nothing!” You sigh, your brain scrambling to remember your interaction with Natasha before you took her up to your suite. “Uh, I mean…I mentioned the contract we have with Tesla. But a bunch of other people probably overhead too, and that’s not exactly a secret anymore.”

“Mhmm, sure. Anything else?” Tony prompts.

“No. No, nothing else,” you say with an edge of uncertainty. “There wasn’t really much time for talking, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know you, you horndog.” He waves at you.

For once, you feel immensely guilty about not being able to control your behavior. This wouldn’t be the first time you had to face the consequences of the people you chose to take to bed with you, but none had been this jarring or dangerous. You feel used, even though you truly hadn’t revealed any company secrets to Natasha. Just the thought that she knew who you were, and wasn’t honest with you about herself, made your whole interaction with her feel slimy and fake. While you also knew it was ridiculous to think that you were in love with someone you just met, even you won’t deny there had been some kind of spark between you two, but perhaps it had all been manufactured.

You genuinely want to see Natasha again, hopefully in more honest circumstances, and not just purely for the physical pleasure of it. You knew she was one of the few women on Earth who truly understood your line of work. She didn’t need to pretend (or even study ahead) like some of the partners you had in the past. She was beautiful and smart and managed to turn you into a stuttering, whipped mess in less than ten minutes. No one else had ever been able to do that, and as humbling as it was, it was also hot as hell.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you ask, pulling at the suffocating collar of your shirt.

“First of all, don’t see her ever again,” Tony responds, and it sounds like he’s telling you you’re not allowed to breathe anymore.

“Fuck,” you grumble, because you know he’s right, but it won’t be that easy to just forget about Natasha.

“Seriously, Y/N,” Tony goes on. “You have a whole company to run now. Let the media say what they want, but promise me that you won’t be caught with that woman ever again.”

“Caught, you say?” you tease, knowing that he would always offer you a way out.

“I know you,” he repeats. “Besides, I heard she has a sister.”

You laugh, the tense mood lightening considerably. “Yeah, sure, I’ll put in a good word for you when I see her again.”

“You’re the best.” Tony stands up to give you a high-five.

***********************************************************************

Natasha hums to herself as she opens her laptop. She plugs in her headphones and boots up the application that is connected to the microphone she slipped into your jacket pocket. Over 12 hours of audio have already been recorded. Just out of curiosity, she scrolls to the first hour.

“Look how wet you are. You’ve been waiting for this all night, sweetheart?”

“Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Natasha feels her core light up with desire as she remembers the previous night with you. It had been a long time since she had been fucked so well and you certainly lived up to the hype. When she closes her eyes, she can still remember how your body had felt against hers, the way your muscles flexed in warning when you were about to finish but were waiting for her permission, the intoxicating taste that coated her tongue and had her (quite literally) demanding more and more from you.

“Hey, sestra.” Yelena walks in without knocking, and Natasha’s eyes snap open, tearing off her headphones and closing the audio application.

“What?” she growls, annoyed by the interruption.

Yelena smirks at her. “How was the party last night?”

“Good.”

Yelena doesn’t look convinced. “Did you see that TMZ article?”

“Anyone who relies on that hack as a legitimate source of information is just setting themselves up for disappointment.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” Yelena states, walking up to Natasha and showing her her phone.

New CEO of Envy Industries Y/N spotted getting cozy with Black Widow Corp. heiress Natasha Romanoff

Below the headline is a grainy photo of her almost sitting on your lap, both of your heads leaned close together.

“What’s your point?” Natasha asks, pushing Yelena’s phone away from her face.

“Did Dad approve of this?”

“What does his approval have to do with anything?” Natasha snaps. “I’m a grown woman, I can do whatever I want with whoever I want–”

“We’re not stupid, Natasha,” Yelena frowns. “And you aren’t either. You aren’t getting mixed up with just anyone, this is the CEO of Envy Industries–”

Natasha waves her hand. “Just stop, Yelena. I know what I’m doing, okay? And I’m the one who’s going to take over the company when Dad steps down, so I need to make sure that we are on top and stay that way.”

Yelena’s expression softens. “Just be careful, sestra. You don’t know what some of these people are capable of.”

“Like Y/N?” Natasha laughs. “She’s just a big rich idiot. I could steal her entire company right from under her nose and she’d just go fill her bed with Victoria’s Secret models and forget it by the next morning.”

“Please be careful, Nat,” Yelena begs. “Do not forget what happened last time–”

“That was in the past. I know better now,” Natasha dismisses, although the hair on the back of her neck rises at the memory. She had been too cocky, too arrogant, and nearly lost her life as a result. But she was certain that wouldn’t happen with you. She had you eating out of the palm of her hand even before the mind-blowing sex. You’d happily hand her the keys to Envy Industries if she promised you five minutes in bed.

“Don’t worry about me,” Natasha gruffs, turning back to her computer. “Close the door on your way out.”

Yelena doesn’t respond and backtracks. Natasha waits until she hears the click of her door to open the files on her flash drive that contains the data stolen from your systems. None of your files are even password-protected. Maybe your company was even more of a joke than she thought.

***********************************************************************

DAY 14

Tesla backs out of contract with Envy Industries, reportedly in talks with Black Widow Corporation for GPUs

DAY 15

Envy Industries (ENVY) stock drops 15%

Black Widow Corporation (BWC) stock up 10%

DAY 18

Tesla hires Black Widow Corporation to produce hardware for upcoming Model 2

DAY 24

Black Widow Corporation announces AI supercomputer project

DAY 30

Black Widow Corporation (BWC) joins the Magnificent Seven stocks, knocking Envy Industries (ENVY) out

“You need to fix this. Now.”

“I’m trying!” you practically sob, staring at the same headline on your computer that your father is looking at.

Your first 30 days as CEO had been an absolute whirlwind–of defeats. First, an intern at Tesla had called you to tell you the deal was off. And then to hear that they were taking up business with Black Widow Corporation was like a sucker punch to the gut. No one at your company could understand how Black Widow suddenly had the technology you’d been working on for months, but a nagging feeling in the back of your head told you that you were the only person who knew the answer.

But you couldn’t be one-hundred-percent sure. After all, you had spent one night with Natasha Romanoff, most of it in bed with her getting your brains fucked out. But she had left even before you woke up, and there was no way to confirm if she had managed to get her hands on the confidential information that your company was built upon.

Whatever had happened, Envy Industries was on a steady decline ever since you had taken over and it was not a good feeling. The stock prices were tanking and now you had lost your spot amongst the prized “Magnificent Seven”–also known as the seven highest-valued companies in the United States. It was embarrassing, shameful, and upsetting. The board of directors were having daily meetings about your leadership qualities and you were worried they would boot you from the position any day now. Your father still had some influence, despite stepping down, but with the way he was speaking to you now, you weren’t sure he was going to defend you anymore.

“I don’t care how Black Widow Corp got the intel. They have it now and we can’t get it back. You need to raise security protocols and if anyone is caught leaking information, they will be publicly humiliated and sued to kingdom come,” your dad rages through the phone.

“Yes, yes, I agree,” you say.

“You need to focus on recovering from this. What’s done is done. But if you let it get worse, there will be severe consequences. For the company, for its future, and for you.”

“Yes. Yes, Dad,” you gulp.

“Stop fucking around and get your shit together,” he says. “You have a reputation that precedes you and thousands of people are depending on you to see them through this. Envy will come back. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you repeat hollowly, not even convinced of your own words.

“Good girl. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay. Bye, Dad.” You hang up and put your phone face-down on your desk, staring once more at the headline. For the first time, you don’t feel sad, you feel angry. You want to lash out at something–someone. Preferably the person or persons who put you in this predicament. You didn’t deserve this. You hadn’t done anything wrong. But one thing was for certain: you weren’t going to mope around and let them continue to take advantage of you.

There’s a heavy knock on your door.

“Hey, Y/N. Ready for lunch?” It’s Tony.

“Sure. Give me a minute.” You whip your burgundy blazer off the back of your chair with more force than necessary; it gets twisted upside-down and something falls out of the pocket. You squat to pick it up. It’s a black, small, flat circular device that blinks red and there’s tiny little ridges in the center to indicate some kind of microphone.

What the hell is this? you think. You look back at your burgundy jacket. It’s the same one you were wearing the day you were made CEO, the night you met Natasha Romanoff. It wasn’t your most worn jacket, making the occasional appearance if you felt it complimented the rest of your outfit, but spending most of its time hanging in the front of your closet.

A disturbing thought enters your head. This little device couldn’t be what you thought it was, right? But you knew tech better than most people. And you knew that Black Widow Corporation had somehow gotten ahold of confidential information that was causing catastrophic damage to your company.

It takes all of five seconds to formulate a plan.

You slip the audio recorder back into your pocket and put your jacket on.

Two could play at this game.

“Hey, Tony. Where are we going for lunch?” you call out, trying to keep your voice flat and clear.

“The steakhouse!” But his voice is muffled through the door.

“The steakhouse? The one on 6th Avenue, right?” you ask.

“Unless you suddenly have a new favorite that’s not on 6th,” he grumbles.

“Nope, that’s fine. Let me go check on something in the lab and I’ll be ready.”

***********************************************************************

“What’s wrong with you? Did they get your order wrong?” Tony asks as you poke at the slab of beef on your plate.

“I’m just not really hungry,” you say. “You know, since our whole company is falling apart and everything.”

“Well, it’s still standing the last time I checked.” You appreciate how straightforward Tony is. Granted, he isn’t under the same kind of pressure as you, but you need someone who can be this cool under pressure in your life. “And I know you can’t be productive on an empty stomach. Should we order those crab legs you like?”

“No more food please,” you mumble, pushing your plate away from you. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Hurry back. Or I’ll order the whole appetizer menu!”

“Okay, whatever.” But you smile as you walk away from the table to the back. You look at your reflection in the gold gilded mirror, noticing the clear stress lines in your forehead, the darkness under your eyes, the way your cheeks are more hollowed in because you aren’t eating your usual 4,000 calories a day.

You rinse your hands in the sink and pat water on your face. You hear the door open behind you and your heart starts pounding faster. Had your plan worked?

“What’s wrong, honey?” Her voice snaps you to attention, velvety and seductive just like how you remember hearing it the first time. You turn to see Natasha Romanoff leaned against the wall, wearing a white blouse ready to burst at its buttons along with black slacks and towering heels. Her hair loosely bounces on her shoulders and her exposed wrists and neck are adorned with more jewelry than you can count.

“You,” you growl, striding over to her in three big steps and glaring down at her. “Are we adding stalker charges to your growing list of crimes now?”

“What are you talking about?” Natasha tilts her head to the side dumbly. “I’m here for lunch, just like you. A coincidence isn’t a crime–”

You pull the little audio device out of your pocket. Natasha’s eyes widen for a second before she quickly turns her expression into one of defiance, but she’s already given away her familiarity. “So this is how you’ve been stealing all of our ideas, huh?” you ask.

“You have no proof that came from me,” she objects.

“I guess not.” You toss the device to the floor and stomp on it so hard with your Gucci loafers that it crumbles with an audible crunch. “And now we’ll never know. But now you’ll have to leave alone for a little bit, right? You have to give us some time to come up with more ideas for you to steal–”

“It’s nothing personal,” Natasha insists. “Business is business, isn’t it?”

“Well, once you put my reputation at risk–” You move one step closer until your chests almost bump. “–My future at risk–” You lower your head until you’re practically breathing on her face. Natasha doesn’t shy away. In fact, you think you see a glint of triumph in her green eyes. “–It becomes very, very personal.”

The tension between you is so thick it’s suffocating. You refuse to break eye contact with Natasha, but you’re not even sure what your next move should be. You know that you should hate this woman, should be calling for her head and outing her to the media for the literal crimes she’s committed, but you also want her. She hadn’t left your mind since the day you met her and knowing that she had been spying on you this whole time was both infuriating and a little arousing.

Natasha suddenly grabs onto the front of your shirt, yanking you closer to her until your lips crash together. You hate that the contact makes you feel relief, and you wonder if part of your recent frustration can be attributed to the fact that all this time you were secretly yearning for the same woman who was responsible for ruining your life.

“Things between us are very, very personal,” Natasha whispers, her hands slipping under your shirt to scratch across your abdomen. The coldness of her skin makes you want to cringe away, but her fingers hook onto your belt to keep you from going too far.

“Did you get jealous listening to all the girls I was fucking?” you ask.

“No,” Natasha says, but her cheeks redden and you know she’s lying. “But none of them could make you moan the way I do.”

“I wished they were you,” you admit, panting against her forehead as she undoes your belt. “Which is a fucked up thing to say given what you’ve been doing to my company.”

“I’m very good at what I do, baby,” Natasha says, pressing another hot kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll make your life hell if you don’t stop fucking with my company,” you growl, but your threat is significantly undermined by the whimper you let out when her fingers trace down the V-line of your hips to your center.

“Would you rather I fuck you over your company?” she asks.

“Shit,” you gasp, unable to focus on her question when two fingers slip into you. You’re embarrassingly soaked for her, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had wet dreams of letting Natasha Romanoff fuck you ever since your first encounter. You fall back against the wall, panting as she pistons her fingers in and out of you. “Someone might walk in,” you warn, suddenly reminded about the forbiddenness of this relationship.

“I locked the door,” Natasha says, using her free hand to tug down the collar of your shirt so she can lick and kiss the skin of your neck. You bite on your lip to muffle your moan, your hands going to hold her hips roughly, pulling her closer to you. Her fingers curl and her thumb presses hard into your clit. You feel yourself clench tightly around her and your knees are ready to buckle. “For the record, I did miss you too.”

“What took you so long?” You have no idea how you’re able to hold a conversation with Natasha Romanoff while she fucks you, but here you are. Your hands wander towards her ass, cupping her solidly and almost lifting her off the floor.

“I had to wait,” she answers simply, her thumb flicking against your clit and your stomach burns with the stimulation. The slick noises of her fingers sliding into you is downright filthy and you rock your hips forward to urge her to move faster.

“What did you…have to wait…for?” you pant. “Your stocks to…overtake…mine?”

“Sure, baby,” Natasha says, nibbling at your collarbone and marking you with a dark hickey. You still have enough consciousness to notice the way she dodges your question. “You want to cum for me?” she asks, pistoning her hand faster.

“Yes, yes, please,” you beg, already on the verge of finishing. You adjust the angle of your hips so she can reach deeper, her fingers brushing past the sensitive ridges that make you see stars with every touch.

“Wait until I say,” she demands and you whine at her dominance. But you’re in no position to negotiate, so you keep your back pressed against the wall, desperately fighting the tidal wave of arousal threatening to crash down.

“Nat,” you say, your fingers digging hard into her ass, “Please let me–”

“Wait,” she repeats, sounding both annoyed and aroused. She pumps into you harder and faster, until you’re quivering and don’t think you can physically hold back anymore–

“Babe–”

“Cum for me.”

You feel like your body is tearing apart as you explode over her hand, arching your back off the wall, pressing your heaving chest into Natasha’s, heart pounding like you’ve just sprinted through a marathon. Natasha’s thrusts slow as you ride out your orgasm, and as you slump against the wall, she pulls her fingers out and, sticking them into her mouth to suck off your juices. You watch her hungrily, still dizzy from the rush of endorphins.

“My turn,” you say, hooking your arms under her thighs and her arms loop around your neck. You pick her up effortlessly and shuffle with her into the handicapped stall. This time, Natasha’s back is pinned to the wall as you crash your lips into hers, reigniting the heat between your legs. But you’ve already got your release and you are more than eager to return the favor.

You pull down her pants and panties, mouth watering at the sight of her glistening center. You crouch down to pick her up again, this time letting her thighs rest on your shoulders so when you stand up, her pussy is perfectly in line with your mouth. Natasha’s hands tangle tightly in your hair as she draws your head towards her center, her calves locking across the back of your neck.

Without needing any more prompting, you pull forward to taste her. Her moans are music to your ears as you lap at her dripping heat, your tongue pressing deeper in search of more. All you can smell is her, all you can taste is her, and all you can think about is her. Natasha is sinful heaven to you and for a few seconds, you let yourself completely forget about how she’s ruining your life.

Suddenly, you hear a knock on the door.

“Hello? Why is this locked?” someone’s voice on the other side says.

You reach up with your right hand and cover Natasha’s mouth. She bites into the side of your hand and you hiss at the pain.

“Go get one of the staff.”

“You better finish soon,” you hum, nipping at the insides of her thighs while she squirms on your shoulders. “Or the whole world is going to hear me eating you out in here.”

“They should,” Natasha pants, gripping almost painfully at the back of your head, trying to force you back between her legs. “They need to know that you’re all mine, baby.”

You want to tell her that you don’t belong to anyone, and certainly not her of all people, but the protests die in your throat as she squeezes her thighs around your head. You truly are some kind of servant to Natasha Romanoff. Your tongue runs up and down her slit, poking at her throbbing clit as she bucks forward against your face.

“Fuck, take me already,” she whines.

“So impatient,” you tease.

“Less talking, more fucking,” she demands.

“Same to you.” You shove your fingers into her mouth to quiet her, and she sucks on them in a way that you try to mirror against her pussy. Wrapping your lips around her clit and thrusting your tongue into her until she’s a puddle in your arms.

“...I don’t know why the door is locked. Let me speak to the manager to get the key.”

Natasha’s whimpers are muted so you have to gauge her reaction by the rest of her body. The way she grips onto your hair like it’s some kind of lifeline. Her walls milk your tongue desperately, slick spilling onto your chin. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to get enough of this woman.

The door clicks open just as Natasha finally comes undone. Your fingers muffle her moans as you quickly lick her clean, wishing you had time to bring her to a second orgasm, but the heels on the floor indicate the two of you are no longer alone. You slowly lower Natasha to the floor, suddenly feeling the burn in your shoulders as you finally relieve yourself of her weight.

“Call me next time you want to fuck someone,” Natasha pulls you in for one final kiss and slips something into your pocket. It’s her business card.

“We’ll see,” you say, still not exactly sure of this arrangement, but not having the time to hang around and discuss. You leave the stall first, washing off at the sink and slinking out.

***********************************************************************

Natasha waits until you’ve left the bathroom to adjust herself in the mirror. She reapplies another layer of lipstick, smoothing down her blouse and tucking it back into her pants. She struts out of the restaurant, her body tingling in the aftermath of her sexcapade in the bathroom with you.

She steps into the alley adjacent to the restaurant and stands by the overflowing dumpster. She takes your wallet out of her pocket, unfolding it and laughing at the photo on your driver’s license. It was almost disappointing how easy you were. You weren’t cut out to lead a powerful company like Envy Industries. While you might have had the intellect, you clearly could not handle confrontation and even the idea of failure.

Natasha almost feels bad for you, but not bad enough to stop.

She empties the cash from your wallet, the several crisp hundred dollar bills fluttering to the ground. Maybe they’ll make some lucky homeless person’s day. Natasha pockets your heavy metal credit cards, despite having no intention but to use them as paperweights for her office. Then she finds what she’s really after: the solid black card that’s your apartment key.

Natasha discards your wallet into the dumpster and walks out to the street to be picked up by her driver.

***********************************************************************

You return to the table, smoothing back your hair and pulling at the newly-formed wrinkles in your shirt. You barely remember to button your shirt back up to your throat to hide the collar of hickeys Natasha left to remember her by.

“You were in there a while,” Tony comments. “You need some Pepto?”

“No, I’m fine.” You sit down, staring at your cold steak while you think. “Can we go now? I have some stuff I need to do.”

“Sure, sure.” Tony calls for the waitress and the check. You slip your phone out to view the location of the tracking device you (literally) implanted into Natasha.

It was a tiny, tiny device, probably about the size of a grain of rice. You could barely feel its weight when you have it balanced on the tip of your finger.

“This GPS will provide an accurate location down to a meter,” Dr. Pym explains. “Designed and manufactured right here at Envy Industries, so you can rest assured this is the highest quality product you’ll find on the market.”

“Don’t mention this to my dad, will you?” you request, placing the little tracker back in its foam-padded case.

“Of course,” Dr. Pym says. “I answer to you and only you now.”

“Good.”

You weren’t a hundred-percent sure how successful you’d be, but you had tried your best to hold the GPS on your fingertip before sticking your fingers in Natasha’s mouth. Her natural reaction would be to suck and swallow, and you were hoping that the rice-sized GPS would easily find its way down her esophagus into her.

There was no way she would know about it (or even be able to taste it) in the heat of the moment, and after a few days, it would pass through and the evidence wouldn’t be in her system anymore. You didn’t need more than a few days to track her location and habits.

With a sigh of relief, you see the red dot on the map indicating that she’s still waiting by the street side of the restaurant, probably for her driver. You can’t help but chuckle to yourself, wondering what Natasha would say when she realizes you’re willing to play just as dirty as her.

The waitress boxes up your steak and hands it to you in a paper bag. You and Tony leave through the back entrance to the cramped parking lot and you wait until you’ve climbed into his Aston Martin to say, “Are you still in touch with that…uh…Buck guy?”

Tony is quiet for a moment. “Oh, you mean Bucky? Yeah, I see him from time to time. Why?”

You’ve never made a request like this before in your life, and you know the moment you do, it’s going to change everything. You take a deep breath, fighting the anxiety in your chest.

“I need him to get me a gun.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Click here for Part 3!

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader

595 notes · View notes

bananarrlele · 4 months ago

Text

"A Study in Affection"

plot: “mr. silvair attempts to unravel the complexities of human affection for his human partner. struggling to understand love, he embarks on a series of clumsy, awkward, and sometimes failed attempts to bridge the gap between his scientific nature and the intimacy his partner craves." established relationship, living in the otherworld, couple issues, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional angst, introspection, miscommunication/language barriers, unconventional romance, dark athmosphere, suggestive, but no actual sex (no smut). everything written in bold refers to the otherworld language. word count: 5k+.

The cold little room that served as Mr. Silvair's laboratory could easily be described as grotesque. The environment seemed more like an extension of his cold and methodical mind than a space dedicated to medical practice. The stained tiles on the walls, once bright, reflected the pale light from the slightly flickering overhead lamps. Chains hanging from the ceiling adorned the room's edges, standing out as silvered, rusted threats. Moreover, the ceiling resembled a web of deteriorated pipes and conspicuous marks of grime, far from ignorable to the eyes.

In the central part of the room stood a metal table, marred by scars: cuts, scratches, and stains whose origins were better left unquestioned. On that table, the instruments of the monstrous doctor reigned supreme: scalpels, too sharp like ruthless razors, tweezers and hooks in unusual shapes, and syringes ranging in size from practical to utterly questionable. The jars and flasks on his shelves were disparate in coloration and aspect. Some were nearly translucent and strangely pleasing to the eye, while others were as dark as the pitch-black of a cursed night. Some housed creatures, or fragments of them, floating in viscous liquids that emitted a ghostly glow. Moreover, faded and aged papers lay scattered across the laboratory bench, like petals fallen from a withered flower. Their yellowed, fragile edges seemed on the verge of disintegration at the slightest touch, yet the hurried scribbles in black ink remained clear, implacable in their precision. Mr. Silvair’s handwriting was fine, almost ethereal, but hasty, as though every thought had to be recorded before it vanished into the chaos of his analytical mind. Anatomical diagrams, sketches of strange tools, and the flow of liquids in organic systems followed one another, interspersed, suggesting the persistence of carefully laid plans for convoluted practices and experiments.

These convoluted experiments were far beyond your comprehension. They had always been so, and would always remain, no matter how distressed a human heart might feel. Cold, sterile, devoid of sentiment, and strangely fascinating in its functionality. The space was an exquisite portrait of his mind and his nature, so distressing in certain lights yet profoundly intriguing. Undeniably, loving him was a painful dichotomy. The brutal precision of his mind was as admirable as it was overwhelming. How many times had you admired him, standing with his back turned, his long pale hair flowing gently like veils across his back, moving majestically as he traversed the space, immersed in his experiments? His slender, weathered hands, at times healing, at others injurious, were the object of your desire, evoking an incessant yearning that transfixed your chest. Whether watching the doctor dismember pieces of a low-sentience monster or performing sutures with an almost frightening calm, sewing living tissues and intertwining remnants of life as if it were an art, there was something about him that left you in a state of near avidity. He was there, within arm’s reach, yet he seemed so distant. His touch seemed cold and nonexistent, like trying to grasp mist. His presence was a contradiction — solid and unyielding, yet intangible, as if he occupied a space you could never truly enter.

You often wondered whether he noticed the painful chasm between you, a gap carved not out of cruelty but by his very nature. The way his sharp, attentive gaze slid over you as if examining one of his experiments was a lasting reminder of his habitual coldness. Yet still, in fleeting moments like the beat of a heart, there were times when he lingered just long enough for your senses to string together his gestures as fragments of a demonstration of his love.

But Mr. Silvair did not understand the meaning of love. Perhaps love was one of the most meager concepts capable of transcending the doctor's capacity for comprehension. He could not grasp it and would likely never manage to assimilate its ephemeral and unfathomable nature, being so obsessed with cataloging results and his own experiments.

A weary and restless sigh escapes your lips. "Such selfishness of mine. To demand that a ghost like him understand the complexity of love and the relevance of physical touch to human beings. I should be content with the fact that he likes me enough to keep me around — and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world." That’s what you thought, your lips twisting in consternation, as you watched him meticulously suture a cut on Mr. Chopped's brow, his precise, impassive hands closing the wound without the slightest tremor.

But deep down, you yearned. You yearned for his touch, for even a single word, something to escape that clinical silence and confess that he loved you. Something to prove that he liked you, not as a domesticated experiment or a laboratory pet, but as someone real, someone who mattered.

The sigh does not go unnoticed by the doctor. His fingers, stained with dark remnants, finish the suture with an almost inhuman precision before resting Mr. Chopped on the cold examination table. The monster, inert and stitched, seems as insignificant as any of his other experiments.

Silvair straightens slowly, the subtle sound of his movements filling the sterile silence of the room. When he turns to face you, his scrutiny is calculated, as if analyzing an anomaly in a body. But this time, there’s hesitation. A minor, almost imperceptible detail suggests that he notices.

“Something wrong.”

He murmurs in his flat voice, devoid of any exceptional emotion. A simple statement, almost scientific, as if identifying a fracture or an irregular heartbeat in some random creature. Yet, for some reason, the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

It was so typical of him: noticing that something was out of place, but never understanding what it was or why.

Then, without warning, he somberly turns on his heels and picks up Mr. Chopped with indifferent ease. The sound of his footsteps echoes briefly before being lost in the silence, leaving you alone in the cold laboratory, enveloped in your own thoughts.

When he returns minutes later, the absence of the bubbly head in his arms only makes the focus of his attention more evident. Silvair stands still in a particular spot in the room, slender and upright like a somber tower of an abandoned abbey, with his hands clasped behind his back in an almost theatrical gesture, and his gaze fixed unmistakably on you, so much so that you feel your own skin burn in anticipation. His posture was clearly inquisitive, as if seeking invisible cracks he might examine and decipher.

But the uncertainties of your heart were superficial and easy to find. It was as though your chest refused to be secretive, or perhaps it was your human nature that contributed to that piercing sensation, like an unending hammer, which made you so vulnerable in relation to the doctor.

“You not well.”

He attempts to approach, his slender, angular silhouette stepping into the dim light illuminating the room.

“Something bother you.”

“Something change.”

He furrows his brow minimally. His expression remains essentially unchanged and impenetrable, but there is a shadow of discomfort there, as if being confronted with a situation beyond his control was something inexorable, distressing to him.

You don’t respond, your throat caught in a strange combination of fear and hope. The desire for him to approach and truly see you, as someone real and complex, almost hurts.

“You different. Me want know.”

The statement sounds like a challenge. An awkward silence then persists for a few seconds, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly. That was a gesture that often accompanies moments of genuine curiosity.

You try to find the right words, but the truth is you don’t know how to tell him that you want something more, something beyond the platonic and scientific care he offers. Furthermore, the language of monsters was insufficient to express what you truly felt and yearned to release. Although Silvair had learned multiple words of your natural language almost flawlessly, it was as if the vocabulary in both expressions was lacking to convey all your frustrations. You take a risk, anyway, the words spilling out like an unrestrained, dragging outpour, alternating between the two languages.

“I just wanted…” — You begin, but feel an unbearable knot in your throat, like tight vines. Silvair remains waiting for your voice, curious to dissect the cause of such profound anguish.

After a long moment, you finally let out, almost like an exasperated sigh:

“I just wanted your touch. I want your care, not just for stitching wounds or manipulating medicine. I don’t just want to be near you. Me want touch. Me want feel loved.”

The impact of the words falls like a hammer between you. Silvair recoils, a fleeting shock passing over his usually relaxed features, as if carved in marble and immortal in their imperturbable beauty. He had never heard anything like this before. For him, touching someone was merely a means to an end — a technical necessity for healing wounds or maintaining control over a specimen. Never to express anything more.

“Me confused. Me not understand love.”

His confession is almost inaudible, as if he were finally admitting his inability to understand anything beyond the boundaries of the rational.

You shrug, trying not to show how painful it is to hear those words from his mouth, even though he didn’t say them with the intent to hurt.

“I know. That’s why it hurts.” — You whisper to yourself, drawing in your lower lip in consternation in a futile attempt to maintain your composure, while those treacherous blue shards escape your eyes like tiny fragments of crystal falling from a cracked stained glass. At that moment, the fissure in your chest, opened by Silvair’s words, felt deeper than the crack slicing through one of the aged laboratory walls, where so many strange things found their way.

The doctor’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, as if he were genuinely trying to understand, but failing. He seems lost, his hands restless before his body, and you feel a wave of compassion and frustration mixed together. He would never be able to fully understand, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t wish for something more from him.

Then, as if an internal switch had been flipped, Silvair withdraws, the sound of his heavy steps echoing through the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unexpected emptiness. For a moment, you feel a deep sadness, as if he had taken a part of you with him — something you had never known you expected to receive from someone like Silvair.

The rest of the day was irredeemably dull and dragged on. You sat on the sofa in the small antechamber outside Mr. Silvair's medical inspection laboratory, absentmindedly fiddling with a Rubik's cube that Mr. Masque had given to Mr. Crawling, the latter having generously offered the artifact to you, the one he affectionately called his "favorite human." But nothing could lift your sullen mood.

You turned the cube between your fingers, rotating its colorful faces without focus, as if it were a meaningless distraction. Your mind wandered between the pain of your conversation with Silvair and the endless hours during which he vanished into the vast, gloomy corridors and pathways of the ghosts' apartment. Where might he be now, with his measured steps, the smell of formalin clinging to him, and the crimson metallic richness of blood lingering on his skin, his long locks streaked with dried, vital fluid? His scent, mannerisms, and even his voice were like precious gems in your memory — existent but not within your grasp. It was disturbing how he seemed to occupy every inch, every corner of your mind.

You tried to imagine: had he completely ignored your complaints, shrugged them off, and returned to his pragmatic experiments elsewhere? Was he perhaps even more focused than usual, desperately trying to understand what love truly meant? Or was he simply sitting, lost in some thought you couldn’t conceive?

Your gaze swept across the room, now empty and shadowy, lingering on the shelves filled with jars, scalpels, and preserved specimens. Each one seemed to carry a story, a small piece of the enigma that Silvair was. At the same time, however, the ache in your chest only grew. You had never met anyone like him — so complex, yet so incomprehensible. Silvair was the embodiment of mystery, a cold enigma you longed to unravel but always seemed just out of your understanding.

You sighed, clutching the Rubik's cube in your hands more tightly until the colors began to blur. And once again, you asked yourself: What was he doing now?

While you were engulfed in creeping melancholy for hours and hours, in another dim and desolate room, its walls as cold as a stone embrace, Mr. Silvair idly sifted through a pile of abandoned objects. It was a tolerated habit for the doctor, even though he considered most of these items irrelevant. Among organic samples and scribbled notes, he stumbled upon something unusual: a worn magazine cover with vibrant colors and an eye-catching illustration of two humans in what he vaguely recognized as a kiss.

He approached it, his pale, elongated hands reaching for the booklet with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. It was obvious who had left it there — Mr. Gap. The fissure monster was a sporadic but unforgettable presence. Gap had a habit of appearing with all sorts of items: newspaper fragments, festival pamphlets from non-existent events, and now, a human magazine titled The Secrets of Passion.

There was a small note scrawled in the corner of the cover in messy handwriting, as if Gap had struggled considerably to hold the pen:

“Kiss seems to say heart. I want heart. Give me heart. Kiss like.”

Silvair read Gap's words in silence. The figure of the fissure monster, who would occasionally appear with clippings and fragments of newspapers on the most varied subjects — ranging from trivialities like cookie recipes to stories of a serial killer wreaking havoc — was now immortalized in a curious observation about kisses and human desire. Silvair frowned. What was a kiss, after all, to someone like Mr. Gap? What did the other monster know that he didn’t? Silvair knew his studies had not prepared him for such a question. He had studied anatomy, human behavior on a physical level, hormonal responses, everything that could be analyzed and understood. But love?

He closed the magazine, his rigid hands gripping the cover tightly, trying to make sense of what was stirring inside him. Something moved within his being. Mr. Gap had once again managed to plant a seed of discomfort — or curiosity — in the doctor’s essence. For a moment, he found himself wondering if he could learn the art of kissing, or at least understand why humans seemed to find this gesture so important. And more than that: if the kiss was the key, could it be the gateway to love?

Suddenly, with a faint, restless twist of his lips, Silvair shut the magazine, holding the piece of paper in his hands as though it were a precious object of study. Deep down, he felt that something was about to change. Drastically.

Silvair had isolated himself in recent days, immersing himself in meticulous studies and attempts to understand human gestures of affection. He spent hours poring over those magazines and fragments brought by Mr. Gap, consumed by an unrelenting search for something beyond the physical, something that could truly touch the complexity of love and human relationships.

The magazine he had found held much more than scientific explanations about kisses and touches. As he delved into its pages, something else captivated him: the images. There, on the yellowed paper, he found photographs and illustrations of couples in moments of such intense affection that they seemed to transcend simple physical contact. Bodies intertwined in a way that felt almost mystical, as though they were on the verge of merging into a single entity. It was more than just a kiss, more than a loving embrace. It was an intimacy so profound, so visceral, that he could hardly comprehend it.

The images left him stunned. He observed them, analyzed every detail, every touch, every curve of skin and movement, but he could not grasp the reason behind that energy. He stared at the figures repeatedly, as if trying to decode them.

"Strong contact. Not medicine explain. Me not understand..." he muttered, running his pale fingers through his light hair, visibly frustrated.

Dr. Silvair’s Attempts

PROCEDURE I: “The Mannequin”

The mannequin stood before him, its cold and rigid structure serving as a substitute for human flesh. His sharp gaze scanned every detail of the object, with his fingers firmly positioned to replicate the gestures described in the magazine. His lips slowly approached the mannequin’s face. He pressed them gently against the plastic surface, attempting to emulate the act of a kiss. There was no warmth, no response. The chill of the plastic was a stark reminder of the distance he still had to traverse.

Observations: "Objective: Simulate a kiss on a non-living object to observe physical responses. Result: No emotional reaction observed. Conclusion: As suspected, reciprocity seems to be a crucial factor in human interaction, something that cannot be reproduced without an active second party."

PROCEDURE II: “Self-Imitation”

After failing with the mannequin, Silvair decided to try a different approach: he would be his own test subject. Sitting in front of a mirror, he repeated the motions he had seen in the magazines. His lips touched his own with almost scientific precision. He observed every micro-expression in the mirror, analyzing his own eyes, the way his facial muscles reacted, trying to detect some emotional response in his body. But again, all he felt was the absence of something. The touch generated no internal reaction, no change.

Observations: "Objective: Attempt to experience the act of a kiss in a self-conscious context, observing facial and bodily reactions. Result: No observable changes in physical or emotional responses. Conclusion: The emotional response to the action is not triggered by the mere repetition of the act. The emotional factor appears crucial to eliciting a genuine reaction. Reactions cannot be replicated without a real connection."

PROCEDURE III: “The Monstrous Rose”

Inspired by the magazine’s mention of simple yet symbolic gestures of affection, Mr. Silvair recalled his collection of monstrous flowers — his own creation, with black petals and iridescent edges, exuding a sweet and peculiar aroma that was almost hypnotic. He believed that the symbolic gesture of offering a flower could elicit a stronger emotional reaction, as humans often associated gestures like this with affection.

When he finally entered the little room where you were, half-asleep on the sofa, he observed your figure curled up like a bird with battered wings. The Rubik's cube had already rolled to the floor, having slipped from your hands. When he approached, you looked up at him, surprised.

“Me offer gesture.” — He said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness, extending the flower to you.

You raised your eyes, somewhat startled, but accepted the flower. The fragility of the gesture made your heart leap slightly, and for a moment, the smile on your lips seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Silvair.” — You murmured in your native tongue, bringing the flower close to your face, inhaling its scent of burnt caramel and polished copper. — “Beautiful. But why you bring this to me?”

He watched your reaction carefully, registering every micro-expression. He stood poised and expectant, like someone awaiting immediate validation.

“Me test affection.”

You furrowed your brow slightly, nodding. “Of course, you test. Gestures like this need come from heart, not through testing, Silvair.” You spoke in a tone of gentle reprimand, your voice tinged with lingering frailty. He captured a considerable part of your message, his expression tightening slightly.

He blinked slowly, as though processing your words. “Heart… not functional in this context. Me try again.”

You sighed as he retreated, taking the flowers with him, which now seemed like a failed experiment.

Observations: “Positive reaction observed: increased heart rate, pupil dilation. Receptiveness to symbolic offering generates some level of emotional bond but is insufficient for deep or intimate engagement.

Additional Consideration: “The symbolic significance of a gift may generate an emotional response, but it does not equate to a deeper or more intimate interaction. The flower functioned as a marker of interest but not as a gesture of complete emotional surrender.”

After the episode with the monstrous flowers, the night dragged on in silence, filled with a quiet tension that lingered in the air. The laboratory was illuminated only by a soft light that fell over the notes scattered across the tables and the flasks containing mysterious substances. Silvair was engrossed in his thoughts, the tip of his pen furiously scratching paper, his focus fixed on his observations. You watched him while lounging carelessly in a chair, your legs hanging over its arms. You bit the tip of your thumb absentmindedly as something churned within you, responding to his dissociated behavior. The silence had become nearly unbearable, as had his repeated absences. If before it was agonizing to witness him steadfastly preserving his immutable exteriority, never attempting any kind of affection, seeing him obsessively conducting literal and absurd experiments to determine love and turn affection into a performative, perfectly calculated act was an even more tormenting experience. You felt excluded — and more than that, you felt an ever-growing need for something more between you two, something beyond studies, the clinic, and his cold behavior.

The suffocating silence between you was unbearable, and the impulse overcame reason. You approached him cautiously, positioning yourself behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Your fingers, hesitant at first, slid across his cold torso. Your touch was gentle, a silent invitation for something more intimate.

He finally stopped writing but did not move. His body remained rigid, motionless like a statue.

“Why so distant?” — You asked, pressing your face against his shoulder, seeking some sign of reciprocity.

“Me busy.” — He replied, his voice as cold as ever, but there was something else there — perhaps a note of uncertainty that didn’t escape your notice.

Your frustration grew heavier. You slid your hand lower, attempting to draw his attention, but he caught your wrist, halting any further progress. He wasn’t harsh, but his grip was firm enough to make it clear he didn’t want this.

“Not now.” — He said, releasing your hand and returning his focus to his notes.

You stepped back, hurt. The words were simple, but they carried a devastating impact. He didn’t lift his eyes to you, didn’t notice the gleam of tears threatening to escape as you walked away.

“Alright." — You murmured, your voice trembling. — “Sorry.”

When you left the room, the sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have, as if sealing an abyss between you two.

Mr. Silvair remained still for a few moments after your departure, the pencil suspended in midair. His mind, normally so focused, seemed scattered.

“Intimacy…” — He murmured to himself, recalling the figures from Mr. Gap’s magazine he had examined days earlier. Images of intertwined hands, deep kisses, and bodies so close they seemed symbiotic. He remembered a note written in Gap’s erratic handwriting:

“Love strange. Bodies together, mind too. Sex? Kiss? Very strange. But good?”

Intimacy and sexuality echoed in his cloudy mind, interweaving uncomfortably. At the time, he had dismissed Gap’s erratic scrawlings as a disconnected ramble, but now, recalling your pained expression, something inside him began to shift.

“They try. Me fail?”

He shut the notebook forcefully, the sound reverberating through the empty room. For the first time in a long while, he felt something that could be described as regret.

A few days had passed since Silvair’s initial, frustrating attempts to comprehend the complexities of human nature. The tension between you had reached a silent breaking point, like a rope stretched beyond its limit. He spoke little, and you even less. But his silence always felt calculated, while yours was laden with emotions that could not be translated into words.

That morning, an unexpected accident occurred during what seemed like an innocent game with Mr. Machete — a friendly duel of blades and laughter, a competition of skill, escalated beyond what it should have. The playful match resulted in a deep cut on your left thigh, far more severe than anything reasonable for a mere game. Mr. Machete’s blade had slid more smoothly than anticipated, slicing through the skin and leaving a wound that stretched across a considerable portion of your leg.

Silvair acted quickly, faster than usual. He did not show panic, but his movements were swifter and more precise than normal. With you seated on the inspection table, he brought his tools and began cleaning the wound. Despite the pain, you noticed something different about him. His hands, which always moved with unwavering firmness and methodical precision, trembled slightly.

“You scare me.” — He murmured as he applied antiseptic, his eyes fixed on the wound as if avoiding your face. There was an irritation in his tone that you couldn’t quite define, a discomfort that spilled into his voice. — “You not should play like that.”

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible in his reprimand. “You stop this need. Not do again, not with them.” — He seemed to hesitate before adding. — “Not with machete man. Careful you must be. Should.”

“Don’t worry so much!” — You said, offering him a soft smile to ease his indignation. — “Me know you try care for me.”

“Not just about the cut.” — He murmured, more to himself than to you.

His fingers, in an involuntary movement, touched the edge of your thigh, the skin around the wound. The sensitivity of the area, paired with his gentle touch, made your body flinch slightly — but not from pain. It was his proximity, the way he seemed to feel the suffering you were enduring without truly knowing how to handle it.

Suddenly, Silvair’s hands moved up to your face, touching your cheeks with an unexpected delicacy. His fingers, cold and trembling, traced the lines of your face as if trying to understand every contour, every expression you offered, like an impossible equation to solve.

His closeness made your heart race in anticipation. His presence was intense, as though he were on the verge of doing something even he didn’t know how to accomplish. You felt the tension between you rise, charged with something ready to reveal itself, though neither of you knew how to act.

He hesitated, perhaps unsure, but his focus never wavered from you. Silvair seemed unable to withdraw, unable to let go of you, and this was unexpected. It was a fine line between desire and hesitation, between human impulse and his incapacity to comprehend it. When he finally leaned in closer, his face coming dangerously near yours, his touch against your skin seemed to dissolve the barriers between you.

The air was thick with hesitation, but without warning, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against yours softly, as though trying to understand something he still could not define. The kiss was uncertain, hesitant, reminiscent of the first time he had tried to mimic the gesture with the mannequin. Yet there was something profoundly human about it, something he, perhaps unknowingly, longed to grasp.

But this time, there was something more. A shiver ran down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving with increasing firmness, as if trying to unravel the mechanics of a gesture that had now become part of him. He explored the softness of your lips with the tip of his tongue, touching them with unusual gentleness, yet also with an impulse that spoke louder than words. Silvair tasted you, and something stirred within his chest, something he could neither name nor explain. He pulled you closer, his touch assertive, strong, commanding — yet his hands moved to cradle your face delicately, soothingly, as though he feared breaking you. One hand traveled further, gripping your waist firmly, as if to show you the depth of his desire, which he could barely comprehend himself.

The kiss grew more desperate, less measured, almost voracious, with the caresses reaching a peak of urgency. He felt your breath, ragged against his skin, quickened to match his, and with slow, deliberate movements, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the cold surface of his inspection table. His hands never left you, lingering near, almost possessive, as he leaned over you, his features focused and intense. His hand traveled over your skin with more confidence, touching places where he felt the vibration of your body beneath his fingers.

His tongue intertwined with yours, now bolder, yet retaining the same careful attention as if deciphering the meaning of every touch, every movement. His fingers glided smoothly, exploring the curves of your body with reverent silence but an intensity that grew, as though trying to absorb every fragment of warmth you emitted. He touched you with a tenderness that concealed a quiet hunger, as though it were his first time allowing himself to feel the warmth of affection, the discovery of care, and the growing desire for something deeper, something genuine.

As your lips parted momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath, Silvair kept his forehead pressed against yours, his manner captivated and almost possessive. His breath was heavy as he whispered, more to himself than to you:

“Fascinating...”

He lifted his gaze, the movement delicate, almost attentive, as if he were trying to decipher the rhythm of your breath, the scent of the air around you, every minute detail in his surroundings. The blindfold that covered his eyes was no impediment; on the contrary, it seemed to heighten his perception, creating a sharper sense of closeness, as if he could feel every beat of your heart, every soft sigh you let out. His hand slid to your waist, the touch firm yet purposeful, as though mapping your presence through the sensation of your skin.

With a slow but resolute motion, he tilted his face, planting a kiss along the line of your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, with the same curious care as before. Yet this time, there was something more deliberate in every touch.

“You make me curious. Me want… discover more.”

And without saying anything further, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours once more, this time with an intensity that promised he was far from finished with his exploration. The promise of something more lingered in the air, carried in his touch, in the force of a desire he seemed to still be struggling to name — a desire he now seemed determined to unravel, piece by piece, like an enigma he was unwilling to abandon.

“Tell me, is this… what you wanted? What you have been waiting for?” — He asked quietly, brushing his thumb over your lips gently in an electrifying motion. “This human desire mean, yes?” — His voice, hoarse and intense, reverberated like a promise of a lost paradise, echoing in your ears as he struggled to murmur the words in your language.

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a soft, provocative laugh.

“If you have to ask, perhaps something is still missing from your research, doctor.” — Your voice was low and measured, careful to ensure he caught every meaning and syllable, but tinged with mischief, as your fingers slid to his neck, tracing short, almost electric touches. It was a gentle but daring gesture as you pulled him closer. — “Me demonstrate, yes?”

Silvair’s lips curled into a faint smile, despite being unable to see, as though he already knew exactly what you meant. He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers firm but still containing an unexpected gentleness.

“Demonstrate?” — He repeated slowly, as if savoring the idea, his tone deeper now. — “Me think good. But you not expect me gentle all the time.”

Before you could respond, he acted. His hands, which had rested on your waist, slid to the middle of your back, pulling you against him with determination. His lips, previously hesitant, now gave themselves fully. With an almost cruel tenderness, he traced the outline of your mouth with his tongue, as if issuing a silent invitation. Each touch was a promise, a wordless request for entry. His fingers traced a slow, suggestive path along your thigh, gradually climbing toward the center of your body. Each touch, every subtle caress, sent shivers throughout your entire being, and you felt as though you might melt under his dissecting hands, arching gently like a flower unfurling in the sun on his inspection table.

Between kisses, you drew a deep breath, a faint whimper, and a slightly tense laugh escaping against his lips.

“Not bad for someone who’s learning. Fast learner.”

He paused, the laugh escaping his lips a small victory.

“Then, teach me.” The command was clear, but the accompanying promise was even more enticing. With a firm motion, he leaned you back, your body becoming an instrument in his hands. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed everything, and you realized, with a mix of surprise and satisfaction, that he had finally let himself go.

Thin, translucent tears of joy adorned the corners of your eyes, inevitably. In that moment, you finally understood that what he sought wasn’t merely understanding but surrender. And in that moment, you knew: he was learning how to love.

phew. this was laborious, but so much fun to write. giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair for this man, no lie. it's really interesting to write for silvair, and I've been wanting to do so for weeks. he’s so complex, and his inscrutability and unusual gentleness are captivating. i’m sure these traits would leave anyone confused in a relationship. mr. silvair would be kind in terms of care and service, but terrible when it comes to communication and effective displays of affection, so I wanted to explore this issue in this long text. the ending is suggestive because I think that learning would inevitably lead to situations like the one narrated. who knows... maybe I’ll write more. my thirst for mr. silvair never ends :) it's christmas eve in my homeland (brazil), and for those who are reading and are in the same territory as mine, or at least on a similar rhythm/time zone, merry christmas eve! to the fans of mr. silvair out there, consider this text a gift. we urgently need more stories about this man, like, ASAP. thank you so much if you read all of this, and have a lovely day or night! ♡ (this text is open to corrections and edits. english is not my native language, and the original was entirely written in portuguese. time for some sleep, finally.)

#mr silvair x you #mr silvair x reader #homicipher #mr silvair x mc #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #mr silver #mr silver x reader #mr silver x you #suggestive cw #other characters #mentions #i want to shag silvair so bad #the doctor is mine #thirst so unhinged got me writing 5k words for this man

168 notes · View notes

gatheringbones · 3 months ago

Text

[“In his extended study, Viet Cong, published in 1966, Pike went to some length to show that the success of the Viet Cong came not so much from their use of violence and terror (as many Americans assumed) but from their organizational methods. By 1970 he had given the subject a new emphasis. “Terror,” he said, “is an essential ingredient of nearly all [the Viet Cong's] programs.” And he went ahead to show his own colors:

A frank word is required here about “terror” on the other side, by the Government and Allied forces fighting in Viet-Nam. No one with any experience in Vietnam denies that troops, police and others commanding physical power, have committed excesses that are, by our working definition, acts of terror.… But there is an essential difference in such acts between the two sides, one of outcome or result. To the communist, terror has a utility and is beneficial to his cause, while to the other side the identical act is self-defeating. This is not because one side is made up of heroes and the other of villains. It is because, as noted above, terror is integral in all the communist tactics and programs and communists could not rid themselves of it even if they wanted to. Meanwhile, the other side firmly believes, even though its members do not always behave accordingly, that there is a vested interest in abstaining from such acts.

Interestingly, Pike's “working definition” of terror was the “systematic use of death, pain, fear and anxiety among the population (either civilian or military) for the deliberate purpose of coercing, manipulating, intimidating, punishing or simply frightening the helpless into submission.” And by that definition the entire American bombing policy in Vietnam, North and South, was a strategy of terror. Even within the narrower definition of “terror” as an unconventional, clandestine act of violence — an assassination or a satchel-charge bombing — the Allies had been using terror deliberately for a number of years through professionally trained paramilitary units such as the Special Forces and the Provincial Reconnaissance Units.

As head of the Psychological Warfare section, Pike knew this as well as anyone in Vietnam. Only he, like many Americans who backed the Vietnam War, ascribed the best of motives to the Americans and their allies, while laying all the evil at the door of the enemy. It was the same kind of bad faith and bad conscience that in 1967 inspired all the American rhetoric about “revolutionary development” and “building democracy” in Vietnam. It was the same kind of rhetoric that inspired the unrestricted use of violence upon the Vietnamese.”]

frances fitzgerald, from fire in the lake: the vietnamese and the americans in vietnam, 1972

#frances fitzgerald #currently reading #Vietnam

166 notes · View notes

hausofodyssey · 3 months ago

Text

✨ Astro Insights ✨

Astrology also can be used to explore ways to identify one's strengths, weaknesses and how to improve your physical and mental health. Part 1 covers the 1st house, this is part 2 with looks at the 6th house and part 3 will focus on the 8th house. I will also make a separate post for mental health houses.

Please be mindful these are just my own studies and do what is best for your circumstances and what feels good for YOU!

-------------------------------------------------------------------

6th House

In astrology the 6th house governs daily habits, diet, exercise and illness. It shows in how someone manages their wellbeing and any potential health issues. The 6th house shows how you manage health, work, and daily routines. Understanding its placements helps optimise wellness, revealing health strengths, weaknesses, and ideal habits.

The person's health is specifically attached to their ability to advance at work and their work environment, thus any trouble that shows up in the 6th house can adversely affect one's general sense of wellbeing.

Best Exercises Routines Based on 6th House Sign:

Fire Signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius) Need high-intensity workouts to burn excess energy. Exercises like HIIT, running, weightlifting, kickboxing etc

Earth Signs (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn) Thrive with slow, steady exercises. Yoga, strength training and hiking could be good for these signs.

Air Signs (Gemini, Libra, Aquarius) Need variety and movement-based workouts (dance, cycling, Pilates, social sports)

Water Signs (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces) Benefit from fluid and mindful movements and exercises like swimming, tai chi, yoga and breath work could be suitable for these signs.

Scorpio 6th house

Scorpio here suggests intense health cycles—you might experience periods of great vitality followed by periods of deep exhaustion. Your body may be highly regenerative, but you could also be prone to chronic or hidden health issues that take time to diagnose.

The reproductive system, bladder, and detoxification organs (like the colon) may need extra care. Since Scorpio is about deep transformation, alternative healing methods (detox, therapy, or even energy healing) can be beneficial. Work-related stress can deeply affect your health, making emotional resilience crucial.

Since Scorpio's energy is intense, powerful, and transformative, their works could be ones that channel emotions into movement (boxing, weight lighting, martial arts), include intense yet therapeutic activities (hot yoga, sauna therapy, swimming) and promote deep relaxation after exertion (breath-work, stretching and massage therapy could be beneficial for this placement)

Libra 6th house

When Libra is in the 6th house, individuals with this placement may struggle with blood sugar imbalances, for example too much sugar or processed foods could cause fatigue, skin breakouts, or hormonal fluctuations.

Hormonal & sugar sensitivities can be an issue for this placement as Libra/Venus energy can affect hormone balance leading to issues like acne, bloating, or weight fluctuations. Digestive Issues may arise from emotional stress. Health can be affected by toxic relationships, work stress or emotional imbalance.

Libra in the 6th house suggests social or aesthetically pleasing workouts like dance classes, group fitness activities or workouts with a friend, this could help with staying committed. Avoid overly aggressive, harsh workouts as you need harmony, not exhaustion, and

As Libra is ruled by Venus, this means that beauty and wellness and a solid skincare routine, massages or even aromatherapy outdoors improve both physical and mental health. Creative outlets like painting, listening to music or design can reduce anxiety & improve wellbeing.

Aquarius 6th house

When Aquarius is in the 6th house, your health and daily habits are unconventional and unpredictable and people with this placement might struggle with sticking to routine for too long before getting bored.

Holistic or alternative health practices could be interesting such as herbal medicine, biohacking or cutting edge wellness trends.

Aquarius rules circulation, the nervous system and lower legs like the ankles, calves, shin, watch for issues like restless leg syndrome, poor circulation and random energy crashes. Also Aquarius being ruled by Uranus, there can be sudden or unexpected health issues.

Individuals with Aquarius in the 6th house need to create a flexible health routine and incorporate variety to keep things engaging. Movement based activities like trampolining, cycling or dancing can be good in supporting circulation.

#all images are from Pinterest and I do not own them #astrology #my own post #astro insights #wellbeing #astro community #astrology blog #astro observations #6th house astrology #cosmic world #scorpio #libra #aquarius #health #mental health #knowledge

85 notes · View notes

theewokingdead · 2 months ago

Text

Stick to the Script - Benny Miller x f!Reader

Pairing: Benny Miller x f!Reader Summary: A struggling romance writer finds herself stuck on a steamy scene—until her charming, infuriatingly gorgeous roommate, Benny, offers an unconventional solution: roleplaying. What starts as a hilarious, over-the-top reenactment quickly turns into something neither of them expected. Word Count: 1.6k Rating: Mature Content: Language, Comedy, Roommates to Lovers, Banter, Slow Burn, Teasing, Benny being goofy AF A/N: Absolutely inspired by @musings-of-a-rose’s writing tactics.

Masterlist I am one deleted paragraph away from throwing my laptop out the window.

I groan and rub my temples, glaring at the half-finished chapter on my screen. The scene isn’t working. The chemistry is flat. Here I am, a self-proclaimed romance writer, yet I can’t describe two people having sex without it sounding mechanical and awkward. Maybe I’m not cut out for this after all.

“Everything okay?”

Sighing, I push my chair back and swivel toward the door. There stands Benny, my roommate, casually leaning against the doorframe with an effortless grace he always seems to have. His tousled hair catches the light just right, and his eyes sparkle with amusement. Damn, he's gorgeous.

I manage a weak smile then offer a quick shrug. “Just battling my inner critic. You know, the usual.”

Benny steps inside, his gaze landing on the papers scattered across my desk. “Anything I can help with?”

I stiffen as he picks up one of the sheets. It’s too late to stop him now. His eyes widen as he takes in my ridiculous brainstorming method – stick figure drawings, rough and rudimentary, illustrating the erotic scene I’m trying to write.

"Are these...stick figures?" he asks, his voice quivering with suppressed laughter. He tilts the page, studying my atrocious attempt at anatomy.

“It helps me visualize!”

He snorts. “Visualize what? A very confusing game of Twister?” He holds up the page like it’s a prized trophy, and I can’t help but feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Are they…hugging? It looks like a really enthusiastic hug.”

I lunge to snatch the paper, but he jerks it out of reach. "I swear, if you don't put that down..." I warn, half-jokingly.

“Is this a penis or a third arm? Because holy hell that thing could break someone.”

I manage to snatch the paper from his hand. I stick my tongue out at him before plopping back down into my chair.

“I think you need to rethink your approach,” Benny says, still sporting an amused grin. “Maybe consider less... stickiness?”

“It’s a romance novel, Benny,” I say dryly, shoving the paper under the others. “There’s going to be a lot of stickiness.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Fair point.”

I sigh and lean back in my chair.

Benny flops onto my bed, arms crossed behind his head like he’s about to deliver some great wisdom. “Maybe you should try something different.”

“Something different?” I eye him warily. “If you’re just going to suggest I watch porn, I’m throwing you out with my laptop. I’ve already seen more than my fair share.”

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that last bit and say no, that's not what I was thinking. I was thinking more like…roleplaying.”

I blink. “Roleplaying? You mean act out the scene?”

“Exactly!” He sits up, suddenly animated. “Get into character, feel it out. Maybe it’ll help with the writing. I can be your very willing participant." He shoots me an exaggerated wink.

“Benny…,” I say slowly. God, the things his half-broken wink does to me. It makes me unable to think.

“Clothing stays on, obviously, and if you become too uncomfortable, we stop. I just want to help you figure out how to make things flow naturally." As if his words haven't already tugged at my heart enough, he adds, "I know how much finishing this book means to you.”

I stare at him, searching for any trace of mockery, but all I found is that annoying, irresistible confidence. The idea is absurd. And yet…my stomach flutters. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the fact I’ve been harboring feelings for Benny for months, and the thought of getting this close to him, touching him, sends my mind spiraling. Somehow, I find myself nodding.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

Benny's eyebrows lift in surprise. He quickly recovers, standing up with a smirk. "Alright. Set the scene for me."

I grab my notes, cheeks burning. “Uh…They’re in her living room.”

"Perfect.” He takes my hand, his grip warm and reassuring, and guides me towards the living room. The soft glow from the streetlights outside casts shadows on the walls. My pulse quickens.

"Now what?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“They’re sitting on the couch, but he pulls her to him and they start out making out. Like… really intensely.”

Benny sinks into the couch and effortlessly pulling me onto his lap. My heart pounds. His fingers lightly trace patterns on my arm, the touch light and teasing, as if we're just two friends sharing a moment. But my skin tingles with an electric charge, my breath catching as if this simple gesture holds a deeper meaning. For me, it does.

"Okay," he murmurs, tilting his head with a slow, deliberate motion. The air thickens with the anticipation of a kiss that never comes. Benny abruptly breaks the tension with a dramatic, “Mwah, mwah, mwah.” Pretend kisses.

Laughter bursts from me. Relief and longing war in my chest.

"What else?" he asks.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Um... hands. A lot of hands. Touching, I mean." "Alright. Touch me then. Wherever you want, sweetheart." Fuck. Me.

I lift my hand to his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble. His jaw tightens under my touch. His hands slide over my hips with a deliberate slowness, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric at the edge of my shirt. My breath hitches in my throat. He has no idea what he is doing to me.

“And now?” he asks, voice huskier now.

I hesitate. "He grinds against her.”

Benny smirks mischievously. "Like this?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with playful intent. He suddenly gyrates beneath me with the enthusiasm of a ridiculous TikTok dance.

I burst into laughter. “No! Not like – Oh my God! Stop it!”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Just like that,” he fake-pants. “You’re gonna make me finish in my pants before I can give you the best weinering of your life.”

I smack his chest, still laughing uncontrollably. “You’re ruining the scene!”

He stops, then gasps melodramatically. “How dare you? I am method acting!”

“Method acting? For the sake of your lovers, I pray you aren't this bad in bed."

He sits up straight, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent lover.”

"Then fucking act like it!"

“Fine. For the sake of art, I will take my role seriously.”

“Good. Because next, he pins her down.”

Benny immediately flips me onto the couch, looming over me. He makes a show of dramatically swooning over me. “Oh, fair maiden, I must ravish thee!” He starts mock-humping, making the worst over-the-top groaning sounds I’ve ever heard.

I wheeze. “Benny, I swear to God-”

“Shh,” he says, placing a finger over my lips to shush me. “Who’s Benny? I am the handsome, broody High Fae king.”

I lose it. Where the hell did he get the idea that I’m writing fantasy? Or does he just know what I’ve been reading lately? “This is a contemporary romance!”

Benny pauses. “Oh. Then I’m the morally gray kidnapper. And you can only call me Daddy.”

“Jesus Christ!” I burst into laughter again, then push him away. “That’s not what’s supposed to happen! Stick to the fucking script!”

He raises his hands defensively, the laughter still dancing in his eyes. “There isn’t a fucking script! I thought we were just winging this.”

I cross my arms, feigning frustration. “Fine. You’re right. Like you said, I need to see where things would naturally go.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“Well, what would you do with a girl in this situation?”

Benny shrugs casually. “I’d make her beg.”

My breath hitches at his words, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks. “Beg?” I can hardly manage to keep my voice steady. “Beg, yeah. Begging’s good. Make me – her - beg.”

Benny flashes a devilish grin, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Ohhh, I can do that," he says, his voice dripping with confidence. He waggles his eyebrows playfully, and I start to wonder how on earth I found myself in this situation. He leans in, breath warm against my skin. In a deep, ridiculous voice, he purrs, "Say my name, baby."

I snort. “No.”

“Say it.” God, he sounds like a demon, and not a sexy one. He bumps his hips against mine in an exaggerated motion.

I shake my head, trying to keep a straight face. “Absolutely not.”

Benny pouts. “Then I shall hump until morale improves.”

I dissolved into laughter as he returns to his theatrical dry-humping, adding in an exaggerated “Ohhh yeah” like he’s in a bad ‘80s movie.

“Who the hell says ‘shall’?” I gasp.

“Dare you question my dramatic prowess? This is the language of the brooding Fae kings!”

“I’m going to kill you,” I say with a laugh, the words tumbling out between chuckles.

"Oooh. Enemies to lovers?" he teases. There’s a playful glint in his eyes before his movements slow, his grip on my hips tightening just slightly. He inches closer, his breath brushing softly against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “I was hoping for roommates to lovers.”

Something shifts. The laughter fades. He’s still close, his hands firm on my hips. His smirk falters for just a second.

The air thickens. My pulse thunders. I’ve spent so long pretending I don’t feel this way, covering it with sarcasm and teasing. But right now, there’s no hiding.

Heart hammering, I grab his face and kiss him.

He freezes, eyes wide.

I smirk, though my heart races. “Do you want to keep pretending?”

His voice is low, gravelly. “Not if it means I get more of that.”

I bite my lip. “Are you serious?”

He nods slowly, a soft smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "I’ve always wanted to know what it’d be like to kiss you.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You’re not just saying that for the sake of the scene, are you?”

Benny leans in closer, his forehead almost touching mine. “Nope.”

And then he kisses me for real.

#benny miller #garrett hedlund #benny miller x reader #triple frontier #garrett hedlund characters #benny miller x female reader #garrett hedlund fanfiction #roommates to lovers #idiots in love #catie writes #benny miller x you

59 notes · View notes

studyandsteep · 3 months ago

Text

"blurting"

unconventional study tips, part 6 - full series here!

an active recall study method where you "blurt" everything you remember on a blank page or whiteboard. steps to follow:

write anything you remember from your notes (generally blurt the equivalent of 1-2 pages in your notes every time)

look over your notes again, this time correcting any mistakes/topics you forgot in your blurt

"blurt" again, and continue doing it until you've mastered the material

this method works best for history class and other classes that rely heavily on memorization. i personally recommend using a small whiteboard for convenience.

#study blog #study space #study inspiration #student life #studying #studyblr community #study aesthetic #studyspo #study motivation #studyblr #student #school #college #high school #studyandsteep

70 notes · View notes

colebabey888 · 1 year ago

Text

ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE USING THE ELLE WOODS METHOD | THE IT GIRL DIARIES

Here is the long awaited Elle Woods Study Method by. This guide I've written out, is not only directed towards studying but to achieving academic excellence as a whole. I hope this helps many who are struggling to upkeep a positive attitude towards your academic life.

I object! 🩷

- Object to all distractions. toxic men, negativity, people who belittle you or friends that tend to have bad influences on you and that may push you in the wrong direction or off course.

Participation 🩷

- Participate in class discussions and all activities that would contribute to academic excellence. Don't be afraid to be wrong. If you are wrong, this just give you an opportunity to learn more, so in fact you can never be wrong.

Never undermine yourself 🩷

- Don't allow others opinions to affect your progress. Always being able to have a positive attitude can help you remain focused and on path. Remember everyone's path is different so don't look at yours in comparison to another!

Good Outfits 🩷

- If you look good, you feel good. If you feel good, you do good. It's not necessary to have an outfit picked out everyday, but make sure that you feel good in what you have on.

Be kind to EVERYONE you meet 🩷

- You never know who may be a valuable key to helping you achieve academic success. Having a good attitude towards others may give you the advantage of getting help in the future and asking for it when you need to, there may be that one person you were unkind to that wouldve added an extra percentage to your mark, but can't because you have a bad rep towards them and they aren't willing to help you.

Always have an Aesthetic study place

- Having an Aesthetic study space, will have you wanting to spend more time in it. Match your stationary and books to your aesthetic, example, if your favorite aestheitic evolves around pink, get everything in pink. Employ unconventional methods if they work for you, such as using colors or study groups.

Study ahead! 🩷

- Do not wait for the last minute to begin studying, this will drain you in the long run with having to cram in huge amounts of workload in a short period of time. Try and revise a topic before it's discussed in class, this way you will have an advantage and understanding of what's being discussed and could help you feel more comfortable in taking part.

Studying is important but so is Body Health! 🩷

-Take care of yourself, clean yourself, do your hair, work out, get a good night's sleep and so fourth. This is why studying ahead is so important. Instead of studying a day before a test, use that day to relax and do some of your favorite things. Take warm bubble bath with a book or have a skincare day.

Priorize Energy Boost 🩷

- If you're more energetic in the morning, prioritize that time for studying and if you're more energetic at night, prioritize that time for studying. Vise Versa

Celebrate BIG or SMALL 🩷

- Celebrate all your winnings. Whether it be big or small, a win is a win and celebrating them will motivate you to achieve more in your future endeavors.

" What,Like it's hard?.."

mwah! xoxo, colebabey8.88

www.thedigitaldollar/gumroad.com

#early 2000s #pink #fashion #pink aesthetic #branding #it girl #pink core #colebabey888 #dream girl journey #elle woods #Elle woods study method #barbie girl #this is a girlblog #girlblog aesthetic #girlblogging #live laugh girlblog #legally blonde #academic excellence #academic weapon

248 notes · View notes

dgrailwar · 1 year ago

Text

Round 7, Day 2 - Pretender versus Gunner versus Avenger

A lone figure walked through the forest, idly looking around before his eyes fell on a figure-- the de-facto ruler of this part of the map. The Gunner smirked, hand resting on a hidden pocket, ready to draw weapons.

"And there he is, the Servant of the hour. How about we put on a show? You seem like the type that'll like that."

"Maybe-- but we're not alone."

A moment passed, as the Pretender jumped out of the way, narrowly dodging a flaming sword that ripped through one of the trees.

"Wow. would you look at that? Avenger finally shuffled out of his dusty little hole. Did you finally remember there was a Grail War going on?"

"Joke all you like, you cannot stall me. Now, behold the all-consuming flames of an Avenger!"

The Avenger swung his dark blade, black flames striking at the dense woods around them. Of course, when flame hits kindling, the sparks quickly lead to calamity. The quiet forest erupted into flames, the sparks backlighting the ghastly grin of the Avenger, and the amused smirk of the Gunner.

The Pretender frowned.

"Oho? Am I seeing a spark in your eyes, Pretender? We haven't spoken much, but you seemed rather unflappable before. And you, Gunner... let this serve as my formal introduction! Hahahaha!"

"Look at that! Ladies and gentlemen, keep your eyes peeled! It seems like this fight is going to be pretty interesting!"

"...Yeah, alright. Let's rumble!"

Pretender has 1 wound! 2 more and he'll be defeated!

Gunner has 1 wound! 2 more and he'll be defeated!

Due to Avenger's Defensive Play choices, Avenger gains a +1% bonus to Free-for-All's!

Due to the boost from Avenger's Defensive Play bonus, Gunner's 'Unconventional Child Prodigy' skill activates!

The boosts for this round are...

Oberon: +3%

Takasugi Shinsaku: +5%

The Count of Monte Cristo: +4%

Servant Skills:

Oberon (Pretender)

Evening Shroud (EX Rank) - In the cover of night, even the most unconfident warriors can at least feign greatness. When engaged in a Free-for-All, gain a +3% boost.

Morning Lark (EX Rank) - As morning comes, as does a boost in morale. Demerits against Oberon are reduced in effectiveness by 3%, and he gains a +3% boost in one-on-one battles.

A Midsummer Night's Dream (EX Rank): Rather than just reducing the effectiveness of Servant-imposed demerits, he is immune to them entirely.

PRETENDER-CLASS Servants possess an inherent trickster nature. If they fall in last place during a Free-for-All, if there is a gap of 3% within their final score and that of the Servant in 2nd place, they can evade taking a wound. Additionally, if they're victorious against other Servants, other teams cannot attempt to study the Pretender in order to gain a percentage bonus against them.

Takasugi Shinsaku (Gunner)

Unconventional Child Prodigy (A Rank): When fighting someone with a higher boost than Gunner, gain +2%.

Innovate - Armaments Reformation (B Rank): Defeating a Servant once will net special 'components' from them. When at least 4 of those 'components' are gathered, a secondary Noble Phantasm will be unlocked. If 6 are gathered, then the utility and power of 'Kiheitai' will be upgraded.

Current Components: N/A

(Winning first place in a Free-for-All will count for gathering 2 components- one for each Servant beneath you).

Retaining the Japanese Spirit (A Rank): When Gunner is about to take a fatal blow and the difference between scores is less than 5%, survive with one 'health' remaining. If this is triggered, gain a persistent +2% bonus that cannot be reduced or removed.

GUNNER-Class Servants are quick to action and yet methodical with their attacks. When engaged in combat, gain a +3% boost. Additionally, if in last place during a Free-for-All, inflict a -4% demerit on the 1st place Servant.

The Count of Monte Cristo (Avenger)

Determination of Steel (EX Rank): If Avenger is about to take a fatal wound, if there's at least a 3% difference in their score and the victor above him, he may avoid damage. When facing a single-target (1-on-1), he will gain a +3% boost.

Monte Cristo Mythologie: The King of the Cavern (C Rank): When battling enemies, his flames are like a poison. He reduces demerits against him by 3%, and when he is victorious against another, he inflicts a -2% demerit for their next round. This demerit increases by 2% by every 10% difference in scores.

Wisdom of Predicament (A Rank): When engaged in a Free-for-All, gain a +3% boost. Additionally, if Avenger earns last place, both the victor and the 2nd place Servant gain a -2% demerit, rather than simply the 2nd place Servant.

AVENGER-CLASS Servants are vengeful by nature. The first time they are defeated by a Servant, they gain an automatic +2% bonus against that specific Servant, without needing to study them (but can in order to increase the bonus). They gain a permanent +3% bonus per wound they attain that will remain if the wound remains, but will disappear if the wound is healed.

#team avenger #team pretender #team gunner #combat phase poll

173 notes · View notes

astonmartingf · 1 year ago

Text

MAKE BELIEVE ; LH44

— people assuming you’re a couple is a common misconception whenever you’re out together, most of the time you shrug it off but every now and then lewis acts along making you feel some type of way you’ve never felt before

masterlist

The first time it happened you were both teenagers, Lewis was home after competing in the British Formula 3, you two on your way to some gasoline station for snacks. You could barely remember what exactly happened yet the memory seemed to linger in your head whenever you think about it.

On your way to pay for the food, Lewis stopped you- “I’ll pay for these.”

You frowned, pushing him lightly away from the counter. “No. This is my celebration for you, there’s no way you’re paying.” You smile at the lady, placing the tub of ice cream and chips on the counter.

Lewis on the other hand was not having it, “Okay if it’s my celebration it’s only fair I pay for half of it.”

Raising your brows you shake your head disagreeing with his statement, “That’s not how it works Lew- just let me have it. We barely see each other, let me buy you a bag of chips and ice cream.”

Shaking his head Lewis contemplates before leaving towards the back of the store. A sigh left your lips before facing the clerk, listening in your conversation. “Are you two in a long distance relationship?”

You gawk as your arms scramble into a wave, head shaking, repeatedly saying “No, no, no… We’re just friends. It’s been a while since we met since he’s busy racing all over Europe, someday he’ll be a Formula 1 driver!”

Your excitement over the moon, at the thought of Lewis getting into the big tracks all over the world. “That’s exciting, what about you sweetheart?”

You shrug, nose scrunching, unable to answer the question, “Nothing special, just studying.”

The lady nods as she puts the items in a bag, “Well, I’m sure it’s not nothing. He must be lucky to have a supportive friend like you.”

You smile as the conversation turns back to Lewis, somehow it’s easy to talk about him, you could go on and on praising and telling the whole world about him. You smile, taking the change from her hands.

From the corner, Lewis comes back with two bottles of drink in his hands. “If you’re buying the food, let me pay for the drinks.”

Rolling your eyes you reluctantly agree letting him buy drinks for you two. On the way out he grabs the bag from your hand, carrying it as he lets you lead the way to the local park in the area.

The second time it happened was on your birthday dinner, during one of his free days, he asked you out for a celebratory dinner. “Just the two of us, like the old times.” Lewis raised his glass as you tip yours to his.

“It’s definitely been a while since we sat and talked, how is Formula 1 treating you?” Lewis blew raspberries, shaking his head.

“This is your day, we’re not talking about racing. How are you? Is university treating you well?”

You sense his deflection from the topic, during breaks you find yourself checking updates on Lewis’ race. Many articles are written about him, rumors and hearsay about him, but you’re not one to believe what’s written, rather listen to what he has to say.

“This is us catching up, I’m supposed to ask you questions as well.”

Lewis nods his head, “Answer my question first then I’ll tell you what’s up.”

Knowing you’ll never win against him, you humor him with stories from university, all the drama and chaos that is happening in your internship program.

Lewis tilts his head, grimacing at the details of your professor Andy and his unconventional methods of teaching, which led to two students fighting during class. Laughing, Lewis takes a sip of his drink, “Aren’t I glad I skipped out on college drama.”

This time it was you who laughed at his statement, “Yeah, because racing drama is way much better, and on a bigger scale.” you whisper as Lewis gives you a pointed look.

“You read some stuff, now tell me what it is that you’re so desperate to know?”

You shake in excitement as you tread your thoughts on the questions you prepared to ask him, the top of your head, the rumors of him dating a certain Pussycat Dolls singer. But as you opened your mouth, you were cut off by a string of waiters bringing in cake in the direction of your table, singing “Happy Birthday” catching you off-guard.

“What is this Lewis?” You hiss under your breath, staring at him in bewilderment before smiling politely at the waiters clapping along to them singing.

After their song, they placed a chocolate cake slice in front of you with a lit candle. Staring expectedly at you, “Hey, this only happens once a year. Now go make a wish and blow your candle.”

You laugh at Lewis who gestured towards the cake in front of you. You laugh, shaking your head as you blow the candles. Hearing the cheers of the waiters and Lewis, thanking him with a side hug.

“Do you want us to take a photo of you and your boyfriend to commemorate this moment?” One of the waiters spoke, holding a digital camera in his hand.

“We’re not-” You glance over at Lewis who was already posing, clearly brushing off the comment, “yes you can.”

The waiter nods his head gesturing you to move closer together, looking straight at the camera with a small smile on your face. After a few more pictures the waiters left, leaving you alone with Lewis.

“So what was it that you wanted to ask?”

You shake your head, “Now I forgot about it, maybe next time.”

Lewis smiles before taking a bite of your cake, “Happy Birthday YN, Cheers to us and here’s to more memories with you.”

A small smile breaks the line of your lips, as you take in a small bite of the cake.

Other times it just happens as you go out on walks together. The amount of times you’ve been stopped by elderly women telling how “you look so good together” or been asked, “how long have you two been dating each other?”

Which often leads to the both of you laughing, you more awkwardly, as you shake your heads and deny.

There were awkward moments especially back when Lewis was still dating, the efforts you made as to not be seen with him out of respect and only coming when there are many people invited.

Now in the present, it’s obviously easier to smile and shake off their statements. You’ve gotten used to being asked and it’s almost automatic, the response, your hands waving, head shaking and saying “No.”

It’s been so long, surely you would’ve gotten used to it, especially when Lewis was keen to play along as a couple after you’ve gotten stopped a couple of times. One thing which you’re always against doing, and Lewis respects that.

You never thought about it more than a harmless prank, knowing that people don’t have to know your real relationship- because it was clear to both of you that you are friends. Then and now, but in the eyes of the others it may seem that you’re a couple.

One which you don’t understand, can’t people be friends these days? But it’s not like you can see the honey-dripping off of Lewis’ eyes when he looks at you, prioritizing you when you’re out in public, and doing polite gestures to you. It was normal for you- his actions, you grew up with him, and you certainly watched Lewis grow up to be a fine man.

And you can’t deny how that affected you as the people around you seem to wonder if you haven’t felt that way towards Lewis. And as much as you hate to admit, there are times where he has made your heart flutter.

Once in the Mercedes garage, you were on your way to pick up Roscoe volunteering to look after him. It wasn’t your first time there, but it wasn’t like you were the closest with everyone. You knew a few people, enough to ask for help when you’re lost during the bustling race days. Entering the hospitality, Roscoe must’ve sensed you as he ran over to greet you, patting him on the head, “You missed didn’t you? Where is your father, why are you alone?”

Your eyes wander looking around the hospitality for Lewis. “Excuse me, do you have a pass to be in here?” Raising your head you notice a male staff in front of you. “Oh, I do have it in my bag if you want to check, I’m just waiting for someone.”

Turning around you looked for your pass, but before you could show it to the male staff he disregarded your presence asking you to leave. “Excuse me?”

“I asked you to leave the vicinity please. This is exclusive for VIP and guests, fans can wait outside.”

You stand frozen, bewildered even. Pressing your lips in a thin line you contemplate on what or how to react. Usually you’d rather keep your peace and leave quietly, but it’s not like you don’t have a pass. You are a guest of Lewis.

Sighing, you stare at the male staff, looking him in his eyes showing him your pass. “I am a guest of Lewis Hamilton, I think I can wait right here.”

Despite showing your pass the staff seemed suspicious continuing to ask you questions about your relationship with Lewis, as if the pass wasn’t enough proof. “So, are you like dating him or something?”

You scoff at his statement, rolling your eyes, you take a deep breath going over the response you’ve formulated in your head to shut him off. “My relationship-”

“Yes, she’s with me. Thank you for showing your hospitality.” Lewis appeared from behind, his snarky comment didn’t go unnoticed by you as you snorted by the side.

“I missed you sweetheart, I see that Roscoe came running towards you. I completely lost him inside.” Pulling you into a hug, Lewis gave you a small peck on the cheek ignoring the presence of the staff with us.

“Thank you, I had that handled but somehow you always appear at the right time.”

“I know you can handle it, but there’s no need for you to explain to anyone why you’re here. And I don’t care if it’s about formality or whatever, next time just call me and I’ll come pick you up, or I can ask one of the people from my team to get you.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “You don’t have to do that, I barely go on races, it's fine. I’m just here to pick Roscoe up like I promised.”

Lewis nodded his head, grabbing the bag on the sofa with Roscoe’s name embroidered in the handle. “I’ll walk you to the garage?”

You shake your head, “No need, I actually came from the back like you asked so my car is right outside.” Lewis smiled before handing you Roscoe’s leash.

“I’ll walk you to your car then, I’ll help you bring Roscoe’s stuff.”

Inside your car you settle Roscoe at the back seat, turning on the ignition you hear the soft rumble of the car. From your car mirror, you watch Lewis wave you and Roscoe goodbye.

Outside the circuit, you think back on the situation that had transpired, “Your dad is a sweetheart isn’t he Roscoe? Got me feeling some type of way… Lewis… I’m glad we’re friends.” talking to yourself knowing fully there’s no way you’d admit that to Lewis himself, instead you open up to his dog.

Opening the app on his phone, Lewis watches you drive away safely through the lens inside Roscoe’s leash. There had been many moments he saw between you and Roscoe, including your conversation with the male staff.

It was something he checked every now and then, especially when he’s away from Roscoe. Rest assured, he feels safe knowing he’s left in your hands. Ensuring you two are safe, Lewis swiped to exit the app but not before he heard your voice through the speaker.

“Your dad is a sweetheart isn’t he Roscoe? Got me feeling some type of way… Lewis… I’m glad we’re friends.”

Lewis let out a breathy laugh,leaning back into his seat, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a big smile. Pressing his hands into his face, he feels the rush of heat into his face laughing to himself. “If only you knew sweetheart… Got me feeling some type of way as well…”

At least now Lewis knows, his feelings won’t lead him astray.

#f1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton fluff #lewis hamilton imagine

292 notes · View notes

juvinadelgreko · 4 months ago

Text

a short list of things that happen to gallavich post-canon because i said so:

ian & mickey ditch the yuppy westside after a year and get a small duplex on the south side that's far enough away from either of their childhood homes to not have too many ghosts, but close enough to family and the places they know. it's 3 beds and 2.5 baths, which is the perfect size for them and any guests they may have. franny and freddie love to sleep over, and fiona enjoys staying with them when she decides she's ready to come visit.

the security business grows to the point that they file Real Business Paperwork™️ and start hiring new people. Their services eventually expand beyond just weed. Their clientele mostly consists of small family restaurants and shops that want to cater and deliver but don't have the budget to buy their own vehicles/hire their own drivers. ian and mickey's favorite client is a family run greek restaurant that sends them home with leftovers every time they do a run for them (i'm greek, chicago has a huge greek community, and it makes me happy to think of ian and mickey stuffing their faces with homemade gyros and baklava after a long day).

mickey thrives as CEO of GM Secure Transport. we know he's a math whiz, and his accounting methods, though unconventional, are pristine. he knows the city so well, has a knack for mapping the most efficient routes that keep them on time and cost effective. they set up a website and social media pages that quickly become plastered in rave reviews. he actually comes to enjoy meeting the different people that hire them, getting to know their businesses, getting free samples and leftovers. he establishes a rapport with the business on his route, and would even go so far as to consider himself friends with some of the owners.

things go so well that ian begins to consider stepping back. on the downlow, he starts doing research on a possible path back to working in healthcare. after losing his army dreams, it was the only career he ever felt passionate about. he loves helping mickey, but he misses it so much. he finds a few different legal processes by which he could return to it, and decides he's going to try. he refuses to live the rest of his life regretting not trying. he's nervous to tell mickey about stepping back from their business, but of course mickey is 100% behind ian doing what makes him happy. mickey rallies the entire family behind ian to help with the paperwork and supporting documentation. it takes months, but ian eventually receives permission from the state of illinois to go to paramedic school. he'd loved being an EMT and had always wanted to learn more. mickey draws flashcards for him and helps him study for all of his exams. ian, of course, passes everything with flying colors and graduates at the top of his class. mickey insists on throwing him a big gallagher blowout party after the ceremony. when his shifts start, mickey packs him lunch with goofy (sometimes dirty) notes in the box. (I'll forever be so angry at the writers for taking ian's EMT career from him and i refuse to believe that in shameless's wishy-washy version of the legal system he couldn't find a path back to it).

aside from their business, mickey has a small side gig as an artist. ian always knew mickey was brilliant and creative, and never passes on an opportunity to tell him so. when he went over to the milkovich house as a kid, he'd always pocket mickey's little doodles he left laying around (ian was not as slick about this as he thought, mickey 100% saw him doing it but was way too nervous to bring it up until they wound up in prison together years later). now that he has the money for it, mickey invests in some entry level art supplies, takes some classes, and really falls in love with it. he posts some of it to social media and gets way more love for it than he was expecting. people eventually ask about buying his work or commissioning pieces, leading mickey milkovich, at one time the meanest thug on the south side, to set up an etsy shop.

but what really surprises everyone is when mickey picks up knitting (thank you, @infjgemini for being the originator of this headcanon) he's always liked working with his hands, working with numbers and patterns, and the women in his art classes are always talking about their knitting. when one of them catches him looking at the patterns sticking out of their purse, she offers to share an extra set of needles and some yarn with mickey so he can learn how to do it. ian's a little intrigued when he comes from his shift and sees mickey knitting, but he just encourages mickey to keep doing it if he's enjoying it. eventually, ian stops buying sweaters, hats, mittens, etc. at the store and exclusively wears mickey couture. he can't go five seconds without telling people that his husband made one of the things he's wearing. 'oh you like this hat? my husband made it. he has an etsy store.' and 'this is my favorite sweater. my husband made it just for me, you can't have it.' franny and freddie love their custom uncle mickey sweaters. a year after he starts, mickey's christmas gift to ian is an absolutely massive knitted throw blanket that will actually cover all 6ft of ian plus mickey when they snuggle, unlike the ones at the store. it becomes ian's most prized possession, and they almost always spend their evenings and weekends curled up under that blanket watching movies on their very comfy couch. mickey's knitting of course sells gangbusters on etsy, and he wishes he could go back in time just to tell his 17 year old self that people are paying actual money for his artwork. he continues meeting with his art class friends, with the women who taught him to knit, and finds he really enjoys the low stakes gossip and chatter of their group. ian gets so hooked on all the tea he brings home, eagerly waits up for mickey to relay him the knitting circle drama for the week. he's not the only guy in the group, and there's a good enough age range that he doesn't feel like an oddball. ian enjoys meeting them, is glad that mickey has friends he feels comfortable with. some of them are elderly, and he and ian frequently go to their houses to help with chores and heavy lifting. they accidentally end up with a small cohort of surrogate grandparents, which they both really enjoy after growing up with almost no sane adult presence in their lives.

ian finds his way back to running. it's one of the many things he adds back into his routine as part of his and mickey's agreement to start taking better care of themselves. it had taken a few really loud arguments, but once the dust settled on their first year of marriage, ian insists they're going to start eating better and living healthier now that they can afford it. it takes a lot of convincing, but he manages to get mickey to quit smoking with him, to cut back on drinking, and work some more exercise into his life. mickey hates running but loves lifting (man after my own heart) so they spend a lot of time doing that together. but ian's runs are his quiet solo meditation time. he really missed it. he finds a local queer and trans run club, and once he's sure it doesn't involve caleb or any of the gay jesus kids, he joins up. he ends up getting along really well with the group, and even convinces mickey to go out for drinks with some of them. ian trains a healthy amount, doesn't push himself too hard or obsess over how fast or far he's going or how much weight he is or isn't losing--he just enjoys it. he enters in a neighborhood holiday race with the run club just for shits and giggles, and actually really enjoys the fun competitiveness and goofy holiday outfits. he keeps doing fun little races, enters a local half marathon, and then a full one. mickey always parks himself somewhere along the route with the partners of the other people in the run club and cheers like a rabid soccer mom when ian passes by. he does not care who stares. that's his fucking husband! after a few years, fiona comes home and they run the chicago marathon together. the whole entire family shows up to cheer for them, and the picture of him and fiona in their race bibs and participation medals, surrounded by the entire family at the finish line, is framed on ian's nightstand.

speaking of eating better, ian finds he really loves gardening and cooking. he starts with tomatoes, and when those go well, slowly expands. he finds that mickey's much more amenable to trying new foods if he knows ian grew the ingredients in their yard. ian loves to dig online for recipes, loves to experiment with new ingredients. one of the older ladies from mickey's knitting circle comes over sometimes to help him with new dishes. liam, franny, and freddie come to their house for dinner at least once a week just because ian's cooking is that good. liam especially takes an interest in it, and starts coming over a bunch just to cook with ian. he gets really good at meal prepping for the days he works 12 hour shifts and doesn't have the energy to cook anything when he gets home. he puts everything together beforehand and leaves mickey directions for serving it. mickey always has it ready for him when he gets home. they cook together on ian's days off. in the summer, ian will make spreads of berry pies and have the entire family over for dinner. he always hides one away for just him and mickey. for holidays, everyone pitches in to cook, but ian is the chief executive of it all, with liam as his right hand man. mickey is chief taste tester.

also--they get a dog. a few years on, mickey finds a worse-for-wear boxer-mixed-with-something wandering around one of his delivery routes, and like. he can't just leave it. he takes it to a shelter, but it sticks in his mind for weeks, until he can't resist anymore and has to ask ian about maybe, just maybe getting a dog. ian agrees, because they both really wanted a pet growing up and now they can have one because they're grownups with the space and money for one. after doing some research, they decide to go adopt from the same shelter mickey took the stray to. he's still there, and mickey never believed in fate before, but he thinks maybe he does now. they bring him home and name him Sox, both after the white sox and because his brindle coat is interrupted by four white socks. he is the most spoiled dog in the city of chicago. the 'no dog on the couch or bed' rule lasted about five seconds. he sleeps on the end of their bed every night and flops on their laps during movie time. mickey insists that dog food is dog food and people food is people food, but ian is a softie who sneaks him pieces of meat from dinner almost every night. mickey will sometimes take him on delivery runs because the customers love him and Sox loves to stick his head out the window. whenever his station does a cookout, ian brings Sox and everyone takes turns playing fetch with him. in the summer, he loves to swim with them and the kids in the above ground pool in the yard, and sit in the garden while ian works.

this is so soft, guys, but it makes me so happy to think about these two having a good life.

#gallavich #hc #post canon #june does gallavich post-canon

67 notes · View notes